Anonymous
The Secret Chronicles of Henry Dashwood, Vol. 1
PART I
Wednesday, November 7th, 1895
'My dear Henry, memory is the diary we all carry with us,' advised my favourite uncle, Sir Robert Bacon, when he presented me with this large day-by-day diary today – my sixteenth birthday.
'But it can often play strange tricks,' he went on, 'and if in later years you would like to remember with complete accuracy the important happenings in your life, the only way to do so is to write down your recollections of these events as soon as possible after they have occurred. 'Yes, Uncle, and it would also be useful to be able to take photographs to complement one's recollections,' I said, hoping that this might trigger the thought to buy me a camera for Christmas.
Unfortunately, Uncle Robert saw through this shameless ploy immediately and grunted: 'H'rmph, well I cannot deny that photography is a fine hobby for any boy, and indeed, you may assume that if I were presented with the proof that you have kept a full and frank account of important incidents in your life from today onwards until I see you on Christmas Eve at Lower Tarlowe (my parents have invited Aunt Lucinda and my uncle to stay over the holidays) you will be far from disappointed with the gift you will receive from me to celebrate the festive season.' 'You may take this as a promise,' I replied.
Uncle Robert is a decent old stick who can always be relied on to slip a florin in my jacket pocket whenever he visits me, either at home or here at my school, the Albion Academy for the Sons of Gentlefolk. Visits by relatives are normally frowned upon by Dr Muttley, our headmaster, but my birthday has fortunately chanced to coincide with a half holiday, so Uncle was allowed to take afternoon tea with me in the refectory. So, here begins this chronicle of my schooldays and whilst I am composing this narrative, it strikes me that in future years it is quite possible that this record might be seen by eyes other than my own. I should therefore sketch in some background details about myself and some of the other chaps in the Upper Fifth. False modesty is as foolish and vulgar as overweening pride, so the first entry in my diary will be about myself, Henry Edward Ludlow Dash wood. I am sixteen years old and, at just an inch under six feet, am considered tall for my age. I am reasonably proficient at most academic subjects and am right back and captain of the Academy Colts football team. However, I would be the first to admit that I am somewhat of a duffer on the cricket field, being an indifferent middle-order batsman, a below-average leg spin bowler and an inattentive fieldsman. I share my study with two good friends, Johnny Bridges, who celebrated his sixteenth birthday just two weeks before mine, and George Nugent-Bull who will reach the age of sixteen next Monday. Johnny is slightly shorter than me but has a stockier frame and more hair on his chest – and round his cock! Like myself, Johnny has dark brown hair and similarly coloured eyes, unlike George, the third inhabitant of our study, who has inherited his blond hair and light blue eyes from his Swedish mother. Some fellows think that George has girlish features and he was cruelly teased when he first arrived here. However, whilst he is by nature a mild-mannered sort, who in normal circumstances wouldn't hurt a fly, George's undoubted prowess with his fists soon sends bullies flying. Unlike some other pretty boys, he is very able to fight off the unwanted attentions of predatory prefects in the dormitory, who often try to share his bed after lights out. We're much of a muchness as far as our studies go, though it should be noted that Johnny came top in history in last summer's examinations. Both my friends are in the Colts football team, Johnny at centre forward and George at outside left. Funnily enough, both chaps are also pretty useless on the cricket field, though Johnny did knock up thirty-seven in the traditional match against the Masters who play a team drawn from the Lower Sixth and Upper Fifth during the first week of the Autumn Term.
One other factor the three of us have in common is that we are all still awaiting, with increased impatience, the chance to practise the lessons learned from our biology teacher, Mr. Hawkins. Also those acts gleaned in far more interesting and greater detail from the issues of The Oyster, which Desmond Harvill, one of the most daring members of our class, smuggles into school every month inside copies of Hobbies Magazine For Boys. There is no physical reason preventing us from crossing this Rubicon into manhood, for all our parts are in excellent working order, except the absence of pretty girls who would be willing to assist us. Indeed, I can boast the thickest prick out of the entire fifth form, but alas, so far, like the others, my only experience has been of solitary frigging or in a tossing-off circle in the showers after a game of footer.
Incidentally, I don't think anyone really takes any notice of the Reverend 'Holy Joe' Jellicoe's monthly sermons about the evils of self-abuse. If there were any truth in his assertion that the habit causes blindness and softening of the brain, all the boys at the Albion Academy would be wearing glasses and how did our senior sixth formers manage to win seven places at Oxford and three at Cambridge last summer? Holy Joe may frighten the new boys, but I am certain that the truth lies in the articles by Doctor Jonathan, the medical adviser in The Oyster, who writes that the habit is entirely harmless and is as perfectly natural as getting a stiffie when looking at French postcards. When Johnny and George came into the study after tea to begin their homework, they found me writing my name and address in the front of this book. I explained to them how I planned to keep at least half an hour free every evening to record the important events of the day in its pages. (I really want that camera.) George clapped me on the shoulder and wished me luck. 'Rather you than me, old boy,' he grinned, as he looked over my shoulder at the wide expanse of blue-lined paper which I have to fill with my daily essays. 'I shouldn't really try to put you off, but even after making New Year resolutions, most people start writing their diaries on the first day of January and give up by the end of the month!' 'Ah, but I have an incentive to continue at least for the next seven weeks,' I replied. 'It'll certainly be a bit of a fag, but Uncle Robert has promised me a decent camera for Christmas if he's satisfied that I've made an entry every day in this blessed book. He says it will prove to be a wonderful aide memoire when I'm older.'
'“Memory is the diary we all carry about with us,'“ observed Johnny as he fished out his French dictionary and exercise book from his desk. 'That's what Uncle Robert said to me,' I remarked.
Johnny chuckled and went on: 'The phrase is not original, Henry, your uncle and I both borrowed it from Oscar Wilde. I'm pretty sure the line comes from The Importance of Being Earnest but, as my Mama says, now that poor old Oscar has been sent down for two years, no-one in Society will want to be reminded how they once fawned upon his every word.' 'I think Uncle Robert would agree with your Mama,' I replied with a smile, thinking of the snatch of conversation between two of Uncle's housemaids, I overheard on my last visit to Bacon Lodge, my uncle's country seat down in South Devon. 'What makes you say that?' asked George. I recounted the little story to them about how I was sitting in a high-backed chair in the library when the two girls came in to dust the shelves. As I was sitting facing the window, neither of them saw me – which was just as well because I was reading a book I'd found after climbing the little step-ladder which is kept in the corner of the room for purposes of reaching the top shelf. I had picked out Uncle Robert's secret copy of An Introduction to Fucking In The Eastern Style by Mustapha Pharte which was hidden behind a set of bound copies of The Field. I sat quietly, listening to the girls who were giggling about how if the coast was clear, Uncle Robert would pinch their bottoms when they walked by him.
'Sir Robert's a randy old goat, isn't he? Do you know that the other day he offered Millicent ten shillings if she would let him see her titties,' said Doris. Elsie laughed and said: 'As much as that? Why, I know for a fact that he only gave a gold sovereign to Maria, that pretty, new scullerymaid, for tossing him off. I happened to be looking out of the window of my room, which is just above the kitchen garden, when I heard Sir Robert say: “It's a very warm day, my dear, feel free to undo the top buttons of your blouse. You will feel far more comfortable and I shall enjoy seeing the swell of your luscious young bosoms.” 'Maria said impudently: “Oh, is that all you want to see, Sir Robert? If you would like to make it worth my while, I'll undo all the buttons and you can look at my titties.” '“Of course I will, you splendid little filly,” he growled and I could see the outline of his todger sticking out in his trousers as Maria quickly stripped off her blouse and pulled her underslip over her shoulders to stand bare- breasted in front of him. Her bosoms aren't as large as mine but they jutted out naughtily enough as she tweaked her titties between her fingers. 'Maria sat down on the bench and Sir Robert sat down next to her and kissed her as he cupped her bosoms in his hands. Then he muttered something that I could not hear into her ear and now
