11.  Home and the Wait.

Some of the Characters Appearing or Mentioned

Mark Henry Foster Tristan (Tris) Price‑Williams Ivo Richie Carr  Adam Benjamin Carr  Laurent de Villiers  [Crapaud] Shelley Price‑Williams Dr Eric Mays  Francesco Matteoli Aldo Leopardi Ernesto di Cremona  Guido Faldi Senora Faldi

The storyteller His well‑proportioned boyfriend Mark’s cousin:  chunky and cheeky with it  Ditto, as his twin French, growing and full of knowledge Horse‑mad and blonde Master of St Mark's College Designer and Uncle of Mark and Francis Companion of Uncle Francesco An Italian cousin The hairy pool boy at the Matteoli Villa Guido's Mum: Uncle Francesco's cook

        The train down to London was crowded.  Friday afternoon and everyone was either going off

home for the weekend or to the theatre or a concert for the evening I thought.  We managed

to get seats but facing each other and kept catching each other's eye as everyone was buried

behind copies of the Cambridge evening paper, or had their nose in a book.  I had the

Stephen Saylor book so opened that and read most of the way.  Tris just closed his eyes and

dozed.

     Getting across London on the tube and our other train was tedious as well.  Going‑

home‑time was in full flow for the commuters and I was glad to get off and walk the half‑

mile or so to our houses.

     His house was in darkness so he came round with me to our back‑door.  Frankie must

have been waiting.  The door was flung open.

     "Well, what do you know?" he demanded.

     "Let them in!" my Mum called from inside.

     Frankie graciously allowed us to enter.  I dumped my bags unceremoniously on the

kitchen floor and went over to where my mother was by the Aga stirring something in a large

casserole dish and gave her a peck on the cheek.  "Smells good," I said, "I'm starving!"

     Mum smiled.  "Pollo con peperoni, special tonight!"

     She turned to Tristan who had also dropped his bags on the floor by the back‑door.

"Sit down, Tristan, the kettle's boiled..  Tea or coffee?"

     He came over to Mum and kissed her too.  "Thanks, tea, please."

     Frankie was still hovering.  "When you've finished all that I still want to know what

happened.."

     "You'll hear in all good time," Mum said as she poured the water into the teapot.

"You could be helpful and get the milk out of the fridge."

     The Toad was seething I could see so I kept silent.  It was then I saw the silent figure

of another young teenager.  Laurent had heard the commotion and was standing at the inner

door.

     I went up to him and stared.  My, he'd grown since I'd seen him last some months

before.  He was dark‑haired, like Frankie and me, and had the faint smudge of the adolescent

moustache on his upper lip.  He smiled.  We shook hands formally then I hugged him.

     "I'd completely forgot you would be here and that thing there..," I said, turning and

pointing to my brother who was making faces at me, "...didn't say you'd arrived."

     "That thing is so joyed you are coming," he said in almost faultless English, having

caught the reference and used it, "He says you must be very good.  You will be a student?"

     "Just like Tris," I said, "We'll be there together in a year's time all being well."

     "Hi, Laurent," said Tris, coming over and shaking hands, too, "Glad to see you."

     "Thank you, Tristan," said Laurent, "I am very pleased to be here again.  Francis is

taking me to the skate park tomorrow.  I watch.  I learn."

     All I hoped was 'I do not do' as two broken legs, a fracture of the left arm and severe

concussion would probably ensue.  Frankie had proudly displayed a very nasty bruise on his

thigh only a couple of weeks ago which was the result of not quite gaining enough altitude in

some new manoeuvre.  The next day he was jubilant.  There had been mastery of the feat.  A

successful coup!   Anyway, I guessed there would be plenty of coups of a different kind in the

next forty‑eight hours.  I looked at the Toad who had read my thoughts completely and curled

his lip in disdain.

     "Oh, Tristan," Mum said, "Your Mum and Dad have gone down to the cottage with

Shelley.  She's riding in a competition tomorrow ‑ so I said I would feed you over the

weekend."

     "Jack says..." the Toad started saying as Tristan also began to say thanks to Mum.

Frankie prefaced many sentences that way and I wondered what the statement was going to

be as he grinned at me.  I thought I'd put him out of his misery a bit.

     "Well, I told you on the phone last night I don't know about the Pennefather thing but

I can go if I get my A Levels to read Maths anyway."  I turned to Mum.  "Oh, I did find out

today there are three candidates and I was the middle one ‑ Oh, and Ivo and Adam send their

love."

     Frankie kicked my leg to gain my attention.  "That's marvellous you going there," he

enthused, "I phoned Gran this morning to tell her what you said last night and she's going to

send me the money for a new skateboard for my birthday."

     "But your birthday's not till much later ‑ it's mine next week," I said

     "I didn't mention yours but I told her I'd seen this super fanto board and she said

she'd send me a cheque!"  He bounced his shoulders up and down in anticipation.  "Oh, she

did say she would send you a photo of Grandad when he was a boy in the choir at St Mark's."

     Tris was heaving with silent laughter and so was Mum as she busied herself with

another pot on the Aga.  Laurent had gone over to her and was given a spoon to taste what

was in it.  Looked like soup.  Goodho!  He nodded.

     "Ivo and Adam have had their invitation to the Villa," I said talking across to Mum,

ignoring the Toad, "They'll be able to stay in August after Ivo's been to Lyon for June and

July to stay with that French family.  Adam said he's going to help Uncle George on the farm

to make sure he gets some money as he's broke."

     The Toad was chuntering.  The chuntering became audible.  "...S'not fair!  There'll

be you and Tris, and Ivo and Adam, and I won't have anyone to keep me company!"

     "You've never moaned before," I said, "We all did things with you last year.  Ivo and

Adam helped you with your swimming and I know Ernesto taught you some words even

Mum might not know when you kept pestering him in the pool!"

     Mum turned and waved a ladle at me.  "You'd be surprised what a young girl hears

on the streets of Palermo and I expect you picked up a few from that pool‑boy as well."

     Yes, I had.  I'd tried out my rudimentary Italian on young Guido as Tris and I helped

him clear the filters.  He was dark, about seventeen as he had one more year to go in High

School, hairy and very sexy.   Tris and I had discussed him nightly and came to a number of

climaxes with our descriptions of what we would like to do with and to him.  Nothing further

as he was the doted upon son of Uncle Francesco's much respected and respectable cook.

But Signora Faldi might have been a bit upset when her dearest youngest son described the

recalcitrant pool‑cleaning device as 'macchina de merda' and had as favourite expletives

'che palle' and 'porca puttana' which I gathered were 'bollocks' and 'fucking hell'

respectively.  Still he was well‑made and had a happy smile and....  Oh well, with Tris around

I had no real desire to stray.

     "And the other thing," I said, diverting that interesting, but dangerous, conversation

and my thoughts, "You spent a lot of time harassing Signora Faldi for more food in the

kitchen."

     "Boy needs his food!  Gotta keep my strength up!" the Toad sneered again, "Not

fair..,"

     As that strength was no doubt sapped not only by his swimming but his other arm

movements in the comfort of his bed I mentally agreed that an adequate supply of food

would be necessary.  And I supposed he might think he'd be lonely if two pairs of

exceedingly horny boys would be keeping each other company and taking comfort in joint or

dual activity.  I looked at Tris who was blissfully ignoring the interchange and was sipping at

his tea and talking quietly to Laurent.

     "Go and lay the table in the dining‑room, Frankie," Mum said, "Make yourself useful

for once."

     Tris stirred.  "We'll come and help you, Microbe, won't we Laurent?" he said,

standing up, "Marky can take his stuff upstairs and sort himself out."

     Oh, Tris, no wonder my little brother idolises you.

     While they were out I told Mum about the audition and how nice everyone was.  I left

out the encounter with Pinch‑Bum and although I said about Charles being Servant of the

Chapel I didn't go into detail about his affectations.

     Mum's pollo was gorgeous and there was plenty for four hungry boys, even for the

Toad who listened intently while Tris and I filled in details of the visit.  Tris said about the

outrageous decor of Charles's room and said he'd told us his Mother was an interior

designer.

     "What did you say his surname was?" Mum asked.

     "Fane‑Stuart," I said.

     "Thought I'd heard it or, at least, read it somewhere," Mum said.  She thought a few

moments.  "Yes," she said, wrinkling her brow, "Yes, when I was in the hairdresser's

recently, I'm sure.  Must have been in a copy of Vogue or something like that."  She smiled.

"Mirabelle Fane‑Stuart.  There was an article about her doing some house in Mayfair....  And

there were pictures."  She pulled a face.  "Bit over the top!"

     Tris laughed.  "Just like Charles' room and him!"

     That meant a resume of the dinner and then we told of the exploration of the crypt ‑

but without revealing Adam's find of the wanking habits of fifteenth century teenagers.

     "Cor!" The Toad had said nothing until now.  His jaws had been working overtime,

though.  "Can I come and have a look when you're there, Tris?  And when Laurent comes

over?"

     Tris nodded.  Little did he know what mayhem might ensue.

     "By the way, Tris," Mum said, "You might as well stay the night.  Your Mum and

Dad won't be home until Sunday evening and as I'm feeding you, you can stay both nights."

She looked at me.  "As long as Mark doesn't object."

     Mum, you are pulling my leg!  Toad was grinning and picked up his now‑empty glass

and made as if to put it by his ear.  Seeing the look on my face he desisted.

     As I helped Tris carry out the dirty plates at the end of the meal he pecked me on the

cheek and patted my bum.  "Wait until later!" I said, "I might let you share my duvet!"

     Toad said he was going to try out some new game on his computer with Laurent and

tried to get past us as we came out of the kitchen.  I grabbed his arm and Tris crowded him

from the other side.  "The glass!" I said with as menacing a tone as I could muster.

     He looked from one to the other of us.  "Only joking."

     I put a hand into my jeans pocket and drew out my wallet.  "I remembered the twos

against threes."  I pressed a five‑pound note into his hand.  "And don't come to too many

blows with Laurent... ...over the game!"  I think I put enough emphasis on 'blows' to let the

message sink in that I hadn't forgotten my French.  At least the Toad said 'Cor, thanks!"

before escaping up the stairs followed by a slightly baffled, but soon to be enlightened no

doubt, compliant Laurent.

     Breakfast in our household was where we all generally congregated.  With Dad

playing in concerts on many evenings or giving recitals at music clubs, "to keep the pennies

rolling in" as he said, we tended to see each other over cereals, scrambled or boiled eggs,

toast and marmalade.  Next morning was no exception.  Dad was drinking his second or third

cup of coffee when Tris and I emerged from our wanton slumbers and entered the kitchen

intent on eating sufficient 'to keep our strength up' as Tris had said, imitating my brother's

sentiment.

     "Well, well, well," said Dad, "Congratulations!  Your Grandad would have been

proud of you." He grinned.  "I am, too!  Good lad, you'll do well."

     Dad was usually a bit reticent in terms of praise.  He had always kept an eye on my

studies but I always felt the 'do better' was not far below the surface.  I knew he'd had

ambitions to be a concert soloist but realised the grind of constant practice and the

peripatetic lifestyle were not for him though in his early days he had played concertos with

several orchestras.  Of course, I'd heard him play many times at home and in recitals with his

friend Roger who accompanied him and I knew he was not only a supreme perfectionist but

an excellent musician as well ‑ I only hoped I would meet his standards.

     I told him everything about my audition.  As soon as I mentioned the musical don was

Dr Al‑Hamed his ears pricked up.

     "Not Safar Al‑Hamed by any chance?" he asked.

     I remembered the Chaplain had said that name at the end when they were going off to

tea.

     "Yes, I'm sure it was.  Dr Henson, that's the other one, the Chaplain, called him

that."

     "That violin I play in the baroque orchestra is one of his.  I mean it was made by one

of his craftsmen."  Tris and I must have looked a bit puzzled.  "He's very famous in that line

for unearthing descriptions of old instruments and he's got a workshop at Ulvescott up past

Cambridge where his craftspeople make superb copies.  I've met him a number of times.

He's a very good musician himself and comes from a very famous Arab family.  I went to see

him once at the workshop and was introduced to his father.  He was their ambassador at one

time but retired to the English countryside.  Safar comes down to London for our concerts

regularly."  He laughed.  "We're very much into authentic theorbos at the moment and he's

found a couple of manuscripts with details of construction and two of our players have

ordered new ones.  What they'll cost is anybody's guess but he's always very generous.  I

think there's plenty of money there."

     "I thought he was very nice and very sympathetic."  I knew I could tell Dad.  "One of

the chords he played in the ear‑test was the Tristan chord.  I suppose I was a bit worked up

about the whole thing and when he played that I almost cried.  I said it was the Tristan chord

and he got me to play the opening of the prelude.  Then he said 'I can see that means a lot to

you' then he looked at Tristan and said 'I can see why'.  I shall always remember that.  I

think that helped me play even better.  He understood me.  You know what I mean don't you,

Dad?"

     Dad smiled.  "Yes, I know exactly what you mean.  The first time I played the Bruch

number two just after I graduated I'd just met your Mum and she was in the audience and I

played it for her.  And I know how much Tris means to you."

     Poor Tris.  He was a bit embarrassed and shuffled a bit on his chair next to me.  I put

a hand down and stroked his leg.  He put his hand on mine.  I think the strains of Tristan and

Isolde would be heard later.

     We told him about Mr Finch‑Hampton and his rudeness and then ‑ as no one else was

up and around ‑ we told him of the exploration of the crypt and what Adam had discovered

which had remained a secret confession of that sixteen‑year‑old for five hundred and forty

years. 

     "Adam was lying on the floor with his torch," said Tris, "And he saw there were tiny

scratches under the Latin bit."  I wondered what he would say next.  "There were twenty‑one

over eight days so Adam said..."

     Dad laughed.  "Boys will be boys!  Industrious youngster.  How old?  Sixteen eh?

Not surprised!"

     Oh my God!  But then, Dad must have been a boy, but that was the first mention of

what boys in general did.  But then, Dad knew about Tris and me.  We obviously had sex

together.  That had been so obvious even to Mum from that first occasion.

     That conversation came to an abrupt halt as two bleary‑eyed, but ravenously hungry,

lads came into the kitchen with Laurent arguing in English and Francis answering in very

fluent French.  Bleary‑eyed from what?  Fourteen‑year‑old habits, no doubt.  Yes, they

confessed, but to new habits.  They hadn't gone to bed until three a.m. as they had, repeat

had, to find the next clue in the computer game they were playing.  The clue had eluded

them, thus the arguing.  I think the skate park would be forgotten.  No broken arms, legs,

bruised bums, thank God, but bruised egos if the computer boffin who had devised the

fiendish search for treasure was clever enough to withstand the onslaught of two very bright

determined youngsters.

     Tris said he needed a run to get him sorted.  I was inveigled into shorts and top and

was made to accompany him.  Tris had borrowed a spare set of my things and we were just

about to go out of the back door when Mum came down.  She was all serene and happy.

     "Nice to see all the family together," she announced, "especially with my son‑in‑

law!"

     A blushing Tris, with cat‑calls from Toad and Crapaud, got a big kiss from Mum and

a pat on his bum from me as I laughingly dragged him out of the back door.

     On Sunday afternoon we three boys took a very triumphant Laurent to Waterloo to

catch his train back to Lille.  Triumphant as he had got one over on Frankie having solved the

vital clue.  Still Frankie was pleased and said he would e‑mail Laurent if he managed the next

level.

     Laurent was quite fulsome in his praise.   "My parents say you must all come to stay

again.  You are very good to me.  Especially him," he pointed to Tris.  "You make good big

brother for me better than shitty sister I've got."

     "Who taught you that?" Tris said.  "If it was him he'll get what's coming to him," He

pointed at Frankie who grinned and cowered.  "Anyway your sister is very nice.   She's

getting married soon so you won't have her at home much longer."

     "That is very true.  But he says that word for everything.  And I know I must not say it

at home."  He grinned at Frankie, "Tu connais, un morceau de merde, eh!"  He turned to us.

"My parents will send the invitations soon.  You will be able to come.  Your mother knows

the date it is the twentieth‑eighth of July."

     I liked our trips to Lille.  I liked French food as well as Italian and Laurent's father

and mother were very much like Mum and Dad.  Actually she was Swiss but he was typically

French but with a great sense of humour.  Laurent's two sisters were in their early twenties so

Laurent must have been an afterthought or an accident.   He was super‑bright and a good

match for the Toad who, quietly, was very good at French.  So, the younger sister was getting

married.  The older one's wedding was a hoot as she had a lot of the students she had been at

University with there and they sang and danced and really enlivened things up.

     On the way back on the train we were in a quite empty carriage.  I turned to Frankie.

"You were about to say something when Mum said Tris's lot were down at the cottage.

What was it Jack said?"

     Frankie looked a bit sheepish.  "Tris may not like it."

     "Like what?" said Tris, knowing how to get Frankie rather bothered.  "Come on, spit

it out, Microbe!"

     Frankie looked straight at me.  But I just looked straight back.  "OK," Frankie said

and almost blurted out, "Jack says little girls like horse‑riding 'cause they like the feeling of

hard flesh between their legs...." He petered out and looked at Tris to see his reaction.  Was

his young sister getting some secret pleasure from this activity?

     Dead‑pan Tris asked, "So what?  They're just getting ready for later..."

     Frankie looked from Tris to me.

     "I understand girls are very fond of hard flesh, but I wouldn't know," I said.  "I think

with the horses it's also the up and down movements, too, which also come later as well."

     Poor Frankie.  It dawned quite suddenly.

     "You're taking the mick," he breathed.  "But anyway, it's no good asking you two

about girls.  I need to know, though."

     Horses forgotten.  No, this was Frankie's hobby‑horse.  Better he kept to his other

hobby for the time being.  It was OK.  He knew it was no good carrying on with his

questioning.  Perhaps 'Jack says..' might be able to delve into such mysteries with his

Internet connection.  That reminded me.

     "Changing the subject slightly.  When Tris is at Cambridge he'll have an Internet

address.  You can teach me how to send and receive e‑mails."

     I was a complete computer virgin.  I'd opted out of IT as it clashed with the extra

Music I could have.  I did know a little bit but would no doubt press the wrong button and set

the Pentagon ablaze.  Frankie was now in charge!

     "Easy‑peasy," he crowed, "I'll set you up a separate account and address with mine or

you can have a separate Hotmail account."

     "Do as you please, but will you teach me?"

     "'Cause I will, but it'll cost you!"

     "You'd better teach him for free or I'll have to reveal to your mother what I found in

your history folder that time I helped you with the English essay you had to write," said Tris.

     Toad was scuppered.  Tris had laughingly told me he'd deliberately clicked on

something called pthree.jpg and brought up a picture of an unclothed young lady obviously

scanned in from page three of one of the tabloids.

     "Remind me, Tris," I said, which caused a complete deflation of the Toad.

     "Jack sent it to me," Frankie said quietly, "And I forgot to delete it."

     "Oh, and why had it been blown up to fit the whole screen?" asked Tris winding him

up further.  "Pity it was such a bad photo.  All the little dots showed up."

     "Jack's got better ones."  Frankie said and then realised the whole import of that

statement.  I would get my instruction free, gratis and for nothing!

     I had just got home on Monday afternoon about five o'clock when the phone rang.

Frankie was in the kitchen looking for food and so answered it.

     "Mark!" he yelled out as I was just going upstairs, "It's for you.  Dr Henderson or

Henson, I think."

     Henson, I thought, Dr Henson was the Chaplain at St Mark's.  I rushed downstairs

back to the kitchen and grabbed the phone from a startled Frankie.  "Mark Foster here," I

said.

     "Ah, Mark," came the low pitched, very cultured tones I remembered from Friday, "I

have some news for you.  You will be getting a formal letter from the Master but I am able to

offer you the Pennefather Organ Scholarship for the three academic years starting in October

2001.  I would be very pleased if you would accept.  I can tell you in confidence your playing

and already acquired musicianship was the best of any of the candidates, in fact, better than

most of the many I have heard in the past.  Dr Al‑Hamed sends his best wishes and concurs

entirely with offering you the Scholarship.  In fact, he also asks me to convey his best wishes

to your father and that there is a violin which has just been finished.  He would be very

privileged if your father would try it out and give his judgement on it."  He chuckled.  "In no

way did Dr Al‑Hamed working out that you were Gordon Foster's son influence any decision.

So do you accept?"

     What could I say?  I just blurted out "Yes" and "Thank you" and stood dumbfounded

while Dr Henson finished off by saying he was so pleased and would inform the Master

informally.

     Frankie took the phone from me and hung it back on the hook on the wall.  "Is that

the organ thing?" he asked, "At St Mark's?  Have you got it?"

     All I could do was nod.   He leapt on me, almost crashing me to the ground.  He

wound his legs round me and hugged me.  "Oh, Marky, I'm so glad.  Congratulations!!"

     He let go and rushed to the front room where Mum was hearing a student sing some

Mozart aria.  He burst in unceremoniously.  "Mum, he's got it, he's got it!" and rushed back

out again slamming the door ruining the poor girl's carefully controlled descent from some

stratospheric high note.  There must have been a few moments of hurried apologies then

Mum appeared.  We hugged and she cried.

     Dad was phoned on his mobile.  He was just having a snack before a concert that

evening.  A little while later a rather famous conductor phoned and said he'd been an organ

scholar at a Cambridge college and now he made his money waving a stick, so there was

always hope after a Cambridge education.  Congratulations!

     Frankie had disappeared and came back with a beaming Tristan.  We hugged each

other while Frankie stood patiently.  As we parted he grinned up at me.

     "Does this mean when you've gone next year I can have your room?  It's bigger than

mine and you won't be home much."

     The Master's letter came on Wednesday.  There were also letters from Ivo and Adam,

a jointly scribbled one, and a very effusive one from Charles who was full of congratulations.

Ivo phoned that evening, also, and filled me in with some the details as he had gone straight

to someone in the know that afternoon, the Chaplain's secretary who, as a middle‑aged lady

with grown‑up sons, had a soft spot for such a nice lad as Ivo.  Adam was always very

scathing about Ivo's ability to soft‑soap the elderly, as he put it.  Anyway, Ivo had to see her

as he did the choir rota and she had spilled the beans

     Yes, there had been three candidates.  The first was at a very well‑known Public

School.  He had made it very clear he only wanted the Organ Scholarship, he was a good

player, but he certainly didn't want to read Music so had, in his words, chosen History 'as a

soft option' as he wanted to experience a good social life after ten years at boarding school.

This 'soft option' statement, plus an ignorance even of the period he was supposed to be

doing for his A level, had not endeared him to Mr Finch‑Hampton.  The over‑privileged, less

than erudite, object as described by him during my interview with Professor Tanner.

     But what had really cooked his goose was his overheard statement to his school‑pal

assistant that he didn't know Arabs knew anything about Western music.  Apparently the

Chaplain went incandescent and was all for getting two of the Porters to frog‑march the

bigoted youth off the College premises.  The secretary said she'd asked him to tone down the

letter he'd dictated to her which had been sent to the lad's headmaster.

     The third candidate was also a very good musician but, after playing, announced he'd

had a better offer at an Oxford college.  Ivo then rubbed it in that I was the only choice they

had after those two were eliminated so I had to have the post.  Only joking, he said, Mrs

Davies said you'd have got it anyway.

     So, as long as I didn't bugger up my A levels I was assured of something one could

only wish for.  Gran was over the moon and, as well as the treasured photo of Grandad as a

very precocious and knowing‑looking thirteen‑year‑old, all decked up in chorister's ruff and

surplice, I also got a cheque for a hundred pounds.  I also had the embarrassment of the

award being announced to the whole school by the Headmaster after I had played the usual

entry tune on the school grand piano.

     Term went on.  Tris did his oral exams in French and German and I practised

assiduously as I was determined to try for the Associate at Christmas.  Mr Prentice said if I

was going for the ARCM why not do the ARCO at the same time.  The play lists were similar

and he would willingly coach me.  No problem except I had to practice more pieces and

really get my improvisation going as well.

     Summer came.  Nina's wedding was stupendous.  Both Laurent and Frankie were

chasseurs d'honneur, page‑boys in very neat black dinner jackets, bow‑ties and impeccable

behaviour.  Toad and Crapaud were off duty for the day!

     Our trip to the villa in Italy was, as usual, a great delight.  Almost a month just getting

baked brown, keeping an inquisitive Frankie and an even more inquisitive Ernesto, who

bunked in with him, entranced when we sun‑bathed in the nude with Ivo and Adam, whose

rippling muscles were a sight for sore eyes, cooling off in the huge pool, eating the most

delicious Italian food, watching the now older and much hairier pool boy, listening to Aldo's

tales of high‑life with the fashion celebrities, but, most important for me, enjoying  the most

intense sex every day, twice or thrice a day, with the most lovely creature in existence, my

Tris.  When I told him this last he smiled and said it was exactly the same for him

     We sucked, fucked, wanked, in a continuous cycle of loving encounters.  We also

included my lovely cousins in several sessions, where, in the end, the four of us slowly and

carefully learned how to give and take the most profound pleasure which is possible between

males when love, respect and genuine altruism of giving and receiving are present in full

measure.

     My cousins might act the part of  macho males.  They had both lost their virginity to

the other sex and were very active now in their couplings from all accounts, but as they

confessed there was much to be said to be adventurous and to experience that which most

men preferred to abhor.  They asked if we would take that final step with them.  We were

hesitant in case it broke the loving ties between us.  No, they were adamant.  They knew how

much we loved each other, could they not sample the full experience?  We said only if they

were quite, quite sure.  They promised us they were.  We explained that we both like giving

and taking, neither felt they were particularly dominant nor exclusively submissive, a

preferred top or preferred bottom in the jargon.  That night I coupled with Ivo while that final

step was taken by Tris with Adam.

     The next morning as we sun‑bathed, with Frankie and Ernesto racing each other in

the pool, we discussed the happenings of the night before.  Ivo and Adam said their eyes had

been opened by the intense love and the commitment of each of us to be at one with our

partner in those acts.  Being given, or giving, seemed to be equal in their estimation, too.

Two nights later we experienced that double joy again:  I this time with Adam and Ivo with

Tris.

     I think from our conversations a much better understanding of us all emerged.  Both

Adam and Ivo asked why we had never attempted to have sex with girls.  Tris and I looked at

each other and shook our heads.  There was no attraction, there was no need, we had realised

the personas we had been born with early on and had found the ideal other to share and be

with again at an early age.   Ivo said he thought he could easily fall for a male.  He said he'd

had many fantasies when at school about trying things out, especially with some of the older

sporty heroes.  Adam nodded and admitted he'd had a crush when he was fourteen on the

Sixth Former who helped to coach their Junior XV.  He'd tossed off many nights thinking of

the lanky prick he had glimpsed in the shower and the thought that his hero might be stroking

that lengthy object at the same time as his own rigid four inches was being worked on.

     He'd plucked up courage when they were home during the next vac and told Ivo of

his fantasies when they were lying side by side in bed just have brought themselves to

individual climaxes.  Though both had tossed off each other numerous times, and had also

wanked the other three in their dorm, Ivo said that was the realisation for him, too, that males

often had feelings for other males and it wasn't just curiosity about size, how often, duration,

amount of spunk, or any of the other things which boys need to know about this most strange

phenomenon.  In fact, he'd had a long talk with a close friend at school only a couple of

weeks before they left and this other lad had confessed he too had wanked many times not

only to the pictures in the surreptitiously hidden girlie mags but also to remembered images

of boys he'd admired.  "Not lust," Ivo said, grinning, "But pure adolescent male admiration."

     "And the need to get your rocks off, bro," said Adam, "That's important, too, and

that's the basis of lust."

     While at the villa Tris's Dad had phoned with his A Level results.  There was a

deathly hush until with a whoop of joy the phone was thrown for Ivo to catch and I was

caught in a great bear‑hug.

     "I got 'em!  I got 'em!  Just what I wanted.  Three A's!"  Pent‑up emotions from the

wait overflowed.  He wept.

     Without a word I took him to our bedroom.  No one else in the room had moved.  All

were smiling.  All knew a most private ceremony of love was to take place.  In the quiet of

the morning we kissed and then took up our favoured position where we could lave and suck

each other and feel each other's bodies so close, so needing, so giving, so receiving.  We

shared each other's gift with darting, curling tongues, savouring those well‑remembered

tastes which with our growing maturity had changed so subtly but were still so recognisably

each others.

     An hour later we emerged and six boys hugged each other and Aldo opened a

magnum of champagne and Tris's triumph was most adequately celebrated.

     It was the following night, the third occasion when four boys loved each other to the

ultimate.  Four boys found that stamina of adolescence to pleasure each of their three

companions and to receive their due rewards within the space of just a few hours.  Twelve

times the youthful juices flowed and finally four young males, safe in the sureness of mutual

fellowship and the bonding through love and affection, slept until woken by the hot sun

streaming through their open window.

     So, holidays ended, I started the final year of my schooling.  An important year as I

had great goals to achieve but also to learn to live apart from my greatest love.  My Tristan.