Henry looked at his watch and said regretfully that he must be going as his Aunt dare was expecting him to take tea with her. We shook hands and he said, 'Rupert, I so enjoyed seeing you again. Will you confirm all the arrangements for our trip up to York? I'm staying at the Club until I find a decent apartment, so if need be you can always leave a message with Cripps.'
After he took his leave I went into die writing-room and dashed off a letter to my parents. I told them that I had bumped into General Gooner in Bedford Square (though I omitted to mention the later meeting!) and that in addition to Nancy Carrington, I had now invited Henry Bascombe-Thomas to stay with us and hoped that this would not be an inconvenience. I added that if an invitation to the party could be wangled for Henry, so much the better, but this was not of prime importance for the main purpose of his visit was to assess the worth of Diana Wigmore's pictures. I handed the letter in to the desk to be posted and went back into the lounge for a snooze. As I dozed off, the thought passed through my mind that whilst I have never suffered from insomnia, the noted Society physician, Doctor Aigin of Harley Street, has always maintained that fucking is by far the best cure in the world for this troublesome complaint. I would go further and add that the activity is efficacious for many other complaints as well, except perhaps for the common cold, a cure for which has so far eluded the medical profession. However, in my experience, a small whisky to soothe the throat followed by a rattling good fuck will at least temporarily banish the miseries of a feverish chill.
CHAPTER THREE. Art for Art's Sake
For the sake of brevity I will mention only briefly the events which took place between my reunion with Henry Bascombe-Thomas at the Jim Jam Club and the brisk November morning just over a fortnight later when Henry met Nancy Carrington and myself at King's Cross Station for our journey up to Albion Towers, our family's estate, which lies on the edge of the Forest of Knaresborough, some six miles or so outside Harrogate. By a supreme effort of will, I fucked Mary the maid just one more time during this period, to be precise, on the evening of my departure to Yorkshire, and that was at her insistence. I, perhaps foolishly, asked her what she would like as a small present for taking on, so cheerfully, many extra duties when my housekeeper, Mrs. Harrow, was laid low with a nasty bout of influenza. Otherwise, I had no further erotic adventures of note, except of course those which took place during the wild evening enjoyed with Nancy Carrington which I had arranged, as mentioned earlier in this narrative, when I reciprocated her Invitation for the wonderful luncheon party and the splendid orgy with Countess Marussia of Samarkand. Nancy came over to dine with myself and my cousin, Michael Reynolds, a lusty young medical student though unfortunately his current amour, the pretty little Sheila de Souza who I also earlier mentioned en passant, was at the last minute prevented from joining us by the onset of the same indisposition which had affected Mrs. Harrow. However, Lady Knuckleberry, my next door neighbour, returned to town that very afternoon from a few days at Sir Michael Bailey's country house in West Sussex, and very kindly agreed to make up the numbers at my dinner party. Furthermore, she turned out to be a willing participant when later in the evening Nancy suggested a game of 'Blind Man's Cock' in which Edwards and Mary were also invited to take part, and she thoroughly enjoyed her reward of being fucked by both Michael Reynolds and Edwards as I tongued Nancy's hairy cunt whilst Mary sucked my rampant prick. Naturally, on the day of our journey up North, Nancy accepted my offer of transport to King's Cross and so as not to risk being late because of an absence of taxis, I ordered a Prestoncrest chauffeur and motor car for the short journey to the station. We were in good time to meet Henry who had already arrived from his new apartment in Philimore Gardens, Kensington. I introduced my old friend to Nancy Carrington, saying that I hoped they would both wish to buy Diana Wigmore's works and bid against each other in auction. I spoke only half in jest as Diana did need a substantial sum to continue living in France because her parents wanted her to come home and meet more suitable young men than she was mixing with on the Left Bank in Paris. Whilst our luggage was being loaded onto the tram, I was curious to see Henry walk over to the station bookstall and whisper a few words as he passed over some coins to a sales assistant, who then reached down under the counter and gave Henry a large sealed brown envelope in which I assumed was a magazine which he slipped under his arm. I said nothing at the time but as soon as we were settled in our first-class compartment-and to our great satisfaction we were not burdened by the company of other passengers – I asked Henry what publication he had bought at King's Cross to read on the journey. 'Oh, just something light to while away the time,' he said carelessly, as, spot on time, the locomotive pulling our train hissed loudly and began to slowly chug its way out of the station. Henry did not further enlighten me as to the nature of his purchase but neatly changed the subject saying, 'I've brought some writing paper with me if either of you wish to catch up on any correspondence. After all, even though this service runs non-stop to Leeds, we still have nearly three hours to kill until we change trains there.' 'Thank you, but I can think of better things to do in a railway carriage, Mr. Bascombe-Thomas,' said Nancy saucily, putting her hand on Henry's knee. I queried her statement and asked, 'Better things to do? Such as what?' 'Fucking, of course, you silly boy,' she said brightly. 'Especially during the day, I don't think that a railway carriage can be beaten when it comes to finding a suitable place to indulge oneself.' Henry looked at her blankly at first and then his lips broadened out slowly into a lascivious smile. 'Really, Miss Carrington? I don't think I have ever had the pleasure of testing your interesting hypothesis although I can well imagine the excitement of bucking one's hips in rhythm with the clickity clack of the wheels passing over the rails. Yes, the words of Thomas Grey come to mind, “No speed with this, can fleetest horse compare,/No weight like this, canal or Vessel bear.” 'And I recall reading a thrilling little tale in The Oys-, ah, a magazine to which I subscribe, about a young couple making love on the London-Manchester express. The boy came at Crewe, the girl climaxed at Stoke and they both spent together at Rugby and Watford.' 'They were fortunate not to have been interrupted,' I commented. Henry nodded his head. They were fortunate indeed,' he agreed with a smile.
'But the ticket collector was a good sport and a sovereign bought his compliance to wait until the train was approaching Euston before inspecting their tickets and the ripe, nubile nakedness of the girl concerned.' 'Have you ever fucked a nice juicy pussey on a train, Rupert?' asked Nancy, and I was forced to admit that this was a pleasure I had yet to experience. But I added, 'Mind you, I'll never forget a fine time I had on a train with a randy girl when I was in my last term at St Lionel's.' 'Did you, Rupert?' said Henry, raising his eyebrows. 'I don't recall your ever mentioning it to me.' 'I didn't tell anybody, not even Frank Folkestone who had shared my study for the previous two years. You see, the girl concerned was the daughter of an employee of the school and I was concerned about her reputation as well as the fact that if news of the incident had reached the bursar's ears, he might have dismissed her father.'
Nancy's eyes shone with emotion as she moved up closer to me on the seat and said, That did you great credit, Rupert, and shows that even in your youth you acted like a true English gentleman. However, four years have now passed and perhaps now you feel able to reveal exactly what occurred.' I thought for a moment and then said, 'Yes, I see no reason why I should keep the secret any longer.
'It happened when the First Eleven went to Winchester to play cricket. Normally, I would never have been in the side for I am no great lover of the game and have never been more than average with either bat or ball. But a couple of chaps had to cry off for one reason or another and I found myself included as twelfth man. I could have declined the invitation but being the reserve was no hardship as I didn't really want a game and on a fine day there are many worse things to do than watch your friends running around from the comfort of a deckchair with a glass of iced lemonade in one hand and a good book in the other. 'Well, one of my few duties consisted of bringing on a tray of cold drinks to the team during a short break in play whilst we were out in the field. I managed to perform this hardly onerous chore but walking back briskly to the pavilion, I caught my right foot in a small pothole and severely wrenched it. I was in great pain and at first it was thought I might have broken a bone. However, although the foot ballooned out, the pain slowly subsided, but the Winchester matron advised me to keep my foot from the ground for as long as possible. The match ended quite early as for some reason St Lionel's has never had a good cricket side since the old days of James St John thirty years ago. We were skittled out for only eighty-three runs and Mr. Dexter, the master in charge of our party, decided that the team could catch the five forty-five train back to Chichester. “It might be a good idea for you to stay and take a later train, Mountjoy,” he suggested, and the Winchester chaps made me most welcome, carrying me into the sixth form common-room and standing me a slap-up high tea. 'By seven o'clock, the swelling on my foot was going down and the bruise was beginning to come out. As it was unlikely that I had inflicted any lasting damage, I decided to ask for a lift to the station and catch the seven twenty train. Mr. Dexter had left me some cash with a train ticket so in the unlikely event of there being no taxis at Chichester, I
