This is a work of fiction. Names of characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously; any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locations is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2011 by Dennis Milholland – All rights reserved. Other than for private, not-for-profit use, no part of this work may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in any form or by any means, other than that intended by the author, without written permission from the copyright holder.

Careful! This is a work of fiction containing graphic descriptions of sex between males and critiques of religion and governments.

Love It or Leave It

by Dennis Milholland

questions and comments are welcome. www.milholland.eu / dennis@milholland.eu

Forty-two

(Monday, October 17th)

Needless to say, the steak and kidney pies are a real hit. Nothing tastes of innards. But I can taste the sherry.

By the time Dad settles the bill, it's already three in the afternoon. The proprietress phones for a cab, which whisks us back down leafy Park Lane and heads for Petty France. The name of our destination is Clive House. That’s where the passport office is located.

This time, we get an honest taxi driver. He does exactly as he is told. He does not offer a tour, nor does he take any illicit shortcuts. And when he drives us by the southeast side of Buckingham Palace, it is legitimately en route. But when Seph explains: "That's the council house where Phil the Greek and Liz the Kraut cohabitate at the taxpayer’s expense." The cabbie nearly has to pull out of traffic for laughing.

Clive House is a plain-brick government building from the 1930s, I would guess, with the façade of the ground floor in cut stone. We enter through the main door and are greeted by a friendly uniformed woman in sensible shoes, who directs us to the large room to the left.

The room, marked Passport Applications and Renewals, reminds me of the main Post Office, across from Union Station in Kansas City. When you enter, you are surrounded by counters with windows and signs for various services just above them. Only here, the hall is also lighted with sunlight, coming through the large plate-glass windows. The atmosphere is cheery polite.

Seph stops and gives each of us his appropriate paperwork. Raph gets his adoption papers, name change, and various papers Richard issued at the Consulate in Kansas City and most importantly, his Oath of Renunciation. I get the decree from the Jackson County Circuit Court changing my surname from Bourke to Mongrain-Bourke, the deed poll change submitted by Richard, photocopies of my signed passport application, not to forget my Oath of Renunciation. And before he lets any of us go, he gives each of us five one-pound notes.

Marty goes to the window marked, First Adult Passport. Raph goes to Renewals and Extensions, and I proceed to Changes to Names and Personal Details.

There is no line at the window when I get there. A man, possibly in his mid-thirties, is smiling very warmly as I approach. “How may I be of assistance?” At this, I cancel the analogy to the main Post Office in Kansas City in my mind. Politeness never was an attribute of public servants in the United States, at least not within the span of my memory.

Algernon creeps to the fore, and I hand the gentleman my passport and accompanying documents. “I, uh, have had my name changed, and was issued this emergency passport at our Consulate General in Kansas City, and I would like to...” I let my voice drift.

“Oh, dear!" His smile becomes one of concern. “Our American friends apparently didn’t take kindly to your renunciation of nationality.” He points out where the force of the stamp cancelling my American dependent’s visa made the ink visible on the following two pages. “This of course, could invalidate the passport.”

He looks sympathetically at me and raises one eyebrow. “Fortunately, Mr. Mongrain-Bourke,” He consults several pages on his clipboard. “Mr. Ashton did forewarn us last week and has forwarded all the documents. Consequently, your five-year passport should be ready.”

“Don’t you need to see my...” My voice trails off again, when his smile broadens. He seems to have me under some sort of spell.

“Good lord,” He moves closer; my dick throbs. "you've not changed your name again, have you?"

“Uh, hmm,” He has me in his stare. It’s hypnotic. “no.”

“Shall return presently.” He disappears and before I can look over to see what Raph and Marty are doing, he’s back. “Here it is. And it is free of all unnecessary stamps. Virgin, as it were.” He chuckles knowingly and winks at me. “But you do have to sign it with your new name.” He points to the signature line. “Here.” And he hands me a pen. I sign.

“Where do I pay?” I would like to know, looking round for a cashier’s desk.

“You paid Mr. Ashton for a passport.” The clerk quickly rechecks the records. “And all he could issue you was an emergency travel document. This one’s on us.” Again he checks his data. “Do you wish for us to send you the invalid one to your address in Brighton?”

“I get to keep it?” Since I’m not used to these sorts of things, and certainly not in Britain, I must sound naïve.

“We have to clip its wings.” He motions with two fingers signalling scissors at the booklet’s outside corners. “But, yes, you may, if you so wish. Otherwise, it will be destroyed.”

“No, no.” I feel a distinct urgency, as if he could change his mind. “I’d like to keep it as a souvenir.”

“You’ll have it in about a week.” He starts putting my documents away and looks at me, when I don’t leave. “Is there anything else, I could do for you?”

‘Since you have my address, you could visit me in Brighton.’ shoots through my mind, but I don’t have the guts to say it. “No, I’m just in a daze, is all. Thank you for everything.”

“My pleasure, Mr. Mongrain-Bourke.” He says, totally disarming me. I pull myself together and barely manage to walk away from the window. The passport official, whose name I don’t know and probably never will, is not terribly good looking but has a magnetism, which I am unable to resist.

Raph approaches with an expression of concern. “Are you all right?” A question that I seriously do not know how to answer.

Seph sees us and comes over immediately. “Open up!” So, being in an almost catatonic state, I open my mouth without question. And he pops in a sugar cube. He would do this when I was a kid, and I used to think that he was just spoiling me with sweets. But of a sudden, my mind clears and I can feel blood circulating again. And I'm also glad, that I didn't proposition the passport official.

Marty returns with Keith in tow, both acting as if they had a new toy. “Keith thinks that I should become a spy, too, since I now have a double-barrelled name and was born in Lebanon.” Grinning, he holds up his new blue booklet. “But I told him, the minute I open my mouth, they’d shoot me, so he has volunteered to give me elocution lessons.”

“And in exchange for what, Miss Doolittle?” Seph sneers.

Marty shrugs and Keith blushes. Raph’s giggles are the first to become audible before laughter erupts. Shushes can be heard from all corners, and the uniformed woman in the sensible shoes rushes to our assistance. And in two shakes of whatever, we’re out on the street.

“Damn,” Seph is still laughing. “I have to go back in there. I forgot to collect my own passport.”

We watch as he negotiates his re-entry into the building with the woman in sensible shoes. He shows her his well-worn passport, points to the Changes to Names and Personal Details window, and she relents. And in less than two minutes, he’s back, saying a very loud ‘thank you’ to the uniformed woman in sensible shoes as he passes.

“We’ll be having company on Sunday.” Seph starts to put his passport into his jacket’s inside breast pocket, when I grab it and give him a quizzical look. “Mr. Roberts, the official at the name-changes desk. His elderly auntie lives just cross the way on the Square. So, when he visits her on Sunday, they’ll be over for tea.”

Now, I'm extremely glad, that I didn't proposition him, and I feel my face go hot as I open Dad’s passport. And, there it is: Joseph Alexandre Mongrain-Bourke. For some reason this finalises it for me. The head of our clan is now a documented Mongrain-Bourke. Marty is holding out his hand to have a look, so we trade.

The window at the top of Marty’s passport’s cover displays in handwritten lettering: Mr. M.G.M.M. Mongrain-Bourke. “I see what Jennette meant with being heavy on the M’s.” But when I open the booklet, it dawns on me how much Marty identifies with our little queer family: Martin George Mortimer Maurice Mongrain-Bourke. And as Bob would say, that’s as it should be.

“Since the sun is shining,” Seph gets our attention, as I hand Marty’s passport back. “let’s do the tourist trek over to Buck House and get it over with.” Keith nods with a rather bored look. “And then we can mosey down The Mall. We have to be at Victoria to catch the 8 o'clock.”

“We’ve seen it.” I put in my two pence worth. “Personally, I’d much rather take my first ride on the Underground.” And from the sounds everyone is emitting, I guess that that’s what we’re going to do.

“To anywhere in particular?” Seph looks at everybody in the round.

“I’d like to see the Royal College of Music.” Raph says with his usual soft voice, which he uses when he’s not sure how everyone is going to react.

“Hear, hear!” Keith says much more forcefully.

Marty gives his approval by nodding and giving us the thumbs up. When Seph sighs deeply, I realise how much strain this is putting on him. Letting the rest walk ahead a little, I grab his arm. “Are you up to this?”

“It’ll be okay, Lad.” He says with a surprisingly cheerful voice. “Was just trying to remember how the Fuck to get there on the tube.” Then, as if by inspiration. “Circle Line from St. James’ Park.” He picks up speed and leads the way.

We cross Palmer Street. Next we’re opposite to where Broadway empties into Petty France. The entrance to St. James' Park station, marked with the famous red circle and blue banner with white lettering, is on our side of the street. It’s sandwiched between two tall, oddly shaped buildings of indeterminate age with slightly sooty, light, cut-stone façades.

Before we enter the station, Seph collects all of our documents and puts them into his leather bag, which he secures and carries clutched under his left arm. “Put your wallets in one of your front pockets. Do not carry them in your hip pockets, or you're likely never to see them again."

Shifting his wallet to his front right pocket, Marty wonders how large London is. Keith smiles at his hero. “About 8 million.”

Marty nods. “Yeah, that’s big enough for a pickpocket or two.”

Seph buys the tickets from a rouged-cheeked older woman at the tickets window. And we go underground. The air smells cupric. As if there were sparks everywhere. And the almost round, red and grey train arrives within a minute or two. The train is full but not packed. Surprisingly, the floor of the carriage is wooden.

At the next stop, Victoria Station, which Keith tells me is named after Victoria Street and not Queen Victoria, the train empties and refills. When we arrive at Sloane Square, Keith saddens noticeably. “This used to be my stop.” He forces a smile. “Here's where my parents live.” Then he sighs, trying to put things behind him. “I do like Brighton better, though.” Marty puts his free arm around Keith's shoulder, holding onto a grip for dear life with the other.

Seph motions for us to get off at South Kensington. The platform is surprisingly not underground, but it is below street level. We follow him in twos as if he were the head master.

We come out of the tube station through a structure, which strongly reminds me of a mausoleum. Unlike St. James' Park station, it is not embedded into a building, as such, but rather into a row of single-storey shops. He guides us up Cromwell Place, passing the Institut Français, which is housed in a building not much different from our house in Brighton, only that it's a bit narrower.

We turn left onto Cromwell Road, at the very corner where the Consulate General of France is located. The French seem to be much more organised than the Americans, they separated the actual locations of their various departments, instead of having everything in one building. Seph points out the Museum of Science on the other side of Cromwell Road. Raph chuckles. “We'll have to remember where this is. Suppose they have yearly passes?”

Keith looks over his right shoulder. “There is no entry fee.”

When Raph grins in my direction, we spout in unison: “This is the way it should be.”

When Keith looks puzzled, Marty explains about our buddy, Bob, and how he thought many things British are the way things should be, but couldn’t bring himself to leave the States.

We turn right onto Queen’s Gate Mews, an almost quiet, tree-lined street. Houses, similar to ours in Brighton line the west side and embassies and museum buildings line the east side of the street to our right.

When we get to Queen’s Gate, and Queen’s Gate Mews mutates into Queen’s Gate Terrace, Seph points down the slip road to the east. “Beyond the iron gate, Raphaël, is the Science Museum’s Library.” Of course, he’s insinuating that Raph could take up residence there, like he used to do almost literally at the main library in Kansas City all summer long.

When we walk right onto Prince Consort Road, we’re all eyeing the side of the Bulgarian Embassy on the opposite side. On our side of the road, there are several relatively new and appropriately bland four-storey structures, obviously part of the museum complex.

Then we can see it. Not that the Imperial College Union and Albert Court are not trying to upstage it. But there it is, holding its own. It is magnificent. Seph leads us across the street. “It’s red brick,” He chuckles, since that is more than glaringly obvious. “trimmed with buff-coloured stone. The style is called Flemish or Antwerp Mannerist, and it is considered to be the architect’s finest work.”

“Who was the architect?” Keith would like to know.

Seph laughs. “I haven’t the foggiest clue, Son. Now, let’s go to one of my old haunts.”

Before we know it, we’re back at South Kensington Station and waiting on the platform for a District Line train. It arrives; we ride two stops. Earl’s Court, where, according to Seph, Bohemian life is alive and well. Since the District Line is not really underground, we come up to street level. I stop with my mouth agape, as I read the sign. “Raph, Marty, quick, look at the street sign.” Seph is already grinning.

“Holy she-yit!” is Marty’s comment. We are on Warwick Road.

“Sort of brings things full swing, doesn’t it?” Seph is grinning from ear to ear. Seph then explains to a puzzled Keith. “Only a few days back, the three of them shared a house with the infamous Bob on Warwick Boulevard, a half a world away”.

At Old Brompton Road we turn to the left and walk one block and enter the side door of a pub. “Here, Lads, you needn’t behave yourselves.” Then he stops to reconsider. “On second thought, maybe you should, just a tad.”

The name over the door reads ‘The Coleherne’. Since it has just opened for evening business, hardly anybody is about. Seph asks what we’ll have and accompanies Marty to the bar. “Is it open upstairs?"

“Aye.” The barman pulls the first of the five pints of lager. He then looks over at us through the smoke coming off the cigarette between his lips. “But yer lads’ll ‘ave to stay down ‘ere. They’re nowheres near twenty-one.”

So much for passing for being of age. And, of course, I wonder why you have to be twenty-one to go upstairs. It must be a casino or something, since the drinking age is five.

Then, two men in mod suits enter through the door at the corner of Old Brompton and Coleherne Roads, greet the barman and go for the stairs, next to the door where we came in. Just on a whim, I look at their shoes and think that I see white socks.

Seph and Marty come to the table with the beers. “So that you lot aren't shocked, this is--”

I interrupt him in subtle volume: “--where Bertie Woofter hangs out.”

“How did you guess?” Seph sets the three glasses, which are full to the brim, down carefully. “We’re the only ones in here.”

“Two just passed by and went up the apples wearin’ white socks.” Raph states matter-of-factly in his version of Cockney.

Keith looks very puzzled as he thanks Dad for the pint, then looks at me. Again, his voice blurts out louder than intended. “Is Bertie Woofter a friend of yours?”

“Ahhh!” The barman shrills. “Bertie Woofter, ‘aven’t ‘eard that one in yonks.” Then, he appears to be giving something serious deliberation. "Look, Lads, if ya can be out in two 'ours, ya can go upstairs. But no later than that ‘cause plain-clothed cops start nosin' about from half eight.”

Seph grins. “How can you tell they’re cops?”

“’Ow can ya tell I’m a fairy?” The barman’s falsetto laugh is slightly annoying but very effective in proving his point.

We climb the stairs of the Coleherne to experience for the first time for everyone, except for Seph, men engaged in a very open display of affection. “When George and I would come here on his visits to London, there was a rule of no touching." He sighs. "Guess they've changed that."

“Not really.” One of the two men in mod suits whom we had seen downstairs adds. “We just don’t pay it any heed.”

“That’s why the cops come nosing about, is it?" Seph deduces and winks at them.

"Yeah.” The one man nuzzles his companion’s ear. “That and drugs.”

Raph moves closer to me. He’s smiling a very naughty smile. As his head comes slowly closer, his tongue snakes out to intertwine with mine. His free hand moves to my crotch and squeezes lightly. My dick, of course, immediately goes rigid.

He takes my pint glass and sets it on a low lounge table along with his own. I close my eyes to enjoy the sensations to come. When I feel his arms encircle me in a full-fledged embrace with his lips on mine without the slightest bit of trepidation, I realise, that we are actually making out in public for the first time.

“Uh, Lads,” Seph’s voice is soft but still fatherly stern. “they do call this place a public house for a reason.”

“Mm, sorry." Raph straightens his back slowly, as if forcing himself to back off me. "Got carried away, I guess." He gives me a look that promises debauchery later this evening.

Seph chuckles. “I’d say.” He reaches for Marty’s hand, while nipping on his pint of lager, acting as if his hand had a life of its own and that he, Seph, has no idea of what his hand is up to.

Keith is standing next to us, staring with a slightly bewildered look. “Are you both always this affectionate?”

“You ain’t seen nothn’, yet.” Marty raises his pint toward us in mock toast.

Ignoring Marty, I focus on Keith’s question. “Of course. Raph's my life.”

“As is Dan mine.” Raph purrs softly, but it is well audible for anyone nearby.

“What is it like?” Keith’s eyes move from Raph to me then back again.

Since his eyes are on him, Raph tries to clarify the question. "What’s what like?”

“To be in love to such an extent that you don’t care what others think?” Keith looks across at Seph and Marty.

“It’s a matter of being able to cope with the consequences.” Marty takes the lead on this one. “Even if sometimes it looks like we don’t care, we’re not totally irresponsible.” Seph nods with approval.

“I can’t imagine what it’s like to have a special friend.” Keith drains his pint glass with a note of sadness.

“You’ll find someone, for sure.” Seph comments as he finishes his glass of lager. “Maybe not today or tomorrow, but it will happen. And when it does, you’ll find out what it’s like.” He collects the empties and sets them on the upstairs bar. “Come on, Lads, we have to get going.”

As he leads us down the stairs, he sticks his head into the downstairs bar. “See ya. And give my regards to Bertie.”

The barman squeaks with delight. “Shall do.” He sets the pint he’s just pulled on the bar in front of a man in a leather highway jacket, jeans and hobnailed jackboots. “He should be along about half nine with the ugly sisters.”

Dad chuckles at the encrypted message as we step out onto the street. Of course, the rest of us are clueless as to what it meant and our faces reflect the problem. “He said that the queer crowd will be arriving at half past nine.”

Keith is signalling that he understands by moving his head, but his troubled brow is posing a question. While we’re retracing our tracks along Old Brompton Road, it takes him a good while to verbalise it. “Don’t you find the word ‘queer’ just a tad demeaning?”

Seph turns to me with an I-told-you-so expression, so I field the question. “I started using it basically because it is an insult. Personally, I think the word ‘gay’ is extremely apologetic.” I break open the pack of cigarettes, which I bought at North Audley House but have yet to smoke. I offer them around and have no takers; I light my own. “It’s like saying: ‘Terribly, sorry. Yes, we are queer, but we’ll use this euphemism, so we can appear to be acceptable to the heterosexuals, since they think they have the right to make a moral issue out of it.’”

“They are in the majority.” Keith argues.

“And that gives them the right to impose the book of Leviticus on us, even though we don’t accept their make-believe god and think that their holy book is a pile of contrived crap?” I flip the half-smoked cigarette onto the pavement and squash it with the sole of my shoe. “Aside from the fact that they pick and choose.”

Keith looks puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“In the same book, Leviticus, where the Hebrew god demands that ‘thou shalt not lie with mankind as with womankind’ he also forbids eating lobster, oysters and pork. Later on he demands that you stone witches and wizards and wives who aren’t virgins on their wedding night along with unruly kids, and the wee fecker won’t let hunchbacks, dwarfs and anyone with acne become priests.”

Keith laughs. “You’ve certainly read the Bible."

I nod. “The best way to become an atheist.”

“And you absolutely do not believe in god?” Keith wants to have positive verification.

I stop outside Earls Court tube station, look up into the darkened sky and shout: “Yahweh, Allah, Krishna, Jesus strike me dead.” I look at Keith. “You see, nothing happens.”

“Excuse me, Sir.” I wheel around to see a Bobby, whose helmet is vaguely reminiscent of the ones worn by the German Kaiser, whom I hadn’t noticed in the doorway to the station glaring at me. “We no longer have the death penalty on blasphemy, but it is illegal in this country.” His glare softens somewhat. “However, being that you are obviously American, I shall not take you in for booking. But, please, do let this be a warning.”

“Aren’t you violating my freedom of speech?” I wonder, ignoring Raph’s tugs to my arm.

“No, Sir,” His glare returns. "but you are in violation of the Profane Oaths Act. Please, do not persist.”

Of course, a policeman in Kansas City would have his weapon out at this point, an instrument this cop does not possess. But, on the other hand, blasphemy is not an offence, at least not in Missouri. If it were, Busby would have had my ass on it years ago. In the thirteen original colonies, however, it is possibly another matter. So, despite myself, I smile at the policeman. “Sorry. Thanks for not charging me.”

“I do hope you enjoy your stay in Britain." He touches the brim of his helmet and resumes his post at the door of the station.

“Do you still think that this is the way it should be?” Seph asks grinning sardonically as he returns from getting the Underground tickets.

“Guess I have a lot of things to get used to.” I admit timidly.

He hands out the tickets. “Along with a bit of growing up left to do.”

Since this is the first time he has said something to this effect, I feel slightly offended. I am tempted to sulk. And when I turn to Raph for comfort, he’s almost laughing. “At least, there’s no longer the death penalty on it.”

“Sometimes I feel like I rehearsed the wrong play.” I go to lean my head on Raph’s shoulder and Seph punches my arm lightly and shakes his head. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly ready to say something like 'Holy Fuck!' or ‘Holy Shit!’ But before I can even get all of ‘holy’ out, he grabs my muzzle like that of a bad puppy.

“Don’t even think about it.” He grins and takes his hand away from across my mouth. “There is also a law against public obscenity along with blasphemy. And I’m sure that policeman upstairs would certainly not turn a blind eye the second time.”

“But didn’t you tell that priest in Brighton to,” Now paranoid, I look around and whisper. “mind his own fucking business this morning?"

“You have to learn the ropes, Lad.” Seph steps into the virtually empty Underground carriage and quickly takes a seat, pulling me down next to him. “The priest this morning was Roman Catholic, which means fair game in this country. Only the Church of England is protected under the blasphemy act. If you’d just yelled at Yahweh, Allah and Krishna to take you out, the cop couldn’t have been arsed. But you included Jesus, the deity of the Church of England. You could do time for that.”

“As they teach us at school.” Keith, sitting on the other side of the carriage across from us, between Marty and Raph, says loudly enough to be heard above the noise of the train. “When in doubt, leave it out.”

“Guess that’s the way to go.” I give it some thought and then ask Seph what it’s like in France.

“Ever since 1802, they’ve had total separation of Church and State. So, I can’t imagine that they’d have a problem with blasphemy. And they haven’t been locking up queers since 1791. So, fair-play to them on that count. But they do have conscription, which Britain currently does not. Now, I have no idea whether that could apply to foreigners as it does in America. However, I do tend to doubt it.”

I look at Raph and imagine him, sitting across from me, wearing a képi blanc and dressed in the tan uniform of la Légion étrangère, and I’m approaching a state of panic. He moves across and sits next to me. « Dis-moi, mon amant, quels sont tes chagrins ? » Usually, I love it when he’s concerned about my worries. But right now, I seriously think that I’m about to go mad. If it weren’t for this strict society full of taboos, I would take my Raphie into a hug, possibly never to let him go.

« J'ai simplement peur pour toi tout d'un coup. Mais, je ne sais pas pourquoi. » And I don’t have any idea why I'm fearful of a sudden for his safety.

By the time Doctor Raph diagnoses the fact that I need a break from all the stress, like the breaks I’d have to take from wrestling, we are at Victoria Station. Four stops, no more, no less.

Apparently the trip home is going to be something special since we have tickets and reservations on the Brighton Belle. Keith can hardly contain himself as he informs Seph, “Have you heard? They’re changing the colour to British Rail Blue, sometime this year. They’re repainting the entirety of the rolling stock, including the Brighton Belle.” as we proceed to the platform, where the train is already waiting.

Now, I can see what their excitement is about. On the glossy burnt-umber painted railroad carriages, you see PULLMAN in gilt letters centred above the windows in the type of lettering you always have above badlands’ saloons in Westerns. Below the middle window is BRIGHTON BELLE in the same gilt lettering. Between the windows are glossy cream coloured panels. And at the windows on the inside are tied-back draperies in exactly the same cream colour, framing matching gathered linen lampshades on brass table lamps. To round off the elegance, each place is set with cream china on apparently starched damask tablecloths. What catches my attention though through the last window before the door where we board is the multi-tiered cake rack chock full of goodies, which make my mouth water.

“Hungry, Lad?” Seph catches me eyeing the cakes as he shows our tickets to the gentleman in a black diner jacket and bowtie.

The first thing I notice when boarding is the smell of fresh bakery goods. The second thing is the burgundy coloured carpeting to offset the walls of burr-wood and ash inlay. Seph and Marty take their seats at their reserved table for two and I sit down next to Raph and across from Keith at our table for three. I sink comfortably into the upholstered wing-backed arm chair, which is in stark contrast to the hard seats in the Underground, and lay my head onto the freshly laundered and starched rectangular doily with the British Pullman seal embroidered into the lower right corner. Raph and Keith both express amusement when my stomach growls, which sounds as if it were grumbling about the loud departure whistle directly outside our window.

Ever so slowly, the train starts leaving Victoria Station. The gentleman in the bowtie is taking Marty's order then Seph’s. Back in the recesses of my mind, where I’ve stored childhood memories, I remember Dad telling me to ‘never order coffee in England. Always take a light tea instead.’ Otherwise, I would supposedly get the kind of brassy brew that he drinks. Not good.

The gentleman in the bowtie approaches our table. “Mr. Mongrain-Bourke, the senior, said that I should suggest Fortnum and Mason’s Queen Anne Blend brewed lightly without milk to compliment our fresh scones and clotted cream. Would that be acceptable?”

Keith’s face lights up. “Yes, thank you.”

Since neither Raph nor I have the slightest inkling of what he just said, I decide that Dad's idea is going to have to do the trick. So, Algernon surfaces. "That does sound rather nice; don't you think Yves-Raphaël?”

« Ça veut dire quoi, cette crème coagulée ? » Raph addresses me with his scepticism about coagulated cream, making it sound like something from the morgue. And sadly, I have to profess my ignorance with a shrug.

Then the gentleman in the bowtie explains in impeccable French. « C'est une spécialité anglaise. En France on l'appelle la crème fraîche épaisse. »

This is where my upbringing slaps me in the back of the head. I know exactly what double cream is in French, but I've never heard of it in English. It just goes to show you how cultivated Geneviève is, as opposed to Mildred and her dreadful meatloaf.

« Ah, oui, c'est plus qu'acceptable, merci. » Raph accepts the offer; I smile shamefacedly, and the gentleman in the bowtie nods politely and leaves for the kitchen.