Aurora Crusade is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The expressions of contempt by characters in the story for politicians and others are indicative of the author's admittedly biased opinion of certain historical characters and events.
While there is no sex between anyone in this chapter, the author reminds his readers that the story is set in 1976 and unprotected sex was commonplace. Please, dear readers, always protect yourselves. The life you save may be your own.
I would be remiss if I did not mention to all who read my works if I did not mention the recent AIDS Conference held in my home city. Hope has been offered in many areas and while progress is slow, there is progress. The author has long been a staunch, unremitting proponent of routine circumcision (except for ethnic, or religious) reasons. It was reported at the Conference that study after study has shown positively that male circumcision reduces the risk of contracting AIDS, and other STDs, by 50%, perhaps more. It was delight to hear the UN Ambassador, Steven Lewis, urge that circumcision be once again routine in every country. Do not, dear friends, let the strong and ill-informed lobby against this practice sway you. Do not let me sway you. Check it our for yourselves. Be informed and give the gift of life to your sons.
The author fully expects that he will be the recipient of multiple e-mails, filled with bile and misinformation from the uninformed. Please don't bother send him a snarky e-mail. You will not change his mind, or his determination to promote RIC. Those of you who salivate over "the intact male" are urged to read the stories on Nifty, 90% of which seem to be replete with sex and foreskins. Enjoy and leave me alone.
I will respond to all e-mails, except flames, and anti-circ Nazis. If you don't like what I write, please find an author you do enjoy reading.
As my stories contain scenes of graphic sex between males, if reading, downloading or accessing sites containing descriptions of homosexual sex between males is illegal where you live, or if you are not of legal age to access such sites, please move on. Of course, you will be missing out on a cracking good story, but I have to add the caveats.
Copyright 2006 by John Ellison
Aurora Crusade
Chapter Three
Every Grand Hotel has one, frequently under the auspices of a man or woman whose social credentials and knowledge are impeccable and vast, and very often members of families of culture and breeding that have fallen on hard times. The office has many names, more often than not the Protocol Office.
The Protocol Office of the Chateau Frontenac was located just off the main lobby of the hotel, and the high windows overlooked the Dufferin Terrace. The office was large because it had to be large, given the nature of the business conducted therein. There were three desks, a fax machine, a Teletype machine, and bank after bank of wooden, four-drawer filing cabinets. In the cabinets were yellowing newspaper cuttings, faded reports written long before the present employees had been born, and lists, lists of names and lists of contacts. Lists detailing likes and dislikes of every person of consequence or celebrity who had ever stayed at a CP hotel, lists containing the names of every man or woman who had ever kited a cheque at the hotel's expense, or absconded in the dark of night without settling the reckoning. It was all there, in those wooden cabinets.
The Canadian Pacific Railway had long prided itself on its ability to carry passengers in comfort, and luxury, not only from coast to coast, but across vast oceans. Before the advent of the airplane, a traveller could, if he or she so chose, board the Boat Train in London and travel in cosseted comfort to Southampton, there to board one of the "Empresses", handsome, white painted, four-funnelled "de grande-luxe" steamships, that would carry them to Quebec City, or Montreal. After dallying in one of the line's own hotels, the Chateau in Quebec City or the Windsor in Montreal, a traveller could then board one of the all-Pullman coaches and travel across the Dominion stopping, if time was not a factor, at yet another large hotel, breaking the ennui and boredom of trans-Continental train travel. Arrived in Vancouver one could then, if the mood was on one, board yet another high-funnelled, white painted liner for Oriental climes, Hong Kong, Singapore, Shanghai or Canton. CP served them all.
The CP liners were famous for their comfort, and the luxury of their appointments. Nothing was left to chance and everything was provided. A passenger knew that he would be well taken care of, for the Purser's Office would have received a list from the London booking office. The stewards and cabin boys would know everything that was needed to be known about every first class passenger, who travelled with a staff of ten, who was eccentric and insisted on bringing along a pet snake, or a ferret! The staff would know who drank to excess, and not too infrequently saw strange visions when they did, and that the lady travelling with a gentleman occupying one of the grand suites on the promenade deck, listed as his "secretary", was more than a typist. But it mattered not at all. The watchwords were service and the comfort of the passengers and if a gentleman wished to travel with a lady who was not his wife, well, it was really nobody's business but their own - and the wife's, of course. The staff heard all, saw all, and prided themselves on saying nothing.
The gathering of information did not stop when the passenger strode up the gangplank. In London, in Montreal, in Ottawa, sharp-eyed clerks scanned newspapers and listened to the whispers of polite society. Each ship, and each hotel, could communicate with the others and a wireless message would be sent. Some of the information was destined for publication in the ship's newspaper, or the small information sheets handed out at breakfast at the hotels or on the cross-country trains. Sometimes the information was confidential, usually concerning a death, or a fatal loss on the markets. This information was kept back, and never discussed.
Sometimes, however, the information made a man's career. Ships' stewards pined for the day when they might be the first to impart joyous tidings to their passengers. Every steward knew of the First Class steward who had, by chance, scanned the newspaper delivered every morning to the passengers on board RMS Aquitania. What he read caused him to smile with delight and when he entered the bedroom of Sir Joseph Duveen, at the time the foremost dealer in fine arts, he greeted him as "Lord Duveen". "Sir" Joseph had been raised to the Peerage (as Baron Duveen of Millbank) and his pleasured surprise at his not unexpected elevation gave rise to a lordly gesture, a tip so large that the steward was able to retire to a small pub in Hampshire.
To ensure that nothing was left to chance and that every guest's slightest whim was catered to, CP Hotels employed a small legion of "Protocol" officers, men and women who had been raised in the old traditions, who paid attention to detail, and who knew intimately the foibles of those who used the hotel facilities. These employees came primarily from the ranks, for there was no formal training. There were no university courses teaching an aspiring Protocol Officer how to liaise between the front of the house, the Catering Department, the Housekeeping Department, the hotel florist or the restaurant manager. One learned by doing, as the saying went.
The sun had barely risen to brighten the grey waters of the St. Lawrence River when the Protocol Officer of the Chateau Frontenac entered her cramped office. She always started work early, for there were overnight telegrams and cables to be read, the social pages of the newspapers to be scanned for tidbits of information, not to mention a document that demanded her closest attention: the day's arrivals list. She did not expect any surprises for she was informed well in advance of the hotel's bookings, of who would be arriving, who would be departing, who had booked the ballroom and convention rooms and who had made reservations for luncheon or dinner in the restaurant.
As was her habit, Hélène Marie Antoinette, Comptesse d'Enghien, started her day with a large mug of coffee and a cigarette. Madame la Comptesse, as the rest of the Staff called her, never varied her routine. The first hours as dawn crept over the Eastern shore were reserved for coffee, cigarettes, and thinking of ways to please arriving guests.
As she always did, Madame quickly scanned the register, smiling tightly in relief. Not one of the names set alarm bells to ringing. There were no American, or worse, English pop stars due to arrive anytime soon, always accompanied by a horde of unwashed, evil-smelling attendants and over-painted young females of doubtful morality. There were no politicians, huffing and puffing, filled with their own self-importance and trying to impress everyone with their dubious importance. Sadly, at least in Madame's opinion, no there was no Royalty due to arrive any time soon. Madame did so love the Royals, who never put on airs and asked for so very little.
As she languidly smoked her cigarette, Madame allowed herself a brief moment of retrospection. The times had changed and she yearned for the old days, when a Lady was a Lady, a Lord a Lord, and the great unwashed were confined to the inns and low dives of the Lower Town. Now anyone with a modicum of celebrity, and a healthy bank balance could, and sadly did, book rooms in what was arguably the finest hotel in the Dominion.
Shuddering, Madame allowed the thought that she had seen it all. She had spent all of her working life catering to the sometimes outrageous demands of ill-bred, little people whom fame and fortune had thrust onto the stage of life.
She had begun her career in the Paris Ritz, as a secretary, recently graduated from the Sorbonne. From Paris she had gone to London, first at the Ritz there, then at Claridge's. As her reputation had grown the offers of employment became more tempting. She had paid her dues - not a phrase she herself would use - and she answered the Syren call of the New World, accepting a most generous offer from CP Hotels, and rejecting a much more generous offer from CN, who also managed a string of hotels. Madame was a snob at heart, and CN Rail, in her opinion, was always more about goods wagons than passenger carriages, and the lobby of their "Flagship Hotel", the Royal York Hotel in Toronto, resembled more the main booking hall of the city's Union Station that it did the reception desk at the Ritz.
Dismissing all thought of CN Rail from her mind, Madame idly glanced at the list and noticed three names marked with a small asterisk. This was a heads up to all departments and denoted "Importance" with a capital "I".
The first name, Catherine Leveson-Arundel, produced a slight arching of Madame's left eyebrow. Her retentive memory began to produce information and both eyebrows rose. Mrs. Arundel, as she preferred to be called, was much more than just the wife of an Associate Justice of the Supreme Court of Canada. Madame rose from her desk, her mind working, and reached into a file cabinet. The Leveson-Arundels were hardly nonentities, and Madame remembered something about roses. She found the file she was looking for and read quickly.
To say that Catherine Arundel was well-connected was an understatement. The family was listed not only in Debrett's, but also in the Almanach de Gotha. A quick perusal of both volumes showed that Mrs. Arundel was also related to the Cambridges, once Tecks, and was related to the Windsors, albeit cousins three or four times removed, through Queen Mary. Madame la Comptesse smiled broadly. Royalty! Well, minor Royalty, but Royalty nevertheless. There would be no demands for jeroboams of Dom Perignon in the loo - not that the Royals actually drank the vastly overrated wine. The Queen preferred Pol Roger. There would be no requests for five-pound tins of Iranian caviar, which the hotel always served set in a crystal bowl of crushed ice and with toast points, chopped hardboiled egg, and chopped onions. Caviar, while the most delicious of delicacies, was much too expensive, and "much too grand for us", and Madame la Comptesse had it on the best authority that the black, salted roe was only served once a year at Windsor, at New Year's, when the Shah of Iran sent a tin to usher in the new year.
Madame noted the next name. Mrs. Mary Putnam Randolph was as well-connected as Mrs. Arundel, being related by birth and marriage not only to the Levesons, but also to the Putnams of South Carolina, and the Lees and Randolphs of Virginia. A very impressive lineage, Madame la Comptesse allowed archly.
Mrs. Randolph also had a connection with CP ships. Her husband, a Lieutenant Colonel in the Medical Corps, had been on board the CP liner Empress of Asia when she attempted to run the Japanese blockade of Singapore, in February 1942. Laden with military equipment and 2,235 troops, the ship had been bombed by Japanese aircraft and set afire. With no hope of saving the three-funnelled beauty, her Captain, J.B. Smith, had ordered her abandoned. Amongst the 1,804 survivors had been Lieutenant Colonel Randolph. When Singapore surrendered he was imprisoned in Changi Jail, labouring without medicines or equipment to save as many of the thousands of British, Indian, and Australian prisoners' lives as he could. He was later sent to tend to the labourers working on the Singapore to Bangkok railway, where he died, of cholera.
Madame la Comptesse also noted that there had been a son, a subaltern with the Canadian Scottish Regiment (Princess Mary's). He had gone ashore at Normandy, and had been one of the first casualties.
"Poor woman," Madame la Comptesse thought sympathetically, to lose a husband and an only son so tragically.
She turned to the next name on the list and paused. Mrs. Mabell Airlie. She searched her mind and suddenly she remembered. Mabell Airlie was no common "Mrs." She was, in fact, Lady Mabell Airlie, the wife of the third son of the Earl of Airlie, who was an "Honourable", and the daughter of daughter of a Scottish duke who claimed descent from the Stuarts. She was also a widow, her husband having drowned when German E-boats had torpedoed HMCS Athabaskan, the "Unlucky Lady", in the English Channel. She had also lost a son when HMCS Esquimalt had been torpedoed in the dying days of the war, just outside Halifax Harbour.
Faced with such formidable ladies, Madame had then to decide what would please them. Mere rooms were out of the question. While there had been no specific demands, Madame tried to place herself in say, Mrs. Arundel's position. Catherine Arundel was a mother (of twin boys) and lived in a large house in the most exclusive area of Vancouver, British Columbia. While this in itself gave no hint of how Mrs. Arundel actually lived, the fact that she was travelling with a group of boys - Sea Cadets - and not with a maid, led Madame to believe that less would be best. Unlike the Americans, who seemed forever determined to show off their wealth and possessions, Madame la Comptesse had long since learned that true aristocrats did the opposite. She would therefore instruct the front desk and Housekeeping to prepare one of the less ostentatious suites for the ladies. The hotel florist would need to be consulted. As a renowned rose fancier, Mrs. Arundel would, at least so Madame thought, appreciate some floral arrangements. Simple arrangements, Madame emphasized on her note pad, with only the finest blossoms the flower shop could provide being incorporated.
Madame then noted that the party was in Québec City to attend a funeral in Ste Anne de Beaupré. Being ladies of a certain age and generation, Madame la Comptesse assumed, correctly, that after travelling across the country Mrs. Arundel and her ladies would want to change into appropriate attire, black, perhaps mauve or violet frocks, depending on the degree of relationship to the deceased. Wondering sort of a funeral bring so large a party to travel from Vancouver to Québec City, Madame consulted the newspapers. She scanned first the Quebec Chronicle-Telegraph, printed and English and favoured by the city's small, but important English oligarchy. The only funeral of note to be held that day was for a young man who had died in a traffic accident. The Chronicle-Telegraph did note that the young man had been the nephew of Le Général, a man so important that the Prime Minister, the Cardinal and a host of provincial politicians were also attending.
Quite deliberately Madame la Comptesse sniffed disparagingly. Le Général might be important to some, but so far as she was concerned he was little more than a jumped up corporal who had managed to finesse incompetence and political acumen into power. Madame did not care for the man at all.
She next consulted Le Soleil de Québec, which was published in French, and much favoured by the canaille. Le Soleil had given a much broader report. The dead young man was the Le Général's nephew, Sylvain de Beauharnais, who, returning from a visit to his uncle's estate outside of Ste Anne, had missed a turn on the highway to the airport and crashed. Madame tsked slightly. Young men and fast motorcars sometimes did not mix. She then noted that Sylvain had been a Sea Cadet, which explained why a large party of them would be attending the funeral.
Knowing the general's reputation as she did, Madame la Comptesse wondered cynically just how much of the funeral was devoted less to bereavement and more to political advantage. Not that it mattered to her. She had much more important things to think about. She would need to consult with the Concierge, the better to arrange dressers for the ladies and valets for the male members of the party. She would also consult with Catering. A small tray of sandwiches, along with the drinks tray would simply not do. Ladies of a certain age did not bolt down a quick snort in the middle of the afternoon, well most ladies didn't! Tea, Madame la Comptesse thought suddenly, and the hotel's best silver service. What kind of tea? Did the ladies drink Indian, or China tea? Would the hotel's blend be good enough? Perhaps it would be best if she stopped by her tiny sitting room and fetch the jade tea caddy - always locked - containing her special blend of Darjeeling and China teas that Twinings made up for her in London. At six guineas the pound it was wickedly expensive, which was why the tea caddy was kept in a bow-front, glass vitrine, also locked.
As she left her office and walked toward the Staff Quarters, Madame la Comptesse decided to use the tea. It was a small expense, after all, and who knew what benefits a few scoops of tea might bring?
While Commander Stockman attended to the checking in procedures at the front desk, and Madame la Comptesse, three bellhops and the Concierge escorted the ladies to their rooms, Chef asked for, and was immediately granted access to, a conference room. Here he gathered all of the young knights, including Andy and Kyle. Colin followed if only out of curiosity.
Clearing his throat, and hitching up his trousers, Chef tried to look stern and official. He harrumphed loudly, and growled, "Now then, I've a few words to say to the whole of you!"
"That will be the day," Cory muttered out of the side of his mouth to Sean.
Ignoring Cory, Chef glared. "I have it in me mind that the last time we were all gathered together in a caravansary, certain young Sea Cadets, who shall remain nameless . . ."
"In a pig's eye," mumbled Ray to Kevin. "That old bugger will name names if it suits his purpose!"
"I thought he never remembers names," replied Kevin, who was sitting next to Ray. "Look how he acted with the Litany of the Saints!"
Ray snorted. "The old poop remembers everything! He just pretends to forget!"
Kevin, who also remembered every detail of what had happened in the pool of the Admiralty Court Motel in Victoria, smiled. "I remember that I got the grope of a lifetime," he whispered, grinning widely at Ray.
Ray's eyes narrowed. "Not from me you didn't and . . ."
"Keep silence in the ranks!" roared Chef, which caused Randy to jump and Kyle to snicker. "There will be no displays of little boy fundamentals!" Chef blustered. "No removing of underpants or swimming costumes, no . . ."
"The Japanese tourists didn't mind," offered Joey. "They took pictures!"
"Somewhere in Japan there is a shrine dedicated to the Pride of the Fleet!" boasted Harry. "Thousands come to look in awe on one of God's greatest creations!"
"I've seen it and I don't look in awe!" returned Fred.
"The light was bad that day," said Todd. "You should see the pictures we took on the sailing trip!"
"What pictures?" demanded Nate in a whisper. "You guys took pictures of . . ."
"Hopefully they'll fade," grumbled The Phantom sourly.
"Not before I get a look at 'em," said Colin.
"Enough!" roared Chef. "You'll be keeping your pants on this day! I'll have no little cadet bums flashing in the corridors!" He glared again. "You'll be the morals of decorum or as sure as the only snakes in Ireland have two legs and belong to the IRA I'll find me cleaver, so I will!"
"You didn't pack it," The Phantom reminded Chef.
"Because we hid it," whispered Joey. "And his spoon."
Seeing that he was getting absolutely nowhere fast, Chef changed tack. "Think of Sylvain! Have you no respect for the dead?" Nobody paid him the slightest bit of attention.
"He was pretty pissed off when we stole his bathing suit," returned Two Strokes. He nudged Harry in the ribs. "And those girls sure liked what they saw!"
"Boy could have been a contender," replied Harry with a sage nod. "Had good form and decent escorts, but would have needed a refit."
A loud thump resounded throughout the small room. "Silence!" Chef wailed. "Heathens! One of our own is lying cold and dead in a dark sepulchre and the whole of you are taking the mock!"
For a moment Andy was tempted to intervene, and then thought, no. Chef was a sly old bird and realized, as Andy did also, that in an hour or so that a large group of teenage males would face, probably for the first time in their young lives . . . death. They would not see death as Andy had seen it, in all its horror and gore. These young men would see death cleaned up, painted and powdered, and dressed in a suit. Yet it was still death and the finality of it all had yet to sink in.
Andy knew that Sylvain had never been popular, in some cases, downright disliked. But he had been, as Chef had said, "One of our own" and would always be remembered as such. Chef realized that it was far better to have a happy memory than to recall the sadness, the anger, and the dislike that Sylvain had generated. Chef was doing what Andy had seen done in Vietnam, gathering the lads to a last farewell for a fallen brother.
In Vietnam, after the body bags had been loaded on the Huey and the broken bodies taken away, the survivors had gathered together to begin the grieving process. Some of the guys Andy had served with had been bastards in every sense of the word. One or two had been psychopaths who had killed easily and died hard. Most had been ordinary Joes who just wanted to go home. Yet they were all part of those who had survived, those who had been left behind. They needed to be remembered, not only by their loved ones back home, but also by their comrades and buddies. They needed to be mourned and said goodbye to. They needed to be talked about, laughed about, and admired, sometimes, excoriated, sometimes, but sent on the first steps to whatever awaited them beyond the bright light. There were no bottles of PX bourbon, or joints of locally grown weed that the hooch boys peddled openly, no impenetrable jungles beyond the barbed wire, no remorseless heat, no monkeys screaming simian obscenities in the distance.
In the end the boys would remember the Sylvain of today, the Sylvain they reminisced about today, and not the arrogant French Canadian boy of yesterday.
Upstairs, in the large two-bedroom suite, the ladies bathed and prepared for the coming funeral. Madame la Comptesse hovered, supervising as the maids assigned to the rooms rushed off with the dresses the ladies would wear, and watched as the hotel's resident hairdresser tidied up the ladies' hair. When he was finished both he and Madame left so that the ladies could dress in peace.
Assisted by one of the hotel maids, Catherine Arundel dressed in a black, crepe de chine, knee length frock and then, thanking the maid, sat at the dressing table and laid out the jewels she would wear. Nothing too flashy, of course. There were certain rules and she chose first a double strand of pearls. Next came diamond and pearl earrings. Her hand hesitated over a lover's knot broach of diamonds and she wondered . . . over the dress she would where a matching surcoat. While black was proper and decorous, a spot of colour was needed. She picked up another broach and rejected it. A glint of colour caught her eye and she reached into the jewel case.
There was a light tapping on the bedroom door and Mary Randolph entered, bearing a large silver tray on which sat the tea things. She smiled at Catherine. "A cup of tea, dear?"
Nodding, Catherine turned and regarded her friend. Mary Randolph had also chosen black, although her frock was of ancient cut and design, the hem extending to mid-calf. Smiling, Catherine nodded and extended her hand, offering for inspection another broach. "Not too much, do you think," she asked.
Mary regarded the broach, an Edwardian masterpiece set in gold with a cabochon emerald surrounded by diamonds set in silver filigree, the better to display the white stones and with a pendant tear-drop emerald. She regard the piece and nodded, "Very nice, and not at all too much," she said. She then set about pouring the tea.
Catherine regarded her friend carefully. Mary was usually a most loquacious woman. Now she was uncharacteristically quiet. Something was bothering the older woman. "Out with it, Mary," Catherine demanded gently.
"Why, Catherine, out with what?" Mary returned. She took a sip of the fresh poured tea. "This is actually quite nice. A careful blend of teas, Darjeeling, and Chinese, I think and . . ."
"May!" came Catherine's gentle voice, although the word was touched with crystal and Catherine only used Mary's babyhood name when she knew something was bothering her.
Sighing, Mary carefully placed the cup of tea on the table beside her chair and sighed. "It's Blake," she whispered.
Catherine knew that so far as Mary Randolph was concerned the sun rose and set on her youngest grandnephew. Blake, in Mary's eyes, could do no wrong. Catherine's eyebrows rose slightly. She had a very good idea as to what was bothering her friend. "One hesitates to interfere, but I am here, Mary, if you wish it."
Shaking her head slightly, Mary regarded Catherine with dewy eyes. "Oh, Catherine, however did you manage? However did you come to understand about your boys . . ." Her voice trailed off and she shook her head. "What will I say when his mother finds out? She is such a flibbertigibbet!"
"She is a vacuous, empty-headed piece of fluff and why Dolly ever married her I shall never know," returned Catherine. She did not care for Mary's niece, the wife of her eldest nephew, Adolphus, who for some reason was always called "Dolly".
Mary, who was not fond of her niece, had to nod her agreement. "Dolly will be all right, I think, but . . ."
Catherine decided to take the bull by the horns. "Is this about Blake and what happened in Michael Chan's library?"
Mary started. "You know?" she asked, surprised.
"Mary, I have eyes, and I saw Blake after he'd been to see Michael's 'etchings'." She was very blunt. "And I've seen that look before."
This was the first time that Catherine Arundel had ever admitted anything remotely connected to her sons' sexuality. "Blake is a fine young man and even if something happened between young Matthew Chan and him, they did it with discretion." She fixed her gaze on Mary. "They harmed no one, and obviously they enjoyed each other's company." She saw Mary about to protest and held up her hand, her wedding rings glistening in the sunlight pouring through the windows of the suite. "The boy, Matthew Chan, is a sweet young man, and very good looking. I can see why Blake would be attracted to him."
Mary Randolph for the first time in her life was at a loss for words. She stared openly at Catherine.
"Mary, dear, I do not mean to be rude, but Blake is at an age when he knows what he prefers. It is difficult to understand, but there it is. One learns to accept, and live with it. I know I did."
Mary shakily reached for her comforting cup of tea. "But, Catherine, I don't know . . . what will people say? I never saw anything that would make me think . . ."
Wordlessly, Catherine rose from her seat and gestured toward the sofa. "Come and sit with me, Mary," she said quietly.
They sat together and Catherine took Mary's hands in hers. "Mary," she said presently, "I have lived with the fact that both of my boys are homosexual for many years." She smiled wanly. "At first I was shocked, unable to understand why they were the way they were. The first thought that came into my head was, 'what had I done wrong? What had Bertie done wrong?'"
"But you had done nothing wrong," protested Mary.
"Of course we hadn't," replied Catherine. "We raised our boys the best we could and while we expected that there would be a closeness between them - they are twins, after all - we never thought that they would be . . . well, taking their closeness ever closer."
"You saw nothing?" asked Mary, slightly doubtful. She knew Cory and Todd well.
"What was I supposed to see?" asked Catherine. She then realized what Mary meant. "You must not look to stereotypes, Mary," she admonished. "Neither Cory nor Todd played with dolls, or dressed in frilly little frocks. They were typical boys! They fought like demons, and still do, growled when I insisted that they learn how to play the piano, or made them attend some dreary tea when all they wanted to do was be outside playing football, or swimming. They were grubby when I let them, and did what boys do, littering the front hall with their sports gear and forgetting to take a bath, or leaving their dirty pants in corners of their room."
"But still you knew," suggested Mary. She fiddled with her pearls, embarrassed.
"A mother knows," confirmed Catherine. She thought a moment. "But, being a mother, I refused to believe. After Cory's unfortunate incident in Stanley Park I thought it perfectly normal that he would want to be with Todd. Todd had protected him, saved him from that horrible pervert, after all, and they were brothers! Twin brothers, with all the affection and closeness that twins seem to have.
"I will not deny that at first I dismissed their sleeping together as something they wanted to do, as, what shall I call it, mutual protection? No matter. Later, of course, I knew that they were, well, to be perfectly frank, pleasuring each other."
"What did you do?" asked Mary.
"I denied it," replied Catherine with a slight smile. "My sons could not be homosexual. My sons were going through puberty and like all boys, curious, and through their curiosity were experimenting with life." She shrugged expressively. "I also though that they were just going through a phase, that it would pass."
"But it didn't," murmured Mary.
"No. Later, as they grew older, one or the other would bring home a special friend. They were always nice boys, Mary, and hardly looking like sex maniacs. All of them, and there were not that many, I knew, and I accepted the excuses I was given. They were there to study, or to write an essay. I ignored the locked doors and the flushed faces when the came downstairs." She did not think it necessary to tell Mary that one of those 'special boys' had been Blake Putnam Randolph.
Noticing that she still had the emerald broach in her hand, Catherine smiled thinly. "Bertie's mother gave me this as a wedding present. She had it from her husband's mother and I had hoped, at one time, to give it to my first daughter-in-law." She sighed heavily. "Now, of course, the odds are not good that I shall never have one!"
Not knowing what to say, Mary patted Catherine's hand sympathetically.
"When I finally came to terms with my sons' homosexuality, I considered what I should do next," continued Catherine. "Should I have Bertie quote sulphur and brimstone at them? Should I ignore it altogether? Should I send them to some therapist who would no doubt have mixed up their minds even further? I adore my boys, Mary, and I am their mother."
"So what did you do?" queried Mary carefully.
"I remained their mother," replied Catherine simply. "I cannot change what they are, and to be truthful, I wouldn't want to."
"What?"
Catherine smiled at Mary. "You think that Blake has had an affair de coeur with one of Michael Chan's nephews?"
"More than affair," whispered Mary, who like many women of her age and generation found it difficult to acknowledge something as base as sex, between either sexes.
"All right, they had sex," supplied Catherine, who never prevaricated or tried to hide the truth in platitudes and clichés. "Tell me, afterward, had Blake changed?"
"Well, I . . ."
"Did he grow horns? Perhaps a tail?" Catherine's voice was calm, and edged with humour. "Did he strut through the house waving his kilt in the air? Did he run upstairs and carve a notch on the bedpost?"
Mary shrank back, appalled. How could Catherine Arundel, her greatest friend, verbalize such things? "Catherine," she gasped as her hand clutched her dress just over her heart. "Catherine!"
Despite her efforts, Catherine laughed quietly. "Well? Did he change?"
Mary stared at her friend a moment, looked thoughtful a moment, and then shook her head. "Why, no, not that I could see."
"Of course not!" Catherine replied firmly. "He was the same Blake after he went into the library as he was before he went in! And so were my boys. They still played sports, they still fought each other at the drop of a hat, they went off to school, they littered the house, ignored Bertie and me when the mood was on them and so on. They might have been with another boy, had sex with another boy, but they had not changed! They were still Cory and Todd! Their sexuality had nothing to do with their character."
Before May could reply to Catherine's gentle tirade, they heard a soft footstep and looked up to see Mabell Airlie standing in the doorway leading from the second bedroom of the suite.
As Mabell crossed the short distance between the doorway and the sofa on which they were seated neither Catherine nor Mary noticed that she held something tightly clenched in her hand.
Mabell settled herself in the chair opposite the other two women, and then smiled. "Well, here we are, three old frumps dressed in black, trying to solve the unsolvable." Her words were crisp, clear, and formed of crystal-like tones that only those born to the manor possessed.
Catherine looked at Mary, who looked at Mabell, and then asked, "Whatever are you on about?"
Mabell fixed Mary with a direct and purpose-filled look. "Mary, you are my dearest friend, and I care for you deeply, but you are a silly old woman!"
Mary blanched, and managed, "I beg your pardon!"
"You are a silly old woman," repeated Mabell with the bluntness of age and friendship. "One could not help overhear, so one was not eavesdropping." She shrugged. "You have both been blessed beyond measure, yet you sit here, whingeing and questioning the very things you should be down on your knees thanking God for!" Her voice grew sad as she continued, "I would give anything, everything I have, and more, just to be in your position and I would thank God everyday for the privilege!"
Once again Catherine and Mary exchanged looks. "Mabell, dear, is there, is there something wrong?" asked Catherine.
"Yes, damn it, there is!" exclaimed Mabell, shocking the other two ladies. Mabell never swore. She ignored the shocked looks on the faces of her friends and continued. "Why are you questioning when you should be rejoicing? What does it matter that Blake has found a young man that he cares for, that he wishes to share his love with?" she demanded.
"It might just be his lust!" retorted Mary, who had never, in all the years she had known Mabell Airlie, seen her so . . . agitated.
"If that is what you think then you do not know him at all!" snapped Mabell, clearly angry. "What is worse is that you do not know the character of the boy you have made your surrogate son! You do not know it at all." Mabell stuck out her chin and all but glared at Mary.
Catherine, surprised at Mabell's outburst, quickly stepped in. "Mabell, there is something you are not telling us," she queried gently.
"In a moment, Catherine," Mabell replied. One again she looked at Mary Randolph. "Blake is a sweet boy, as fine a young man as I have ever known. He does not give his heart easily."
"I hardly think . . ." interrupted Mary.
"What you think is of no importance," snapped Mabell. "Now, I wish to speak, so please have the courtesy of allowing me to continue!"
Mary's jaw dropped at her friend's bluntness. She did not reply, and merely nodded her head.
Mabel extended her hand. As she opened it she revealed, resting in the palm, a ring, a gold ring set with a table-cut ruby of fine quality. "When the time comes I shall give this ring to Blake. It is a legacy from a knight, who is dead these many years, to a Knight yet to be."
Catherine immediately recognized the ring. Her eyes widened for she knew that it was a ring no woman could ever wear. It was a ring given only after much thought and care. It was the ring of a Knight of the Sovereign and Noble Order of Saint John of the Cross of Acre!
"Mabell . . . where . . . how did you come by that ring?" Catherine asked when she had regained a small measure of control.
"I will tell, but first . . ." Mabell regarded Mary. "You have asked for signs where there are none," she said calmly. "Where you should have seen love, you saw lust, debasing the character of the boy you love above all others. Instead of rejoicing in his happiness you ask, 'what will people say?' Will you ask the same question, see only lust, when Blake calls with his new love and introduces him to you as that love? Will you throw away Blake's affection and respect for you and reject him because he hasn't measured up to your standards by daring to fall in love with a boy?"
Flustered, Mary simply waved her hand. "It is all so . . . strange, so very strange."
"Why is it strange?" demanded Mabell. "Do you think that Blake will be the only young man who has the courage to bring home to those he loves the young man he wishes to spend his life with?" She glanced at Catherine. "Cory has brought home his young man, has he not?"
Catherine thought of Sean Anderson and nodded. "He was introduced to me at the Passing Out Parade, in Aurora, actually," responded Catherine.
"When they look at each other, do you see love, or lust? Are they friends as well as lovers? Did they just jump into bed and slake their passion or are they content just to be with each other?"
Catherine could not stifle the giggle that rose. "I cannot say anything about the bed part," she said, sniggering. "But yes, I do see love." She thought a moment. "It must be love if poor Sean puts up with Cory!"
"Cory is a determined, stubborn young man," replied Mabell. "But then, you know that. 'Poor Sean' is the boy that Cory intends on spending the rest of his life with. You accept that and knowing you, you will do everything to make their lives happy."
"And I would not?" snapped Mary, unknowingly rising to Mabell's bait.
"It seems to me that you are uncomfortable with Blake's relationship with the young Chan boy," returned Mabell sharply. "Is it because the boy is Chinese? Would you feel more comfortable if he were white?"
Mary started, for Mabell had touched a nerve. "I . . .I . . ." She could not deny the truth. "Yes, I suppose that is a part of it," she admitted.
Catherine gasped. "Mary! How could you?" she demanded. "Michael Chan has been so good to us, to you! How could you even think that one of his cousins is not good enough for Blake?"
For a long time Mary remained silent. Then she answered, "It is wrong of me to think it, and I know the good that is in Michael Chan . . ." She reached out and clutched Catherine's hand tightly. "God forgive me for allowing an old prejudice, that I thought had died years ago, to cloud my vision. I care for Michael, I really do, and am ashamed of what I was thinking. It was just, just so sudden! First Blake's falling in love, and then the realization that he'd fallen in love with a young Chinese boy . . . Everything crowded in. My mind was in turmoil! I didn't know what to think!"
Mabell sniffed loudly. "Blake is your universe, your sun, your moon!" she opined firmly. "And because he is your life you reacted much the same way I did when Georgie brought home his special young man!"
Both Catherine and Mary stared. Neither had known Mabell's son, George, for he had died in the war before Mabell had come into their lives.
Catherine was the first to recover. "Georgie was . . ."
Mabell nodded, "Yes, much to my surprise." She smiled softly. "There were no 'signs'. He never gave any indication that he might love another boy. All I saw was a big lummox in football gear cluttering up my drawing room! He had friends, of course, but none that he was truly close to." She shrugged. "I suppose there was an element of sex in his friendships, but he certainly never showed any signs of falling in love."
"How did you . . . what happened?" asked Catherine.
"Well, after Hubert was killed at Dieppe, Georgie was champing at the bit to join up. At first I refused to let him - he was my only child, my son, after all, and I didn't want to lose him. He ranted and raged and we had several cracking rows and finally I realized that he needed to be a part of the war, so I gave my permission. The next thing I knew there he was, all puffed up looking like a peacock, wearing his Navy uniform! Then he was off to King's College for training."
A wistful look came over Mabell's face. "He wrote every week and although I thought nothing of it, he began to mention one name in his letters constantly. It seemed that they were not only roommates, but did everything together. At first I put it down to the natural male bonding that occurs in any military environment."
Both Catherine and Mary nodded, for they knew that the military deliberately fostered camaraderie and the spirit of Nelson's Band of Brothers.
". . . Well, it was Antoine this, and Antoine that, and I thought how wonderful it was that Georgie had found someone he could care for, someone he considered a brother. Of course, later on, I knew that his feelings went far beyond 'brotherhood'." She became emotional now. "After he had finished his course, and was posted, Georgie came home on leave. He brought his young man with him. His name was Antoine Christophe Louis Reynaud and he was the damndest piece of man flesh I'd seen in years!"
Mabell heard the shocked gasps that came from her friends. "Well he was! He was tall, and blond, had the body of an Adonis and spoke with the most delightful accent! He was French-Canadian, from the Gaspé, and when I saw how my Georgie looked at him, and he looked at Georgie, well, I knew."
"And you accepted him, accepted his relationship with Georgie?" asked Mary.
"I did," replied Mary firmly. "They were both so happy together, and so much in love and I couldn't for the life of me see anything wrong in it. Poor Georgie thought I would throw him and his lover into the street when he told me, and was very surprised when I didn't!"
"I can imagine," murmured Mary.
"No, you cannot, at last not yet," retorted Mabell. "You will know what I went through when you sit down with Blake and his young man, not before. If you truly love Blake you will accept him, and his young man, without question, and without reservations!"
Catherine knew what Mabell had gone through, and smiled knowingly. "Share in their happiness, Mary," she whispered.
"Yes, because you have something that was taken from me, the opportunity to watch Blake, and you, Catherine, to watch your boys, grow and mature and live in peace and be very happy, content in their happiness as men! Do not, Mary, let your prejudices drive Blake away. Hold him, and his young man close because if you do not all you will have is a memory, and you won't like it a bit! You have warm flesh and blood to hold, to nurture, and to love! Better to have Blake and his young man than a lonely plot in the Veteran's Section of some cemetery, which is all I have! I would rather have Georgie and his Antoine, alive, than what I have now. Think on it Mary, think on it!"
"I am a silly old woman," replied Mary presently. "We are about to attend the funeral of a young man and I cannot help but think what his mother is going through! I know, because I went through it when my son died. How I would dearly love to have him here with me, rather than in some cemetery in France! She must be feeling what we felt Mabell, wanting him near to her, with all his imagined faults, rather than lying in some expensive box!" She felt the tears begin to flow. "Blake is my life and I need him in my life. He is all I have, really." Mary quickly wiped the tears from her eyes. "He has a brilliant future ahead of him. I shall be there for him and help him in any way I can. He is a fine boy, a wonderful boy."
"He is," agreed Mabell. "Which is why I shall give him this ring, when he is invested as a Knight. He shall have his legacy."
Both Mary and Catherine looked at the ring that Mabell was holding up. "It is a very beautiful ring," said Catherine. "It was Georgie's?"
"It was," replied Mabell simply. "The man who gave it to me told me that Georgie had become a Knight mere days before his ship, HMCS Esquimalt, went out on patrol. The ship was torpedoed and Georgie lost, along with Antoine, just about the entire crew if memory serves."
"However did you meet this man?" inquired Mary.
"Chef? Well it all . . ." began Mabell.
"Chef! Catherine could not believe what she had just been told. "You mean . . . she pointed toward the flow. "The same?"
"Well, he was much younger, of course, it was 1945 after all, and much thinner. But it was he." She coloured slightly. "You might not think it, but back then he was a fine, handsome man! And he looked so . . . stately in his uniform. Back in those days cooks wore the same uniform as Chiefs, only with black buttons and red badges, and his uniform fit him a treat. I saw him standing near Georgie's grave and I thought how kind of him to come and visit."
"You met Chef in a cemetery?" asked Catherine, somewhat confused.
"Well, yes," replied Mabell equably. "Where else would I meet him?"
"I am beginning to wonder," rejoined Mary. "Whatever were you doing in a cemetery?"
"Visiting Georgie," said Mabell. "He'd been home six months and the undertaker rang and said that Veterans Affairs had finally sent the marker for Georgie's grave and would I care to see it. Well, of course I did so I went out to the cemetery and there he was, Chef I mean. He was standing to one side and when I walked up to Georgie's grave he nodded politely. I had brought some flowers, as I always do when I visit Georgie, but there was this most wonderful arrangement already there and I admit I was taken aback. That's when Chef approached and explained that the flowers were a small token from something he called 'The Order'."
"So, Georgie was a Knight!" said Mary, pleased for her friend. Georgie had been a little hellion at times, but someone had seen the potential in him.
"So Chef told me," said Mabell. "He told me that Georgie was one of the finest young men that he had ever known, and that the 'Council' had been so impressed that they had decided to give his ring, or rather the ring that would have been his, to me, as a token of their respect for him. At first I tried to refuse it - it is a very valuable ring - but Chef insisted. He said that it had been the Order's experience that true Knights, special Knights are touched by God - you know how Chef is given to hyperbole - and that Georgie was a true Knight."
"How wonderful that he came to tell you that," Mary exclaimed.
"Yes, it was, and at first I was not all that convinced that Georgie was so well thought of. Remember, he was my son and he was a big ox and hardly the paragon Chef was describing!"
"Nevertheless, Chef convinced you," said Catherine.
"Yes. He told me that the Council was giving me the ring for a purpose. It was to be Georgie's legacy, to be given to a young man worthy of receiving it. He cautioned that I was to be very careful, be very sure that the young man I gave it to truly deserved it."
"And you think Blake is that young man?" asked Mary.
"I do," replied Mabell firmly. "One admits he does not have the charisma, the aura of greatness that Philip Lascelles has, but then Phantom, as he is called, sees in Blake a certain spark of greatness. If he did not, Blake would not be here. I see what Phantom sees, so Blake shall have the ring."
She stood up abruptly. "Now, we must go. There is a poor boy that needs to be buried, a boy whose friends need to say goodbye, boys who need to have three frumpy old ladies around to help them let go."