Date: Thu, 17 Dec 2020 17:57:54 +0000 (GMT) From: Peter Brown Subject: Last of the Line Chapter 110 Last of the Line by badboi666 =============================================================================== If sex with boys isn't your thing, go away. If, as is much more likely, you've come to this site precisely to get your rocks off reading about sex with 14-year-olds then make yourself comfortable - you're in the right place. Don't leave, however, without doing this: Donate to Nifty - these buggers may do it for love but they still have to eat. http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html =============================================================================== Chapter 110 +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ I see that in my haste to get on with my life with Ben I glossed over how we had dealt with the mutual realisation that we loved each other. Rather than insert a few pages into what I have written already - an untidy thing to do - I shall merely confess to my over-enthusiasm (understandable, I hope you'll agree, Bertram) and set out what happened here. ***** We lay in bed in each others' arms while we both took in what was happening. "I've never felt like this before," he whispered. I squeezed him tight. I had - twice - and each time love had been torn from me. Soon it would be necessary to tell him, but not then, not in my - our - bed at Inverthrum. One day soon, I promised, we would have all the time in the world, but our two hours were almost up. "Come on, I've got to get you back." "Must you, Bertie?" "Yes, I must. Ken said that one day you would find Mr Right, and it looks as though he should have said 'today', not 'one day'. It will be better for all of us if you gave them time to find a replacement - you don't have any more brothers, I suppose?" He shook his head. "In that case let's get going and start the process. I'm assuming, by the way, that 'I love you' means 'I want to live with you'?" He hugged me. "Of course it does, Bertie, here or wherever you live when you're not here." Until that time, despite my having shared his bed for five years, he had known me only as 'Bertie'. During the drive back to Inverness I gave him biographical information which came as a shock. "An earl? Do you live in a castle?" Ben's ideas about how the nobility structured their lives was only about 500 years out of date. "I did, but when the moat got crocodiles in I had to sell it. I live in a cave now, but at least there's no crocodiles." A few seconds passed while this was weighed. Then, "I'm assuming all of that sentence is nonsense." "Correct, Ben. I live - and you will live - in a house my great-great-grandfather built when he and his son and grandson - my grandfather - came back from California with their pockets full of gold." He looked at me. "Is that nonsense too?" "No, that's true. Joel and Amos made their fortune in the Gold Rush in 1849. My grandfather Seth was born out there and he was only about 4 when they built the house." We were almost in Inverness, so further details about who each of us actually was had to wait. It was no matter: we had all our lives. It hadn't occurred to me at that stage that explaining Ben to Arthur (or indeed, explaining Arthur to Ben) might not be straightforward. First we had the matter of Larry and Ken to deal with. I followed Ben in. He went straight to the kitchen - an area with which I wasn't familiar. It was a few minutes before 6. "You're back then," said Ken, busy stirring. When there was no reply he looked up and saw me. "Hello, Bertie, come to inspect?" "No, Ken, but since you ask, I've come to ask a favour?" "And what might that be?" "Ben." He put his spoon down and took the saucepan off the gas. "That needs ten minutes by itself. Let's not waste those minutes. Only yesterday, Bertie, I said something about Mr Right. The look on both your faces tells me that my timing was, as always, impeccable." "Oh Ken, it's real," said Ben, "I'm so happy." "And it's real for me too, Ken, even though I'm ancient." "And you've no more brothers if I'm not mistaken." Ben shook his head. "Well, we must advertise. 'Nice queer 15-year-old wanted to work in kitchen. Good wages. Must be willing to be buggered.' That should do the trick." "What will you really do?" I asked, "neither of us wants to leave you and Larry in the lurch. How long do you need to find a replacement?" "To find a boy to work in the kitchen, no time at all. There's any number of bright school-leavers who would jump at the sort of apprenticeship involved. As far as the other duties are concerned, that's Larry's side of the business. But as we've always known that we'd run out of brothers one day we have thought about this dreadful day." The twinkle in his eye gave the lie to this sentiment. He turned to Ben. "Ben, my dear, no-one will fill your bed after the Earl of Inchkeith sweeps you off on a white charger to his silken sheets. I shall cook for queers, but their carnal appetites shall not be quenched here. Besides, Larry and I are planning to retire soon. I shall hang up my saucepans and we shall pass our declining years somewhere hot and amply provided with good wine. And nice dark-eyed curly-haired boys to remind us we were young once." "The good thing about Catholic countries is that when the boy has been to confession most of them see no great difficulty with sinning again soon after," I said. Ken gave me an old-fashioned look. "Indeed. It was a toss-up between Spain and Morocco. Our desire for wine and our preference for foreskins won. Ben, will you agree to a month's notice?" Ben threw his arms round Ken's neck. "Now deal with the roux while I go and tell Larry that Spain beckons," said Ken, beckoning me to follow. In their office the news was quickly broken, and Larry's reaction was to shake my hand. "We knew he would find someone, but we didn't think it would be you, Bertie." Champagne was opened and Ben summoned. Apparently the roux could do without him for a while. ***** By the time Arthur came home for the Christmas holidays Ben had established himself as part of the household - part of the family, indeed. Arthur seemed at ease with the idea that his father was queer, which was of course how I had felt and James before me. Arthur was the unusual one - or was he? The three of us were relaxing after dinner on Boxing Day in front of the log fire in the library. Arthur had accepted the offer of a glass of port and we'd spent a quarter of an hour talking about things of no importance. Out of the blue Arthur asked whether I felt about Ben the same as I had felt about Amanda. I didn't answer immediately: it had been so unexpected. Ben, sitting next to me on the sofa, put his hand on mine: he too needed to know. "Yes, and no," I said, "and before you leap down my throat, Arthur, let me tell you what I mean, `Yes' in the sense that I love Ben as I loved your mother. I would have done anything to prevent any harm coming to either of them, and I was - am - only half a person when I'm not with them. I was faithful to your mother and to her memory for several years after her death - until I met Ben five years ago in fact. There had been men before I met your mother and a long string of boys when I was a boy myself. And there was James of course. Ben is only the third person I've loved as a partner, and the other two both died young." Ben squeezed my hand - none of this was news to him. I went on. "`No' in the sense that you may understand, Arthur. Let me ask you something. Piers - is he still important to you?" He nodded, not looking up. "In that case why haven't you invited him here? You said you might last summer." "I didn't know how welcome he would be ... I ... Father, we - Piers and I - do all the things that I imagine you and Ben do, but we can't let anyone at school know." I smiled. He looked up and saw me smiling. "I've been 15, remember. Would you like the freedom to do all those imagined things here, where nobody could care less and where there's a nice big bed to be together and warm afterwards?" He nodded. Ben got up and sat beside him. "That makes us really happy, Arthur. I know what Bertie meant by `no'. The love he has for me has to be kept secret. It's OK in this house because everyone knows and accepts it, just as they will accept you and Piers if he comes here. But loving someone is so much better if the love can be shown publicly, and that's why our love -" (he turned and smiled at me) "- is second best." "Where does Piers live? Is he part of a big family?" I asked. Arthur shook his head. "No, he's an only child. They live in Chelsea. Why?" "Because it's a lot easier to invite an only child who lives in the middle of a city to spend a week with his school friend - another only child - in the middle of the country. Go on, phone him and find out." Arthur was torn. "I want him here but I'm afraid he may say no." The eternal agony of adolescent love, I thought. If it was just sex he wouldn't have been afraid of being turned down. After a couple of minutes he swilled the rest if his port and went to my office to phone. Ben waited until the door was closed. "Is this wise, Bertie?" I shrugged my shoulders. "Perhaps not, but it's certainly right. If they're fucking each other they'll have a lot more fun fucking here that they could possibly have had at school. If they're in love it will either flourish or wither, either of which is better discovered sooner than later. Look at us." He blushed. "Yes, you're right. I wonder what Piers will think of us." "He'll think we would probably fit in to a Chelsea milieu." When Arthur came back it was obvious that we were to have a guest. "You didn't tell me how long he could stay, so I had to think on the spot. He's coming on the 29th, on Wednesday. He's pleased because his parents are going to a big do on the Saturday and to another do for New Year, neither of which he had any interest in. Now he can be himself, as he put it." "And so can you, Arthur," I said, "this is your home, don't forget. How long will you keep him? Arthur grinned. "We'll see," he said softly. I filled his glass. "We need some ground rules." He gave me a funny look. "What I mean is that he has to understand how things are here. Ben and me, for instance." "He knows that already, Bertie, we don't have secrets." "Good. And what goes on in your bedroom is your affair - yours and Piers's. I won't preach. Or poach." Ben grinned. "Don't worry, Arthur, I'll keep him busy." Arthur's blushes are truly spectacular; I'm sure I never blushed that brightly. "And from now on I'm Bertie, Arthur, not Father." ***** I drove Arthur to Stoke station two days later to meet Piers. I stayed in the car - I thought they'd want to greet each other without anyone they knew looking on. I know now, as I write this in 2002, that the sight of two 15-year-olds embracing would attract no attention whatever at a railway station - or anywhere else for that matter - but things still had a long way to go 30 years earlier. Piers was tall, almost six foot, and soul-meltingly good-looking. As the two of them approached the car it didn't need an electric sign over their heads to tell the world that they weren't just pals. They had eyes only for each other, eyes which saw only the other's eyes and lips. Would it flourish or wither, I wondered. I got out to welcome Piers. "Thank you, sir, I'm so grateful to be here." Once they were in the car I turned round. "Not `sir', Piers, `Bertie'. It's what Arthur calls me and I'm not accustomed to thinking `sir' is me." ***** The week passed most agreeably. Piers was an excellent house-guest - intelligent conversation at meal-times is not always to be found among 15-year-olds, but he and Arthur made a stimulating foursome at King Edward's table and in front of the log fire. Although each of us knew what was going on behind bedroom doors it was never mentioned. Neither Arthur nor Piers showed any inclination to invite either Ben or me to join them, and Ben and I had agreed that we would maintain an air of disinterest (although we did agree that Piers was eminently fuckable. "So's Arthur," Ben had added, "but you didn't hear me say that."). All in all a strange week, I felt, but nevertheless a pleasant one. I persuaded Ben to make an excuse to take Piers off for half an hour on their last afternoon as I wanted time with Arthur. Ben was alarmed. "What if he makes a pass at me?" "Where's the problem? You know where our bed is." I sat Arthur down in the office. "Have you enjoyed having him here?" He laughed, "of course I have. I'm surprised you haven't heard us." I had, but I wasn't going to tell him. "Thank you for letting me invite him - we've both learned so much, and ... well, the nights have been magic." "I'm glad, Arthur, really I am. What have you learned, if it's not impertinent to ask?" "We've learned that while sex is marvellous we don't love each other as we thought we did. We like each other, but spending so much time in each other's company has led each of us - and it really is each of us, Bertie - to find that we're really quite different. We would never be able to live together like you and Ben. Maybe it's good being 15 and being able to find things like that out long before we're old enough to make mistakes that are hard to undo." I was proud of my 15-year-old's emotional maturity, and I told him so. "I'm glad you've had a taste of love though. It's a heady brew." Arthur nodded. "So am I ... so's Piers. We spent half last night talking about it. It'll be different when we're back at school, but neither of us will ever forget the last week. Apart from being thoroughly knackered we've both grown up a lot, I think." "But you still like each other, that's the main thing. Maybe he'll be your best man when some young woman lands you." He grinned, "stranger things have happened, Bertie." It is fitting that I leap ahead almost 10 years to record that when my by then 100% heterosexual only son married, his best man was indeed Piers (and fitting also to record that Piers seemed to have kept to the path upon which he was treading as a 15-year-old, details of which will be set out at the appropriate time). +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ When the Fisher choir had gone it was as though a curtain had fallen at the and of an Act. From my times in Stubbs's bed, all through public school, and then three years at Fisher my life had been more or less structured. Now without a structure imposed on me by my surroundings I had to build my own. I confessed as much to Billy the night after the choir, bare and ruined as it had been only 24 hours earlier, had gone. "What do you mean, Dab?" "I have no idea what I'm supposed to do, Billy." He laughed softly. "You really can be a monstrous idiot, you know. You've done so many things without being told as long as I've known you - Jack and Dodo, turning Inverthrum into something real, Hamish, never mind getting a fucking First and buggering half the choir. What's made you all shy and afraid?" "I suppose it's that I've got to settle down and run this place." "Hasn't Dunstable run it perfectly well all these years? OK, you've done a lot of hands-on stuff as well, especially selling the land in East Anglia, but he's done the routine stuff hasn't he?" "That's what I need to know about. One day Dunstable will retire or fall under a bus, and then where will we be?" "In bed, cuddled up together all warm and sexy, just like we are now. Worry about it tomorrow, or better still have an hour with Dunstable and get him to tell you all the boring stuff. Now shut up while I make it all better." ***** In the morning, of course, it all seemed more manageable, and by lunch-time I had recovered a sense of proportion. Dunstable had reminded me that while my mind had been on other things in Cambridge the Estate had somehow survived, and that he thought it likely that it might manage to continue to do so without my constant involvement. "You have an astute business head," he said, "as well as a skill with people. We'll be all right, especially now the vineyard is making money. We've carried out the recommendations your Cambridge colleague suggested: the income now comes from the vineyard - I think it's not too pretentious to call the acreage that - and the brewery. There's the rental from the property portfolio as well, of course. Unless you plan to give it all away you have more than enough to pay all the staff and have a good deal yourself." Later that day he went through the accounts with me, patiently explaining everything. "I should perhaps have done this when you left school, but better late than never." I was able to tell Billy that I had been silly the night before and that I was feeling better now. He kissed the tip of my nose. "Good. Now it's your turn to make me feel better." ***** Two days later came the sad news that the King had died suddenly. William V had been only 58, very young for a heart attack. The last 12 years must have taken more of a strain on him - and on Bradley - that we had realised. We now had a queen again - his daughter Charlotte had chosen to reign as Elizabeth III in honour, it was announced, of her great-grandmother. I didn't remember her reign as she had died when I was a baby. I received a letter two days later inviting me 'in Her Majesty's name' to attend the King's State Funeral. It was to be in Westminster Abbey and a long list of instructions was enclosed. "Do you have to go?" said Billy. "God yes. This is, after all, a Royal Command, and although I'm your own dear Dab between the sheets I'm the fifth Earl of Inchkeith out there. "Do I have to come?" "Certainly not - why, do you want to?" Billy shook his head. "You'll have to watch on telly, but I won't be able to wave." It wasn't the jolliest do I'd ever attended, but it was certainly the most splendid. I was allocated a seat in the Abbey between two other Earls, each of whom was well over 60. Low-voiced conversation during the 45 minutes after we were required to be in our places 'before the fun starts' (as my companion to my left muttered) elucidated that we were seated strictly by seniority. Inchkeiths had been created after the man on my right and before the irreverent gentleman on my left. "Knew your father," he whispered, "sat next to him when poor old William was in here getting crowned. Rum cove, your old man. Queer as a coot, but here you are, a fine strapping son. He was your father, I suppose?" I assured him that, as far as I knew, that was so, and that - I said this mischievously to see how he would react: there was, after all, not much going on to entertain us as we waited - I was as chip off the old block. He turned to look at me. "Queer as well, eh. Bugger me - no, better not, not here," and he chuckled. I began to like the old fellow. "If you can stagger on for a year or two we might be sitting next to each other at the Coronation.," I said. His eyes sparkled and he rubbed his hands together. "Dressing up! Can't beat it. All that ermine. Beats leather any day," and he fell silent. I couldn't let it pass. "I know just how you feel," I whispered. "As I said, not here," and he chuckled again. Two hours later, as we stood solemnly as the coffin was carried out to start its journey to Windsor, my queer neighbour whispered that if I cared to have lunch with him at his club I should be more than welcome. Thinking that it wasn't every day you got propositioned by a fellow member of the nobility I readily agreed. Besides, I was starving, not having thought to bring even a smuggled biscuit. His club turned out not to be the kind of club I had expected - the Pall Mall sort where waiters of even more ancient lineage than the members brought port and snuff to ease the pain of the afternoon. No, this was much more like a club about which, at that point, I knew only through the recorded misdeeds of my ancestors. In the taxi ride from the Abbey (the queue had been trying on my companion's bladder, but he had held on) we had exchanged small talk, and I had learned that he was the third Earl of Quainton and that I was to call him Hector. "Dab," I said. "Dab? Curious." I explained. The taxi dropped us 200 metres beyond Marble Arch. "We'll walk from here, it's only a couple of minutes, thank God." We walked along a passage and up a few steps to a plain-looking door. He knocked twice, then three times a few seconds later. A panel slid open in the door. "Hector." The door was opened. "Thank heavens you were quick, Lionel, I'm desperate for a pee. Look after my guest for a minute," and he went quickly downstairs. Lionel indicated a chair. "I'm sure he won't be long, sir, but I'm afraid I can't admit you, even to the bar, without Hector." I said I would be happy to wait. My mind was whizzing, trying to recollect the arcane ways of clubs like this which Seth - four earls before me - had described in such loving detail. Today was going to be a day when there would be a great deal of fun in 'funeral'. =============================================================================== The fun continues in Chapter 111 as Hector and I enjoy lunch, and other pleasures. Posting in the next few weeks is likely to be sporadic, what with Christmas and its attendant distractions. But chapters will still flow, just less frequently. Drop me a line at badboi666@btinternet.com - that is after you've dropped nifty a few quid. ===============================================================================