Date: Tue, 31 Jan 2017 22:32:54 +0000
From: h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com
Subject: Noblesse Oblige Book 4 (Revision) Chapter 3

From Henry Hilliard and Pete Bruno h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com  This work
fully protected under The United States Copyright Laws 17 USC 101, 102(a),
302(a). All Rights Reserved. The author retains all rights. No
reproductions are allowed without the Author's consent. (See full statement
at the beginning of Chapter One.)   Author's Note: Thanks to all of you who
have written to tell how much you're enjoying the story and please keep
writing to us and watch for further chapters.

For all the readers enjoying the stories here at Nifty, remember that Nifty
needs your donations to help them to provide these wonderful stories, any
amount will do. http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html


Noblesse Oblige
by Henry H. Hilliard
with Pete Bruno
Book 4
Hall of Mirrors
Chapter 3
Fit for Heroes


Martin felt he was being held fast by a great rope around his torso--a
thick, hairy hawser of some kind-- and he could not budge.  He must be on
board a ship, he reasoned, but he couldn't be quite sure.  What was the
matter with his brain?  The Australians (were they Australians?) had taken
him to somewhere hot.  He was sweating profusely and terribly thirsty.  The
sound of their infernal machine could be heard but he could not see it for
it was somewhere behind him.  It rasped away remorselessly, perhaps it was
a device for sawing him into pieces before he was thrown into the sea.
Their leader (it must be their leader) pressed a pistol into the small of
his back.  He dared not turn around, but if he only could he could see his
face because there was something familiar... Who was it?  The answer lurked
just on the edge of his consciousness.

Martin roused.  He was in bed and everything was wonderful.  They were far
from Australia; he was in fact in his own bedroom at Croome and he was
being pinned by his lovely Stephen's right arm, which was a dead weight
draped around him.  The noise was his abominable, but reassuring, snoring
and the thing being pressed into his back was Stephen's urgent erection.
He had been hard all night as usual. Yes, all was right with the world and
he squirmed with delight and curled his toes in the knowledge of it.  The
rest of his life was going to be just like this: safe and warm in bed with
Stephen; the texture of Stephen's naked flesh, the smell of his hair, his
black whiskers--soft, not really rough--his broad shoulders and big cock
and, yes, his snoring which to Martin's ear was as beautiful as any work
conducted by Thomas Beecham.

"You're wriggling, Mala" said Stephen sleepily.

"Yes, I'm happy and you feel so nice."

"And you feel nice too.  Did I tell you that?"

Stephen had told him that. "You feel nice, Mala," Stephen had said when
they were on board the Demosthenes on the voyage back to England.  It was
Christmas morning then and Stephen had fucked Martin hard and was now idly
sliding his flaccid cock in the blonde cleavage of Martin's buttocks as he
gently kissed the nape of his neck.



It had been a wonderful voyage.  Martin had begun by having Carlo trim and
sculpt Stephen's raven public bush (which had grown unruly in the colonies)
once again into the shape of a heart.  "That is because you are made for
love, Derby.  I don't want to be reminded of the War anymore."

"What about my moustache, Mala?  Should Carlo shave it off?"

This was a good question.  Stephen had grown the moustache when he joined
the Royal Engineers because it made him look older.  It was barely a
moustache at all, just a pencil thin line above his top lip.  It did remind
Martin of the War, but it made Stephen look so devastatingly handsome that
Martin thought it must remain, even if Stephen refused point blank to be a
`major' in civilian life.

"This is new, Mala," said Stephen when he withdrew a pair of curious
objects from the box.

"Yes, they're called Burmese Balls and I got them from Mr Weintraub."
Martin gave a dumb show of how they worked.  "Mr Weintraub was asking after
you, Derby.  He asked if you would be interested in having your photograph
taken."

"Certainly not, Mala.  I don't want my face plastered all over London."

"It wasn't your face that he wanted to photograph.  He said he'd pay you."
Stephen dismissed this idea and Martin carried on. "I went to his new
establishment with The Plunger.  He has moved from Soho to very nice
premises in Bond Street.  You ring a bell and are taken to an upstairs
room.  He recognised me from his wife's description, Derbs, and he was ever
so grateful that I got him released from detention--quite tearful really.
Mrs Weintraub has been elected to the Parish Council and is back in the G&S
Society.  She's very happy, also.  He gave us a present," said Martin and
produced a dildo with a flourish.  "See? It's made of flexible rubber, but
there is a spring inside it to keep it hard."

"Not as hard as me," Mala, said Stephen boastfully as he handled it.

"Oh no, Derby, perish the thought.  But Carlo used it on me and it was
quite nice."

Martin pulled out a box. "Bunny and Dwight sent this."

"`Young's Rectal Dilators.  The F.E. Young & Co. Chicago Il.'," read
Stephen.  He opened the box and there were four plugs of varying sizes made
of smooth rubber.

Thus there were many delights with which to ease the tedium of the voyage,
not the least of which was that, to Stephen's great joy, the Australian
cricket team was journeying to England for the first test match since the
War.  Stephen spent a good many hours with them and was allowed to join in
their practice on the after deck.  He was in seventh heaven.

It was after the drunken fancy dress ball just out of Cape Town where
Stephen wore his gladiator's outfit (supplemented with a Bike Jockey's
Strap) that Martin (who had gone as a Mandarin) woke up with his face under
the leather tunic and his nose pressed into the fabric of the strap.  "I
love the top of your thighs, Derby, where they meet your buttocks.  They're
very nice," he said dreamily.

"Thank you Mala.  I've always thought so myself.  Could you ring for Carlo?
I'm exhausted."

Carlo came into their cabin and began to straighten out the mess.  Amid
protests from Martin, Stephen was eased out of his heroic costume, which
had begun to chafe, and they were both placed into the large bath that came
with the first class cabin.

"Mala," said Stephen at last as Carlo soaped them and tried to wash semen
from Martin's golden hair.  "I think our new life has to have some purpose
and order.  It can't all be parties and pleasure.  I want you to help me
make a list of things we will do when we get back home.  I think a list
will help me find myself again."

Martin could find no argument with this and he knew Stephen loved a list of
any kind. Besides, he would do whatever Stephen wanted as long as he did
not go away again.

So part of every day was spent in adjacent deck chairs when the weather was
clement or sitting up in bed when it was rough, and, in another exercise
book, Stephen and Martin mapped out what seemed at the time to be the rest
of their lives.

"The first priority must be people, not things and not ourselves, Mala,"
said Stephen as the list began to take form.  "My stepfather first, then
the people who were affected by the War.  After that it doesn't matter."

"Derby, I've been thinking about what Sir John Monash said about
electricity.  Do you think we could have the whole estate electrified?  I
mean they've had it for years in Lyme Regis and our dynamo at Croome seems
rather selfish and old-fashioned.  It is 1920 after all."

"I approve of your vision, Mala," said Stephen a trifle sententiously,
"however it will have to be the local authority.  It's too big a project
for just us on our own but it will make a difference in people's lives.
Old people could have electric fires and there's no danger from overturned
candles."

By the time they glimpsed the white cliffs of Albion, a plan had been
formulated, only a trifle less complex than one of Sir John's plans of
battle, and the flexible dildo was showing distinct signs of wear and the
smallest of Dr Young's medical instruments was missing, presumed lost
overboard during a starlight tryst on the boat deck.



 *****



There was quite a crowd to meet Stephen on the platform.  While there was
no banner or brass band, there almost could have been, such was the ripple
of excitement as the train chuffed into the station and this grew to actual
applause when Stephen alighted with Martin and Carlo.  The crowd were
anxious to shake his hand and inspect the prodigal for any signs of change.

The first thing he did was move in with Titus Knight, his stepfather, where
he stayed in his old bedroom for a week.  "I'm glad thou hast come home,
Stephen," was all he said, but added: "I will need some help with t'hedges
down by Oakapple."



On his first night, Titus climbed the narrow stairs to the little attic
room.  "You're far too big for that bed now," he chortled.  "And I could
never keep clothes on you even when you were a bairn.  Do you remember when
I used to read to you?"

"Of course, Titus, I loved that best of all.  Read to me now."

"Now? A big lad like you!" he cried.  "Besides my eyes ain't too good and
my readin' weren't never up to much."

"Go on, Father, read me Treasure Island.  It will help me sleep."

Titus Knight searched the shelf for the well-worn volume.  "Have you still
been having the horrors at night, Stephen?"

"Not so much this last year.  I think I'm putting it all behind me, but I
can't forget what I've seen."

"Aye, you bin seen too much; too much for a heart that is as big and gentle
as yours, Stephen."

Squire Trelawney, Doctor Liversey and the rest of these gentlemen having
asked me to write down all the particulars about Treasure Island, from the
beginning to the end, keeping nothing back but the bearings of the island,
and that only because there is still treasure not yet lifted, I take up my
pen in this year of grace 17__ and go back to the time when my father kept
the Admiral Benbow Inn, and the brown old seaman, with the sabre cut, first
took up his lodging under our roof.

Titus paused to draw breath and saw, to his amazement, that Stephen was
asleep with a look of singular contentment upon his young face.



 *****



Seventeen inhabitants of the estate had lost their lives in the War, with
an eighteenth succumbing to the effects of mustard gas in the week the boys
returned.  Ten of these had left widows, five with children.  Martin was
determined that, along with their War Widow's Pensions from the government,
these women should have life tenancy of their cottages, despite the loss of
revenue to the Estate that this would mean.  This resulted in eight
cottages being given over to the bereaved women-- the other two having left
the district to live with family.

"That's very generous of you, Mala.  I'm so proud of you," said Stephen
giving him a hug when this was announced.  "And Mala, there are two more
cases: Mr Bradshaw has lost an arm and I'd like to find work for him.  John
Clarke is so incapacitated I don't think he will ever be able to work
again, but his wife has a plan: if we could finance some alterations to
their cottage, they could let two rooms and that would provide them with an
additional income as they have no children."

Martin nodded and they immediately went into further details.  "Derbs,"
Martin suddenly said, "could Bradshaw work as a clerk for Blake?  I know
he's not an engineer or anything, but I think Blake could use some
assistance in the office, don't you?"

"You mean an `extra hand'?"

"Oh that is a cruel joke, Derby, but Bradshaw beat you to it yesterday."

Next was Sgt Louch.  The formerly legless soldier whom Stephen had
befriended in 1916 was now fit and mobile, after a fashion.  Stephen had
him brought down to Branksome-le-Bourne where he was put up in a cottage
(preferring this after one night at the big house) until the motor garage
was constructed.  "Derby, do you think it could be thatched?" asked Martin,
alarmed at the prospect of the village being spoilt by such an intrusion.

"No, Mala," said Stephen kindly, for Martin had been very good about all
this, "I don't think that would be very appropriate for an entirely new
sort of building.  It would to `too bogus' as they say now.  My design is
for a neat brick building with a pan-tiled roof.  The dwelling house will
be out the back so there are no stairs for Louch and I have had one idea:
The Bowser Pump Company in America supplies pumps for petrol, which can be
stored safely and out of sight below ground.  The operator works a handle
and the petrol is drawn up and then is fed into the motor-- all very neat.
Already there are two of these in England; I want us to be third."

Martin thought underground tanks were to be preferred and so approved.  The
building would be started straight away and the tank would be installed as
soon as the pump arrived from Indiana in the United States.  Meanwhile,
Louch was making himself useful repairing all manner of things and his
gammy leg did not seem to inhibit his work to any great extent.  Stephen
spent a pleasant hour or so with him most free afternoons at The Feathers
and saw to it that he, a fellow from South London, was well accepted into
the village.

Stephen turned his attention to the redbrick-and-tile gymnasium that he had
built, from his own fortune, just before the War.  The Red Cross had long
departed and groups of village lads were using it occasionally as they had
Mr Destrombe's exercise equipment in the Women's Institute Hall.  Stephen
now walked around the charming new building with the Vicar.

"Mr Destrombe, I believe that we need to get properly organised.  Don't you
think we should have a committee?"

"That is the way we English do things, Mr Stephen, and I think that those
who use it should pay a small sum for membership--sixpence a week perhaps."

"We probably need more equipment, although we still have all that the
Maharaja of Rajpipla gave us.  That punching bag looks like the stuffing is
coming out through the seams and those Indian clubs are a disgrace."

"Some of that might be down to you, Mr Stephen, you do have a good right."

"Thank you, Mr Destrombe.  And a billiard table for upstairs.  I wonder how
much they are?"

"A wise investment.  It will provide an alternative to spending idle hours
at The Feathers." Stephen looked at Mr Destrombe quite hard.  "I mean
there's nothing wrong with an honest pint," he added hurriedly, "I'm no
Methodist, but billiards does improve the mind, I've always thought."

And so Stephen dipped into his money once again and a handsome table was
purchased and installed with some ceremony.  Several chairs from Croome now
flanked the fireplace and the building started to take on some of the
aspects of a private club.  Mr Destrombe, Stephen, Reuben Owens and the
postmistress' son formed the committee and sixpence a week with thruppence
for casual users was agreed upon. The key was to be kept with Mrs McGrath
at the village shop.

All seemed well until Stephen was buttonholed one Sunday after church
parade by Tillie Forbes, the daughter of a tenant farmer.

"Stephen, some of us ladies want to join the gymnasium.  How do we go about
it?"

"Sorry Tillie," said Stephen kindly, "but it is for chaps only."

"Why?" asked Tillie.

Stephen paused and tried to find a `why' and, unable to at that moment,
simply said: "It wouldn't be suitable for young ladies, Tillie.  Some of
the lads wouldn't be properly dressed and..."

"Stephen Knight!" she said crossly, "Most of us girls have seen you naked
time enough, down at the swimming place.  We don't want to look at boys, we
want to do physical culture."

"Tillie!" said Stephen, shocked, "I thought that was our secret.  And I was
only twelve."

"Thirteen. And that still doesn't answer my question" she said and snapped
open her umbrella is a very resolute manner and walked away, displaying her
figure to Stephen as the most effective of arguments.

Thus a Ladies Auxiliary was formed with its own committee and schedule of
fees and mutually exclusive times were agreed upon, with the ladies showing
little interest in the new billiard table.

Then Stephen received an unexpected shock when he slit open a letter from
the Ladies' Committee containing a most astounding proposal for him to be
their president.  Stephen sought out Tillie who was busy getting her
father's midday dinner. "Til, there must be some mistake.  I can't be
president.  I'm a man.  It should be one of you girls."

"There's no mistake, Stephen," said Tillie, brushing back her hair from her
eyes as she lifted a heavy stew pot onto the range.  "We voted on it three
times--show of hands and secret ballot-- and you were elected every time."

"But I haven't nominated!  I'm not even on your auxiliary!"

"Show me where it says we can't elect whom we like as president.  Charlie
Chaplin was the only other candidate and he only received one vote.  You're
our president, Stephen Knight-Poole, so stop your whining.  Democracy has
spoken."

Stephen went away, shaking his head and having second thoughts about
women's suffrage, which he had originally thought was such a progressive
notion.  News of the unorthodox move--proof once again that some have
greatness thrust upon them--was all about the village and, to make matters
worse, the ladies presented Stephen with a special blazer in their club
colours of mauve and `vieux rose' (he was told) with the words `President'
and `B-le-B.W. G. Aux.' embroidered in gold thread on the pocket.  The damn
jacket fitted well (Stephen's measurements having being traitorously given
over to the women by Mrs Capstick) and Stephen thought hard about what to
do as he looked at himself in the glass in his dressing room.

"Mala, we're going down to The Feathers for a pint before luncheon," he
said on the following Sunday. They rode their bicycles down to the pub,
Stephen wearing the dainty new blazer.  They entered and breasted the bar.
The locals touched their caps to Lord Branksome and murmured greetings to
Stephen.  Then there was silence while the boys sipped their ale and
everyone stared at the blazer.  This was broken by Vipond, who made an
offensive comment.  Stephen wheeled around and walked purposefully towards
him, his cock and balls swinging menacingly under his trousers, had Martin
been better able to see.  Stephen came up close to Vipond who was grinning
stupidly and he firmly took the pint from his hand and set it down on a
ledge. He then removed his mauve-and-vieux rose Women's Auxiliary blazer
and passed it to Martin, without his gaze leaving poor Vipond's frightened
eyes.  He then removed a gold cuff link from his right sleeve (one of a
pair that was a present from Martin) and commenced to slowly roll his
shirtsleeve up to his shoulder. A murmur went around The Feathers. Stephen
then took Vipond's unlit pipe from his mouth and placed it in his right
elbow.  Still intent on Vipond, he flexed his bicep and there was a crack.
The pipe had shattered.  Stephen stuffed the broken remnants into Vipond's
top pocket and returned to the bar.  Only then did Martin see the broad
wink that he gave.



Stephen spent a good deal of time writing to the Sans Culottes and reading
their replies.  He planned to visit them all by the end of the year to see
with his own eyes how they were faring, having been `demobbed' for more
than a year.  However, the next thing on the list, which Stephen had pasted
inside his wardrobe door, was the visit to Daniel Sachs in London.  Both
boys were dreading hearing how dire their finances now were.  Every day
Martin heard his friends moaning into their whisky at their clubs how the
sharp rise in taxes during the war had ruined them.  Along with this,
everyone could see that wages had risen and in the great houses
retrenchment was the order of the day.  Martin and Stephen looked dolefully
about the estate.  The population was now aged and many of the young had
left for work in towns and cities.  How could the estate possibly pay its
way?  How could Britain compete with the imported meat and grain from the
United States and Australia that they had seen with their own eyes?  The
British countryside was now an anachronism.  It was in this dark mood that
they went up to London in Stephen's new automobile.

Sachs had moved to even more splendid offices near the Bank.  During the
War he had worked for the government, advising on oil investments and the
British government's position in Iraq was very much a product of his
advice.  Pleasantries were exchanged. Sachs now had three children and a
new yacht.  The boys wished to be remembered to Mrs Sachs and an invitation
was extended to visit Croome.

"I see by your face you are worried, Lord Branksome.  Please don't
be. There is no shame to be in your position," said Sachs, tapping a
pencil.  "Not a trace of odium will be attached to you."

Martin's stomach sank.  Branksome House would have to be sold, certainly,
and his red-and-silver Rolls Royce would have to go.  Why had I bought that
new tie in the Burlington Arcade this morning?

"Yes, I know Punch pokes fun at profiteers," continued Sachs, "but I don't
think it applies in your case."

"Profiteer?  That's not what I was thinking, Sachs; I was thinking that I
was ruined-- `on Queer Street' as my father used to say."

"What do you mean, Daniel?  What is our position?" asked Stephen sitting
forward in his chair.

"Well, you have emerged from the War far better than you went into it.  Of
course you would need to in order to cope with ruinously high income tax
and falling rents."

"I am committed to providing some of the cottages on the estate to war
windows," said Martin, firmly, "and there is the bus company that I must
guarantee as a matter of honour."

"That has not lost much money, your lordship," said Sachs looking as his
notes. "Not everything is about profit.  I myself am backing the Jewish
homeland in Palestine."

"I am setting up a motor garage for a returned soldier, Daniel," put in
Stephen.  "I must do it, even at a loss."

Sachs nodded.  "Let me see.  On the estate the horse stud has been
extraordinarily profitable indeed.  The dairy farm has done well and has
repaid your investment already.  You should keep that up.  Grain prices
were high during the war and you produced more, despite the shortage of
labour.  Clearly these prices will not continue now that submarine warfare
is over."

"Will horses be replaced by motors?" asked Martin.

"Maybe one day, but demand is still high at present.  Perhaps now you
should get your man to breed for quality."

"Now, as to your other investments: the oil stocks have boomed.  Chemicals
have too as you would expect.  Aren't you pleased we did not invest in
shipping?  Insurance was steady, but not spectacular.  We lost only on two
stocks--and not badly.  Your friend Tatchell has become one of the
wealthiest men in your part of England and your shares have done very well
too.  The Carlton Hotel has not paid a dividend, but that is to be
expected.  Peacetime will see a return to travel and I believe that the
Russian aristocracy is making its new home on the Riviera."

"So we are alright?" asked Martin, hopefully,

"Yes, Lord Branksome," said Sachs smiling. "You're alright."

"But the future, Daniel?  What do you suggest?" asked Stephen.

"Well, I will draw up a plan.  More of the same, I think.  Tatchell will
beat his swords into ploughshares and adapt well to peacetime, I believe.
You once mentioned electricity; I think we should dip our toe into
generating companies. Possibly the government will buy us out, but that
will be even better.  On the estate, diversify and modernise."

"What do you mean by `diversify'?" asked Martin.

Sachs explained the term and then Stephen said: "Would it be a good time to
build the golf course...and the hotel?  It would make better use of
unproductive land."

"Maybe," said Sachs, leaning back and scratching his nose with the pencil.
"But two separate companies in case the hotel fails.  We'll look at it
later.  It's a big step."

Thus the boys emerged into Threadneedle Street with a great burden lifted
from their shoulders.  "Sachs is worth his weight," said Martin.  "I feel
like getting very drunk."

"Mala," said Stephen when they had settled into a corner of a chophouse.
"Have we become rich from an immoral source?  Do we have blood on our
hands?"  Stephen looked quite distressed.

"Derbs, it's true that Tatchell's made war materials, and chemicals are
used for munitions and poison gas and flamethrowers but also they are also
used for fertilizers and celluloid collars, which are good things.  Is oil
a war material?  What about ships, horses and grain to feed the soldiers?
What about us?  We fought in the War--or rather you did and I sat at a
desk.  We're all compromised.  None emerged pure.  Now we must use our
fortune the best we can."  He wanted to kiss Stephen but instead just said:
"You're a good man, Stephen.  Too good."



They spent the next ten days in London.  Stephen resumed his club habit of
an afternoon and Martin called on Aunt Maude and the Vane-Gillinghams who
had set up house in Knightsbridge.

"You must go and see Archie's new studio, Lord Branksome, said Jean
Vane-Gillingham.  He will be back from Mexico at the end of this week.  You
and Mr Knight-Poole will love it."

Martin liked the way she coupled their names.  She was a smart woman, she
must know about the two of them; she must also know about her brother.
However, if she did, she gave no sign of it in her pleasant drawing room in
Pont Street.

When they returned to Branksome House, Glass the butler was quite excited.
"Your lordship, I've just received this letter from French North Africa.
It is from M. Lefaux he wants to know if we know of a position in London
for a chef.  I thought..."

"Why here of course!" interrupted Martin, with visions of M.Lefaux's
wonderful meals appearing before his eyes.  "He was surely one of the best
chefs in a private house anywhere.  I never thought we'd see him again.
Where has he been all this time, Glass?"

"Well, sir.  It appears he enlisted in the French Army and then was taken
prisoner by the Huns, sir.  When he was released he found it hard to get
work because of his criminal record -- you will remember, sir, he was a
bigamist.  He tried the Foreign Legion but refused to cook harissa--some
foreign muck I imagine--and was cashiered in Morocco.  That is where this
letter came from.  You will remember he has a sister in North London.
There may be trouble with his papers, your lordship."

"I will see what favours I can call in at the Foreign Office.  Some of
those gentlemen will remember his work with gratitude, I should think."
Stephen nodded in agreement. "Write-- no telegraph-- and tell him we want
him.  Send him some money--not too much or he'll drink it all--to tide him
over.  Oh this is a happy event!"

Charles Fortune and Jack Thayer were pleased to hear this news when they
came to dine.  Stephen had barely seen them since the Armistice and there
was much to catch up on. Stephen proposed to complete his degree largely by
extension classes so he could be with Martin.  Jack urged him to write a
paper on his Australian experience. "Are you returning to Cambridge,
Martin?" asked Charles.

"No, I don't think so.  All the fellows will be too young and I've lost
interest in Philosophy.  I want to concentrate on Croome."

"That is a pity," said Jack.

"Yes, it is in some ways.  I suppose the War robbed people like me of the
opportunity, although I have had more than my fair share of those," he
added hastily.

After dinner Stephen rolled out the plans for Sgt Louch's motor garage.
"The floor will be Portland Cement polished to a sheen. There will be a pit
for working on the underside of the motors.  This girder will allow a hoist
to be fitted and the whole roof is supported by this zigzag truss which
will let in light here and here."

"Show them the memorial, Derbs," said Martin.

Stephen fetched a second set of sketches.  "These are from the War Memorial
Committee at Branksome," he explained.  "The memorial, as you can see, will
be a simple obelisk in granite to match the Church.  There is a ratio for a
slight taper and, like the Cenotaph, there won't be a straight line in the
whole thing-- they will be all subtle curves from a point 1914 feet below
the datum."

"It's quite tall," said Charles.

"Well, it has to be so it doesn't look like a pimple on a pumpkin next to
the church," said Stephen.  "We mocked it up with tall poles with a bucket
on top to judge the best height.  Martin was the judge."

The proportions of the stone erection looked vaguely familiar, but neither
Jack nor Charles could remember from where.  They would have to consult Sir
Banister Fletcher's History of Architecture for its precedent in antiquity,
they thought.

"It's not overtly religious," put in Martin, "I had to convince the Vicar
that God was not responsible for the War or the Peace.  It just has the
names of those who served and a cross next to those who died.  Everyone is
in alphabetical order and ranks are given, but I'm just
`Lt. Col. M. Poole'.  The two nurses and the ambulance driver are also
listed; I insisted upon it.  It will be a focus for people's grief that any
other sort of memorial couldn't be."

They walked down to the Saville Club and talked some more about the War.
Martin did not want Stephen to dwell on it, but was relieved when he saw
that Stephen was not tormented.  He must talk about it he said to himself
upon reflection.  Bottling it up would be much worse.



*****



One fine spring day Stephen decided that he would take his new motor for a
`spin' in the Epping Forest.  They threaded their way across London and,
beyond the village of Chingford, found that they were on little used roads
through the remnants of the ancient forest.  Stephen liked his `Pan', which
sat high and coped well with bumps and potholes.  It handled easily and
Stephen swung the wheel with more confidence than Martin had ever seen
before.

Glass had filled the special compartment with ice and bottled beer and a
large picnic hamper was strapped to the running board.  Just past a bend
they pulled over to the side and picnicked, commenting on the beauty of the
place in springtime and the cheeky birds that dared to approach in the hope
of crumbs.

Stephen used the mechanism which folded the seats flat to make a double
bed.  "I've been waiting to use this, Mala.  Isn't Mr. Pandolfo clever to
think of us?"  In a moment Stephen had Martin's trousers off.  "I'm glad
you're not wearing underwear today, Mala," he said.

"Derby!" said Martin hotly as he sat up.  "Whatever is the matter with you?
I haven't worn underwear for..." here he paused...since 1910--except on
games days at school when I had to.  I know you made it a rule."

"I can never be sure that you're not secretly wearing those `combinations'
you are so fond of when I'm not here.  I need to check more frequently,
Mala."

Martin thought Stephen had gone mad, but then saw the twinkle in his eye;
he was being teased.  Stephen continued: "I like to know that cocks and
balls are not huddled masses, yearning to breathe free."

"You make them sound like Americans."

"Mala, don't say that.  My father was an American and some of our best
friends..."

"Derby, I don't think you should be doing that.  Someone might see us."

"I don't care, Mala. My blood's up when I'm with you.  Take off all your
clothes."

"Derby!"

"Do it, Mala; it's urgent."

The sight of Stephen looming over him weakened Martin's resolve and a few
movements freed him from his restrictive garments.

"And your shoes."

Stephen commenced to plant gentle kisses and rub his lips over various
parts of Martin's body.  Martin shivered in delight.  Sometimes Stephen
would rub his unshaven cheek over particularly favoured portions.

At last he produced a tube of Spong's Soothing Salve from the basket and
slicked his hand and Martin's throbbing, blonde cock that was flat against
his stomach.  He masturbated him furiously and Martin, helpless under the
onslaught, rolled about on the improvised bed and tried to keep himself
stable with his outstretched arms.

"I want you to spill for me, Mala," said Stephen at length, just as Martin
heard a noise in the distance.  It was the slow clip clop of a horse.

"Derby there's..."

"I don't care, Mala," said Stephen not slackening from his task.  "I need
you to spill...I want to see it."

The sound of the horse was getting closer and Martin wanted to cry out, but
he couldn't.  He writhed and arched his back, shoving his cock deeper into
Stephen's fist.

"Spill for me, Mala.  You can do it.  I must have it.  I love you, Mala.
Show me how much you love me, darlin'."  Martin tried to touch himself with
his hands.  Stephen knocked them away.  At the same time Martin could hear
cartwheels.  The horse was pulling a cart and it must be just beyond the
bend in the road.

Martin felt a rush and he erupted uncontrollably just as horse and brake
pulled into sight, his seed covered Stephen's fist and his own chest.  A
spurt had landed on Stephen's cheek.  Stephen cruelly released his grip on
the still convulsing Martin and threw the checked picnic blanket over him.
When the cheery party of trippers waved a greeting, all they could see was
Stephen kneeling, apparently in the act of packing up a picnic hamper.
Stephen called out a greeting and waved, at the same time wiping away the
semen from his cheek with the back of his hand.

When they were gone, Stephen uncovered the body.  Martin was a wreck, but
he rallied enough to grab a hank of Stephen's hair and pull him down for a
scorching kiss.  As Stephen tenderly cleaned him up, Martin said: "The best
part was when you called me your darlin'."

"Did I?  Well I think you as `me darlin'," he said in his West Country
burr.  "I do love you very much."

"I like that, Derby.  I like that very much. Derby," he said after a pause.
"Derby, do you think of me as a slut?"

"What a question, Lord Branksome!  I'll answer it later, but first I'll
give you a shilling if you blow me."



That night Martin and Stephen went to The Plunger's new studio in Chelsea
where a party was being held.  Archie Craigth was intensely delighted to
see Stephen, for it had been over a year since they had parted at Tilbury.
"Thank you both for coming, he said, after he was released from Stephen's
hug, "and thank you for not wearing evening dress.  This is Chelsea and
we're all rather Bohemian nowadays."  The Plunger was immediately whisked
away from them by some other guests, but then returned with two glasses of
champagne and offered to show them around.

It was a splendid big space-- actually the top floors of two houses knocked
together. From the big studio window, Cheyne Walk could be seen below and
the grey Thames and the Albert Bridge beyond.  The whole place was done out
in the most exotic style with great bolts of material looped down from the
lofty ceiling and lots of rugs and Turkish divans scattered about.  Of
course there was The Plunger's painting corner supplemented by a very large
table, rather like the one at Antibes.  "The whole place is heated by
steam," he said as they stood beside a handsome grand piano.  "And through
here is a scullery and here a bathroom with fittings from America.  Through
that door is Gertie's room."

"You have a manservant in your artist's studio?" asked Martin,
incredulously.

"Of course, Poole," replied The Plunger with some of his old hauteur.  "It
provides employment and he can wash my brushes."

The greatest attraction was The Plunger's extraordinary sleeping quarters:
a large mezzanine over the main room reached by a steep ladder, like a
ship's companionway. Here a huge, tan leather squab filled the entire
floor.  It was piled high with rugs and furs of the most exotic materials
and there were a great many fat pillows and bolsters with oriental
tassels. Martin was amazed and bent down and picked up a rug. "That's mink
and this one is ocelot," said The Plunger. "That one is Shantung silk,
Stephen."

"What happens if you roll over, Archie? You'd have a nasty drop to the
floor below."

I've only fallen once; see I've placed the divans below it, although it's
best to sleep in the middle.  By the way, I have the telephone here.  Ring
Glass and tell him you'll be staying tonight," The Plunger said.  "I want
you to try the bed," he added disingenuously.

The party was the most wild that Martin and Stephen had ever been to or
even imagined.  Men and women-- many of them rather odd and some hard to
distinguish--behaved as if they were on a picnic.  There were few chairs
and so everybody stood or perched on tables or sat on the floor.  The
Plunger's divans were put to good use and, as the guests became more
intoxicated, there were many couples and even trios embracing publically.
The noise was deafening and the modern music relentlessly played on the
gramophone could scarcely be heard above the din.  Both Stephen and Martin
were much monopolized by people anxious that they should understand their
own particular theory of Art or Politics and these tended to make even less
sense as the night wore on.

"The Saturn period is the triangle," the woman was earnestly saying to
Martin.  She was dressed in a long gown of batik surmounted by a turban
with peacock feather. "Warmth is the original matter of the universe and is
in the spherical form.  At least in the material word that is how we see
it.  Do you understand?"  Martin nodded, but he did not understand and was
mesmerised by the feather, which bobbed hypnotically as the large woman
spoke.  "The triangle is gaseous," she said with a flutter of her hands
that made her ivory bracelets clack.  "That is why the new gasworks should
be triangular, not rectangular."  The feather agreed emphatically.  A man
came up. "Now human blood crystals are controlled by the rectangular form
while the moon is a...while the moon form is represented to us, on our
plane by...What is the damn moon, Quigley?" she said turning to the man.

"The wave form, Viola, if you believe in all that still, but the new
gasworks can be better appreciated by its honest form; you can see what it
does and how it works.  You can see the arteries and muscles of the thing.
The comrade gas workers do not want all that sham; they find great joy in
stoking coal knowing that they are providing heat for the proletarian
masses of South London-- or rather they would find joy and fulfilment if
the company were not owned by bourgeois leaches who are ruthlessly
exploiting them."

"Magnetism..." began the women, but was cut off by Mr Quigley who launched
into a description of a collective farm in the Ukraine where the peasants
apparently delighted in making heating gas from their own dung.

Martin felt an arm around his shoulder.  It was Stephen who had come to
listen.  It was very nice standing there, in front of people, with
Stephen's arm about him.  He let his own slip to Stephen's behind where he
dared to give a little squeeze to the firm flesh, naked under his trousers.

Gertie swept by with a tray of champagne and Martin, Stephen and Quigley
all took a glass.  The batik women went to reach and Gertie snapped: "No
more for you, dearie. You're already too much in the liquid condition.
Your head looks like the Moon." The woman went to protest but stumbled and
Quigley and some other people helped her gently to the floor where she lay
for the rest of the evening with people stepping over her while she burbled
on, spasmodically, about the four ethers and the bilious condition of
matter.



Martin awoke with a start and found he was next to The Plunger.  He was
lying on his stomach on the leather mattress with his head resting on a
pillow made of zebra hide. He was naked, but the room was warm from the
radiators.  His head ached.  The Plunger was also naked and prone but his
monocle on its cord was still about his neck. Martin reached over to it and
put it in his own eye.  "Window glass," he said to himself.  I always
suspected it.  On his left was Stephen, spreadeagled on his stomach.
Lightly dusted with hair, his legs and buttocks looked attractive in the
morning light.  The farting noise that the leather mattress made when
Martin shifted on it woke The Plunger.

"Good party, Plunger," said Martin with more cheer than he really felt.
The Plunger groaned and Martin felt sorry for him so he kissed him on the
left ear.

"Ow!  I can't move, Poole.  I hurt all over.  I think I'm full up to
pussy's bow with Stephen's seed.  How many times did he fuck us?"

"I don't know. We'll ask him when he wakes up.  I think your champagne
might have helped."

"You're a damn lucky fellow, Poole, but I suppose you know that."

"I know I am," said Martin and he leaned over to his left and planted a
gentle kiss on Stephen's buttocks.  "I'm glad I turned into the wood that
day."

"What day?"

"Never mind.  I say, Plunger, can you come to Antibes with us?  We're
leaving in a month and we're going to drive through France-- in my
Rolls--Stephen promised me during the War.  It would be great fun if you
could."

"I'm working towards an exhibition, but I'll put that off.  Of course I'll
come, especially if there'll be more like last night."

"Oh I can guarantee that.  Stephen can fuck us insensible and we can drink
lovely French wine in the sun and the food..." He was interrupted by the
arrival of Gertie up the ladder balancing a cup of tea.

Martin went to cover up with a piece of silk when Gertie said: "Don't
bother to do that on my account, pet, I've seen a lot worse."  This last
was directed at The Plunger's ginger-and-white posterior.  "That reminds
me, there are some ripe peaches for breakfast." The Plunger turned over and
sat up, annoyed, and went to take the cup when Gertie snatched it away.
"That's not for you, your ladyship.  It's for the big fellow.  He's the one
who did all the work last night."

"You were watching!"

"Of course, we thought it was better than Tail's Up at the Comedy."

"We?  Have you been sleeping with my guests again, Gertie?" The Plunger
demanded.

Gertie sipped Stephen's tea and looked over the rim of the cup.  "I was
just showing Pavel a shade of red nail varnish that I thought would be
ideal for his new sculpture--it's a collection of hammers and sickles
welded into the shape of some horrible, deformed woman..."

"Rosa Luxemburg", said Martin.  "He was telling me about it last night."

"That's her, dear.  Well, one thing led to another-- he had no place to
stay--and, well, I made a small contribution to Art meself."

"Get out, Gertie and bring us three cups of tea.  I should have you
flogged.  And some aspirin!" cried The Plunger in frustration.

Gertie descended the ladder saying: "I think you should let the big one
sleep if you want a matinee."  The Plunger threw a fat pillow covered in
shagreen and it caught Gertie nicely and he dropped the cup, which
shattered.



To be continued. Thank you for reading.  If you have any comments or
questions, Pete and I would really love to hear from you.  Just send them
to h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com and please put NOB Nifty in the subject line.