Anonymous
The Secret Chronicles of Henry Dashwood, Vol. 2
There is no duty we so much underrate as the duty of being happy.
Foreword
Readers of this admittedly uninhibited narrative may be surprised that until the fifth year of my education at the Albion Academy for the Sons of Gentlefolk, I loathed to put pen to paper on any subject, unless absolutely necessary, and preferred to spend my time on the playing field. However, all this changed with a vengeance when my eccentric uncle, Sir Robert Bacon, presented me with a large desk diary with the promise of a Kodak Brownie for Christmas – on the condition that I penned a full, unexpurgated daily entry in its leather-bound pages. 'Schooldays are the happiest days of your life,' he had solemnly intoned as he stood warming himself in front of the fireplace in my study. 'Record in toto every item of the day's doings, my boy, and in later years you will obtain tremendous joy in remembering the fun of these carefree years.' My schooldays ended months ago, but I am finding that old habits die hard and the only way that I can scratch 'the insatiate itch of scribbling', as Juvenal described the disease which afflicted so many of his friends, is to put aside an hour or so every day to set down even the most intimate details of my personal life. Fortunately the first decade of the new century has produced an abundance of gallant literature which proclaims the delights of the pleasures of the flesh. To these fellow scribes, I dedicate this short journey down the lane of lusty memories.
PART I. A Sensuous September
Clayton Towers, Cheltenham, September 28th, 1901 Until my initiation into manhood through the kindness of Mrs. Lizzie Dickerson, the much respected Matron at my old school, I used to believe that my initial impressions of people were invariably right and I still hold it true that the firmest of friendships often begin within minutes of the first meeting of the persons involved. But I have now learned that other cordial attachments nurture more slowly as evinced by the gradual development of the close rapport which exists between myself and Julian Clayton, the former Captain of the Albion Academy. With hindsight, anyone would understand why Clayton was so angry when he first made my acquaintance. At the time he was lying naked on the bed with the equally nude Mrs. Dickerson and was about to slide his straining shaft into her juicy pussey when I interrupted their coupling by knocking loudly on the door of the Matron's private quarters. With the restraint of a saint, Clayton, who could hardly afford to be caught in flagrante delicto with the buxom Mrs. Dickerson, was forced to abandon his intent of fucking the comely lady. Instead, the poor chap had to pull on his clothes in double quick time before rushing to the door to see me standing outside like a spare prick at a wedding, as Uncle Robert (himself no mean cocksman) remarked when h? read about the incident in my diary. Fortunately, that and any further misunderstandings between us were swiftly settled and Clayton and I became the best of friends – so much so in fact, that when I took up my place at Oxford, he insisted that I should spend the week before the University year began as his guest at Clayton Towers, his family's impressive mansion near the village of Charlton Kings on the outskirts of Cheltenham.
'Our house is only some forty miles away from the 'Varsity so you will be able to arrive at Brasenose after only a short train journey as opposed to a long haul from your own home,' he had written to me, and then had added mysteriously: 'Anyhow, you must come here for a visit, Henry, I am in urgent need of your body! No, do not be alarmed, I have not joined the surprisingly considerable number of homosexualists who may be found lurking amongst the dreaming spires!
All will be explained over a whisky and soda after Fletcher has taken your bags upstairs.'
Naturally I accepted his invitation, for I was looking forward to meeting up again with my fellow Old Albanist and was keen to hear what was behind his strange request. Being a year older than me, Julian left the Albion Academy last summer having also gained a place at Oxford to study at Magdalen, so I also wanted to hear his comments about undergraduate life which I was sure would be extremely helpful for a naive 'fresher' like myself. So, this is how I came to be pacing up and down the forecourt at St James's Station, Cheltenham, at three o'clock yesterday afternoon, somewhat concerned that Julian's carriage was not waiting to meet my train. There was little I could do but wait and so I stood by my cases and glanced through my copy of the Daily News. I looked up when I heard the honk of a motor horn and, lo and behold, there was my chum sitting grinning like a Cheshire cat as he sat taking off his goggles at the wheel of a motor car. 'Hello there, Henry, I'm so sorry to have kept you waiting but I had a ruddy puncture on the Old Bath Road,' said Julian as he jumped down from his seat and strode towards me. 'What do you think of my horseless carriage, as my father insists on calling it?'
I know little about motors, but I recognised the vehicle from the distinctive semi-circular, finned-tube radiator. 'This is one of this chappie Austin's machines is it not?' I enquired as I helped him load my cases on to the car (my parents are kindly sending two large trunks containing my books and other belongings directly to Brasenose).
'Yes, this is a Wolseley from his Birmingham factory,' answered Julian proudly as he passed me a spare set of goggles. 'I decided to buy this model after reading how successfully it competed in the Thousand Miles Trial last year and I must say that I've found it to be extremely reliable, although that's the third tyre I've gone through in the last two weeks!' I clambered into the car and after a few minutes, I remarked on how many people had stopped to stare at us as we drove through the High Street. Julian put his foot down on the accelerator and soon we had reached the giddy heights of twenty-five miles an hour. 'I say, old boy, steady on,' I gasped. The car skidded to a halt some half an hour later on the loosely laid gravel of the drive of Clayton Towers. The butler was waiting to welcome us and to receive Julian's instructions. 'Afternoon, Fletcher, this is Henry Dashwood who will be staying with us for a few days. Put his bags in the Blue Room,' said Julian. 'Very good, Sir,' replied Fletcher and then turning to me, he said: “Welcome to Clayton Towers, sir. I'll have your luggage taken up immediately and Alice will lay out your clothes. Unfortunately, we are somewhat short-staffed as the valet and Lady Clayton's personal maid, have accompanied Sir Talbot and Lady Clayton to Scotland.' 'Yes, my apologies, Henry', said Julian. I should have mentioned that my people will be away whilst you're here. They send their best regards but they've been invited for a few days hunting, shooting and fishing up in the Highlands with Lord Macfarlack. My brother Nick has gone to stay with some friends in Bristol so I'm afraid we'll be rattling around the house by ourselves.' However, a few minutes later as we sat sipping whiskies and sodas in the drawing room Julian expounded further on this subject and upon the curious statement which he made to me in his letter of invitation. 'Whilst I'm sure that you would have wanted to meet my folks, I have to confess that I deliberately invited you to come here whilst they were up in bonnie Scotland,' he explained with a smile. 'For I am equally sure that you would prefer to spend your time fucking Harriet, our new young chambermaid. She's only been with us a month and I've been poking her solidly almost since the day she arrived.' 'Good for you, old bean, but what has this to do with my presence here? If anything, I would have thought having a house guest would cramp your style,' I observed. To my surprise Julian shook his head and smirked happily at me before he answered: 'Oh no, Henry, far from it. You recall that I wrote to you saying how I needed the use of your body?