“This really is amazing tea, Gloria. What is it?”
“I’ll tell you what it isn’t,” she said smugly. “It’s not that muck Vera brews up! It’s half Lady Grey and half Lapsang souchong—it’s what Her Majesty the Queen Mother used to drink.”
It was obvious that in her own ham-fisted way she was trying to let me know that she had, at some point, served royalty. I immediately saw an opportunity to get Gloria to open up.
“Were you at Clarence House?” I asked.
“Good God, no!” she said, looking horrified at the suggestion. “I was the head housekeeper at The Castle of Mey.” Gloria looked most pleased with herself at having imparted this information. What she no doubt hoped to convey was that she was cut from slightly superior cloth (probably tartan cloth at that) to the rest of us and this, more than anything else, explained why she looked down her nose at everyone.
But I knew all about The Castle of Mey. It was the low point in the Queen Mother’s calendar for all her staff. It was in the farthest reaches of the Scottish Highlands and was renowned for being bleak, cold, and inhospitable. It was so remote that it carried the dubious honor of being the most northerly inhabited castle on the British mainland, and never was that more apparent than in those few weeks every summer when the Clarence House staff made the long journey north. It’s a truism that no one ever went to Scotland for the weather, and that’s particularly true of the Highlands. Even in the height of summer it could be bitterly cold, but should the weather ever warm up enough to merit removing one’s tweeds, one could be sure to be eaten half to death by midges.
Clarence House staff was expected to drive from London to the Highlands in a convoy of old Land Rovers packed to the rafters with Fortnum and Mason food hampers and cases upon cases of fine claret. Even with a tailwind the nonstop drive took the best part of a whole day in vehicles whose broken suspensions left passengers barely able to walk by the time they arrived. On more than one occasion I remember Chris’s having suspiciously fallen ill just days before he was due to leave for the Castle of Mey. I was now beginning to understand Gloria a little better.
“I’m ex-Palace,” I said.
“Really?” Her harsh angular features visibly softened at the mention of Buckingham Palace.
“Yes. I loved working for the Queen and the Duke. It was a real privilege, and I learned so much.” Now it was my turn to lay it on with a trowel, and she was falling for it hook, line, and sinker.
“I could tell you were ex-Royal Household,” she said, positively beaming now. “You know what they say, don’t you? It takes one to know one!” She let out a reedy little laugh.
Gloria and I sat in the kitchen for a good half an hour, exchanging old war stories about working for the Windsors, before I steered the conversation back round to George.
“So, Gloria, why do you think George had it coming to him?” I asked.
“Well, of course it’s not really my place to say, but so long as this stays just between you and me I will tell you exactly why George was asked to leave.”
Obviously I was all ears.
“George came to us after he was discharged from the army on medical grounds. He was in the same regiment as Lord Shanderson. Household Cavalry, no less.”
“Evil be to him who evil thinks,” I said under my breath, remembering Lord Shanderson’s tattoo.
“Sorry, dear, what was that?” Gloria asked.
“Oh, nothing. So Lord Shanderson took him in then, did he?”
“Well, yes. George had nowhere to go, and I suppose His Lordship felt sorry for him. I can only assume that Lord Shanderson didn’t know the real reason George was discharged though,” she said, folding her arms and waiting for me to take the bait. This time I was powerless to resist.
“Go on then—what was the real reason?”
“Officially he was turfed out due to ill health, some rubbish about a bad back, but I happen to know from a very reliable source that young George was caught with his pants down.”
“Really?”
“Oh, that’s not the best bit,” she said, warming to her theme. “It was with another man!” She delivered this last line with absolute triumph, no doubt assuming I would find it as shocking as she did.
“Never!” I said, trying to look and sound suitably appalled. “I would never have guessed he was . . . like that.”
“Nor me, but my nephew assures me that is exactly what happened. Of course these days the army likes to keep these things quiet, so they sent him packing without a stain on his name, which I find rather lenient if I’m honest. In my day it would have been on the front page of the Evening Standard. It’s a dark world we live in when there are sodomites guarding Her Majesty the Queen.”
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the drivel pouring out of Gloria’s mouth. If she only knew what I had been up to with George less than forty-eight hours earlier.
“It was good of Lord Shanderson to take him in, but why would he get rid of him out of the blue like that?” I asked.
“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?”
“Is it?”
“He must have found out what George was really like. Perhaps someone told him. A gentleman like Lord Shanderson has a reputation to protect. I mean he can’t have people like that living under his roof.”
I wondered if Gloria had been the one to tell Lord Shanderson George’s secret. She was certainly mean-spirited enough, but I couldn’t help but think that His Lordship wouldn’t act so irrationally on the say-so of his housekeeper. And somehow, I couldn’t imagine him being as mortally offended by what George got up to in private as Gloria was. There was definitely more to it than she knew.
After our cozy little chat I made my excuses and left Gloria thumbing through the newspaper at the table.
It was still early and, keen not to waste my day off, I grabbed my coat and wallet and set off for Brighton.
With no car at my disposal I figured if I could get a lift to the local village I could jump on a train and be by the sea by lunchtime. As luck would have it, Tom was in the yard washing the Bentley.
“Morning, Tom,” I said as I approached. “What are the chances of a lift to the train station?”
“Oh, I’m not sure His Lordship would approve of my taking you in the Bentley,” he said apologetically.
“That’s not what I had in mind,” I said, pointing to the mud-splattered Land Rover on the other side of the yard.
“In that case jump in!”
After a short drive Tom dropped me at the small station in Westcourt Village.
“Here’s my mobile number; if you give me a call when you are leaving Brighton, I’ll come and pick you up.”
“Tom, that’s really kind of you. I will. Bye now.”
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” he said through the open car window. “I hear it gets quite wild in Brighton!”
CHAPTER 10
When I arrived on the platform I was annoyed to see the next train to Brighton wasn’t due was for another forty minutes. I bought a cup of watery coffee and a newspaper from the small kiosk and huddled in the waiting room. There wasn’t anyone else on the platform, but when the train arrived it was packed with mainly young, good-looking Europeans chatting loudly in French, German, and Italian. I glanced up at the map of the train’s route and noticed that two stops before Westcourt was Gatwick Airport, where most of the passengers had probably boarded. The aisles were piled high with bulging rucksacks covered in embroidered badges. Edinburgh, Amsterdam, and Barcelona would soon be joined by Brighton on the fabric trophies of a modern-day grand tour. Many of the passengers were clutching guidebooks that I imagined would extol the virtues of the ultimate English seaside town of Brighton. There would be pictures of the Royal Pavilion’s eccentric interior and moody shots of the skeletal West Pier blanketed with a flock of starlings. The atmosphere in the carriage was an excited one, and it was even starting to rub off onto me.
The journey to the coast was due to
be less than twenty-five minutes, so with no seat available I perched on a pile of bags in the space between the train doors. I didn’t really have enough elbowroom to read the paper, so I contented myself with the view of the South Downs flying past the window at high speed. At one point the train crossed a high viaduct where the landscape opened out as far as the eye could see in every direction. Everybody on the train glanced in unison at the spectacle of the frosty rolling fields way below. I’d never realized how stunningly beautiful Sussex was until that train journey.
The train slowed to a stop at a small provincial station where none of the passengers in my carriage disembarked, but where an elderly couple squeezed on just in time before the automatic doors slid closed behind them. They looked most alarmed when they realized there was nowhere for them to sit, but then a couple jumped to their feet and waved the old man and his wife over. And then another two passengers rose, and then another two jumped to their feet as well. In a matter of seconds most of the carriage was offering to give up their seats.
“Please, señor, señora.” A young guy was waving frantically at the couple to come and take his and his companion’s seats just behind where I stood.
The old man looked relieved and guided his wife by the hand through the crowd as it parted to allow them the vacated seats.
The young Spanish guy appeared at my side, but his female friend stayed in the aisle chatting to her friends.
“That was a very kind thing you and your girlfriend just did,” I said to him as he perched on the bag next to me.
“In my country, old people command a great deal of respect,” he said in a heavy, Spanish accent. “And she is not my girlfriend.”
“Oh! Sorry, I just assumed . . .”
“She is my sister, Inez, and I am Juan Carlos,” he said, shaking my hand firmly and locking his dark eyes onto mine.
“I see, and are you and your sister planning a holiday in Brighton?” I asked, suddenly a little more interested in my new Spanish friend.
“Maybe a holiday, maybe we find work—I don’t know yet. I hear Brighton is very friendly place.” He winked, and I felt a shiver run down my spine.
Moments later the train began to slow down as it pulled into the huge sweeping Victorian arches of Brighton Station. Having no luggage I was able to position myself nearest the door for a quick getaway and to avoid the inevitable crush at the ticket barriers. As I prepared to say good-bye to Juan Carlos I felt his hand slide over mine and press a small scrap of paper into my palm.
“Maybe we meet later when I have dropped my bags at the hostel? No?” he said as he hoisted a huge rucksack onto his back.
Inez appeared at his side with a similarly sized bag and smiled broadly at me as she grabbed his arm and pulled him into the crowd and out of sight.
It wasn’t until I was out of the station and halfway down Queens Road heading toward the sea that I unclasped my hand to see what was on the scrap of paper.
It was Juan Carlos’s phone number scribbled on a page ripped out of Gay Times, and whether by design or default he had scrawled it across an advert for a men-only sauna called Champions in Brighton.
“Subtle!” I thought, as I folded the paper carefully and placed it in my wallet.
It was lunchtime, and maybe it was the sudden rush of sea air but I found myself in the mood for something I hadn’t eaten in years: fish and chips.
There was cold wind blowing in from the sea, but I didn’t mind it. In fact the salty air on my face felt good, and I decided that the best place to eat fish and chips would be at the end of the pier. I headed toward the gaudy flashing lights marking the entrance and ordered cod and chips from the first stall I could find.
They were searing hot, and even with a chill wind blowing around me I had to blow on each chip to cool it enough to eat. The chips were greasy and salty with just the right amount of vinegar on them. They were crisp on the outside and fluffy within, but the batter surrounding the fish was the best I had ever eaten. It crunched noisily when I broke into it with one of those ridiculous tiny wooden forks, and plumes of sweet-smelling steam spiraled into the air.
By the time I had made my way along the wooden boardwalk, past the Donkey Derby, the old Victorian Helter Skelter, and the noisy Haunted House, I was at the very end of the pier looking back at the seafront with nothing left in the polystyrene tray bar a single chip. A large, fat seagull was perched on the railings eyeing up the remains of my lunch, so before I tossed the tray into the waste bin I threw the chip high into the air and over the side of the pier. The bird swooped down and caught it midair, gulping it down in one bite before flying off in search of more of the same.
I realized I was still holding the fork so I placed it in my inside pocket as a souvenir of a perfect lunch.
I then took out Juan Carlos’s number and texted him a brief but to the point message:
MEET ME @ CHAMPIONS SAUNA 2PM—ANTHONY
If he showed up I’d consider it a bonus, but as a rule gay saunas are full of men like me who just want some uncomplicated fun, so even if he didn’t I felt sure somebody else would be able to give me what I was looking for. My instructions from Lord Shanderson were to take the day off and relax a little, so who was I to disobey my master? After a little light relief in the darkness of an all-male sauna I was guaranteed to return to work feeling a hell of lot more relaxed.
My phone signaled the arrival of a text message.
Meet U there.
Well, if you insist, I thought as I headed in the direction of Champions.
Following a tiny map on the cutting Juan Carlos had given me, I found the sauna tucked discreetly down a side street and just a short walk from the pier. Even though it was the middle of the afternoon, there was a queue of guys waiting to get in. Most of them seemed to know each other and were chatting like they were waiting in line at the post office. Behind a glass screen there was a good-looking older guy with closely cropped salt and pepper hair. He was dressed younger than his years in a tight fitting vest and gym shorts, but his impressive physique just about allowed him to get away with it.
“Fifteen pounds please, mate,” he said when it was my turn to pay. “There’s condoms in the lockers, and there’s a free buffet on at 7 p.m. if you are still here.”
This was starting to feel like some kind of social club rather than like the seedy saunas I’d visited in London. The ones I was used to were the last resort on a drunken night out and not the kind of places where I’d ever want to bump into friends. This guy seemed to know most of his customers by name and greeted them warmly as he handed out towels and locker keys attached to rubber wristbands.
Forget the aquarium and the Royal Pavilion, I thought as I handed over my cash. It looks like Champions Men-Only Sauna is the hottest ticket in town today.
As I waited for my change I glanced around the reception area and noticed that all the guys in the queue filed through a swing door marked CHANGING ROOMS. All, that is, except one.
I watched as a short, smartly dressed guy strode purposefully across the reception area to another door. He looked like some kind of businessman, with his formal suit and leather briefcase, so compared to the other guys I’d seen entering he looked rather out of place. He stood in front of the door and removed a card from his wallet, pausing only long enough to swipe it in an electronic reader on the wall. He quickly entered, allowing the door to slam shut behind him, but before he did I caught a glimpse of the card in his hand. It was black and shiny and had the words BLACK ORCHID CLUB printed on it in gold.
A voice behind me broke my train of thought.
“Lockers are through the door on the left, mate,” the guy behind the desk shouted over.
“What’s through there?” I asked, pointing to the door on the right.
“Strictly members only,” he said simply, before turning his attention to a new customer.
I must be seeing things, I thought as I followed a couple of the regulars in the direction of the changing rooms. There�
��s no way Lord Shanderson would ever come to a place like this, surely.
The changing room was buzzing with the sound of guys in various states of undress gossiping like a bunch of old women. As I walked through in search of my locker I inhaled the heady mix of chlorine and male sweat and in a matter of seconds was transported back to the school changing rooms. Even now that particular smell is guaranteed to arouse me like no other, and as I began to undress I felt a shiver run down my spine. I quickly stuffed my clothes into the locker, but when I wrapped the threadbare towel around my waist I found it was too small to cover what little modesty I possess. Having never really suffered from any form of body consciousness, and there being only one reason for being in an all-male sauna in the middle of the afternoon, I decided there was no reason to be coy. So, completely naked but for the towel casually draped around my neck like an Italian playboy’s sweater, I headed for the door. On the way I passed a cute blond guy self-consciously attempting to remove his underwear from beneath his own small towel. He glanced up as I passed, but quickly looked away when I winked at him. He was about my age, maybe a bit younger, and despite his chiseled features he managed to look like an embarrassed schoolboy. Maybe it was the flush of pink in his cheeks that did it, but whatever it was, I found him very attractive. It was clear he was not a regular here, and if I had to guess I’d have said it was his first time. His girlfriend probably thought he was at the gym working on his glutes, for all I knew, but I really hoped he would stick around for me to introduce myself properly.
Behind the Scandinavian pine door marked SAUNA, the idle chitchat I’d heard so much of in the locker room was gone. It was eerily quiet and almost completely dark, but as soon as I entered I could feel the sexual tension in the room crackling like static electricity. I felt my way along the wall until I came to a wooden bench and laid the towel down to insulate my bare cheeks from the hot wooden slats. My eyes began to adjust, and as they did I became aware of someone inching toward me along the bench. Moments later I felt a hand brush my thigh before moving away again. Seconds later it tentatively returned, but as the hand began to explore, somebody else entered the sauna, and for a few brief seconds when the door was open the steam cleared enough for me to see who was sitting next to me.
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