Rupert Mountjoy - The Intimate Memoirs of an Edwardian Dandy, vol.III

Annabel also had the brilliant idea of asking George to bring a friend with him if he possibly could, as even such a stout hearted and well-endowed cocksman as he could not hope to satisfy six lusty young maidens. As luck would have it, his old school chum, Clive Hampstead (who later became renowned for his abilities to perform cunnilingus, until his marriage to a wealthy American heiress led him to settle in Chicago), lived not five miles away and was happy to join us in a riotous night of sucking and fucking about which I cannot tell you as at least one of the girls concerned is now the wife of a very important personage indeed and she would be horrified if her participation in this orgy of sensuality was ever made public.

I closed the book and stood up with a raging hard-on as I thought about how divine it would be to fuck the gorgeous Melissa Rotherwick who, as one could gauge from this graphic account of her first fuck, was obviously a generous and free-spirited girl. I made a mental note to check if by any chance her name appeared on the members' list of the Jim Jam Club before I met Henry Bascombe-Thomas there for luncheon. Reluctantly I decided against summoning Mary to be fucked or at least to frig or suck off my uncomfortably stiff cock. It was not only my earlier resolve to cease fucking servant girls which kept my thumb away from the bell, but also the thought that it would be sensible to give my prick a rest in case Henry and I were offered invitations to one of the wild private parties which certain ladies had taken to holding at the Club on weekday afternoons.

So I walked slowly round the room three times, emptying my mind of everything, except the question of how many books might be stacked on the shelves of this well-stocked library. In time, my attempt to solve this problem by assessing the approximate number of books on one average shelf and multiplying this figure by the number of shelves did the trick and my rampant stiffstander slowly subsided. I went into the hall and called Edwards to say that I would probably return around five o'clock but in the unlikely case of needing to speak to me urgently, he could contact me at the Jim Jam Club whose telephone number I scribbled on a sheet of paper and pressed into his hand.

Now as the rain which had pattered down earlier in the morning had subsided and enough patches of blue were visible through the clouds, I had planned to walk down to Great Windmill Street-but just as I strode away from the front door, a carriage drawn by two smartly attired black horses pulled up alongside me and a familiar voice called out to me. 'Hello there, young Rupert, can I give you a lift?'

I looked round to see the occupant of the carriage throw open the door. I walked across and squinted inside to see if I had correctly identified the owner of the rather fruity tones. And yes, I was right, for leaning against the expensive kid leather upholstery was the portly figure of Colonel Stanley Gooner formerly of the Ninth Punjab Rifles, a former comrade-in-arms of my father and one of my parents' oldest friends. The Colonel, in his early days, had won an award for gallantry whilst serving on the North West frontier in an incident that made headlines in the popular newspapers. After his patrol had been ambushed by the Pathans, he escaped, but returned dressed in the clothes of a native woman and in an audacious single-handed operation, he managed to rescue two captured colleagues whose pricks were about to be amputated (without even the benefit of anaesthetic) by a mob of angry Afghans. I am hazy as to exactly how he managed to place a pistol against the balls of the much-feared enemy commander, a bandit notorious for his brutality, but the stratagem worked and the then Captain Gooner was able to bargain successfully for the freedom of the prisoners and himself. Yet Colonel Gooner could never be described as a typical Army officer. He was a man of progressive political views and championed the rights of the indigenous people in a book about his time in India, published after he had left the services. I had always known him as a jolly, amiable old buffer, far removed, one must add, from those many retired Indian Army officers whose brains have perhaps been affected by the heat and dust of the sub-continent. Perhaps readers have come across these poor chaps themselves, the ones who spend their days writing obscure tracts on the Egyptian Pyramids in the reading rooms of public libraries, or travelling to meetings to propound some fanciful idea about a secret international conspiracy of one-legged freemasons or about the Welsh race being descended from one of the lost ten tribes of ancient Israel. 'Where are you off to, my boy?' enquired the Colonel genially. 'I have a luncheon appointment with a friend who I am meeting near Piccadilly Circus,' I said, a statement which, if not false, was certainly economical with the truth as I doubted whether Colonel Gooner would approve of the raffish Jim Jam Club. 'Climb aboard then, I'm going that way myself and it's no trouble whatsoever to drop you off wherever you want,' he said, and not wishing to offend, I complied with his instruction. The Colonel disliked the motor car and owned one of the few horse-driven carriages still to be seen around the West End of London. We lurched forward and then as I sank back against the soft, comfortable seat, one of the horses broke wind with a quite astonishing ferocity. 'Oh, pardon me,' said the Colonel, and though I should have contained myself, I replied, That's quite all right, sir. If you hadn't spoken I would have assumed it was the horse.' But all was well for Colonel Gooner laughed loudly and said, 'Good one, old boy, very good indeed! I must remember to recount your witty riposte at my Club. So how have you been spending your time off in old London town? Enjoying yourself to the full, I'll be bound, and why not for heaven's sake, you're only young once. Tell me though, you must have heard about this grand reception back home for His Majesty in which your father has been involved. I'll be there myself, as my wife's brother is a local landowner near Boroughbridge and he's also on the organising committee for the royal visit.'

He was most pleased when I told him that I was of course going back home for this important event. 'Excellent! Mrs. Gooner and I will look forward to seeing you there. We live in the country ourselves as you know, but so many of my old friends live in London that I must spend a couple of weeks here every so often to keep in touch with them.' We were clipping our way briskly down Shaftesbury Avenue when I called upon the driver to halt. 'I'll get off here, sir, if I may,' I said, shaking hands with the Colonel, 'and I look forward to seeing you again in York.' Little did I realise just how soon I would see him again-far, far sooner than I could have expected! I crossed the road and bought a button-hole from an itinerant flower seller. My sixpence was received with the usual blessings upon my head and I made my way up Great Windmill Street to the discreet entrance of the Jim Jam Club. Cripps was on duty and was eager to pick up any racing tips, but alas, I had heard nothing further from old Goldhill and was forced to disappoint the porter, who nevertheless passed to me the name of a horse Sir Harold Brown had given him as a good each-way bet in the two o'clock race at Chepstow that afternoon. 'It's a fast filly called Big Brenda, Mr. Mountjoy, and I reckon the odds won't be less than twelve to one. What do you think?' he asked me. 'Well now, Cripps,' I said carefully, 'you must be familiar with the old saying, “He who decides to bet each way/Lives to bet another day!” 'Sir Harold's gone through a lean patch lately and it's about time he picked a winner, so I'll risk a pound each way on Big Brenda.

Will you place the bet with Hymie Applebaum for me?' I gave Cripps two pound notes and sauntered upstairs to the bar. Although it was almost ten past one, there was no sign of Henry Bascombe-Thomas. I sat down and ordered a whisky and soda from a passing waiter and hoped that my absent-minded chum had not forgotten the appointment which he himself had asked me to keep with him. In fact my worry was unfounded for I had time only to pour the soda into my Scotch when I looked up to see Henry striding towards me. I stood up and greeted him. 'Hello, stranger, how nice to see you again,' I said warmly as we shook hands. 'A pleasure to see you, Rupert,' he responded, pumping my hand. 'I'm so pleased you were free for luncheon. It's been a long time since we broke bread together. To be exact, it would be a couple of days before I sailed for New York when you, Frank Folkestone and Prince Salman laid on a splendid farewell dinner for me at Romano's. So what's the news with you, Rupert? Neither of us wrote to each other as often as we should have done. But Frank Folkestone did mention in one of his letters that your Uncle Humphrey has provided you with the wherewithal for a year off doing very little indeed except fuck pretty girls, you lucky so-and-so! Or has some clever beauty managed to get you to put a ring on her finger?' I grinned and replied, 'No, though I've fingered quite a few rings since we last met! Still, whilst it's true that I'm taking a break from my studies, you've been to America, which is something I'd love to do. Have you had a rewarding time, Henry? Have you painted much yourself? And what brings you back to Britain?' 'I'll answer your questions in reverse order,' he said with a smile, as we rose and walked into the dining-room where we were seated at one of the best tables overlooking the busy street below. I came back simply because my course with Professor Sidney Cohen ended and there was no further need for me to stay in New York. 'And I do still paint, but only for my own pleasure. I now know and accept my limitations, Rupert, which are-well, those of a talented amateur and not a gifted professional.