The Long Firm

by Jake Arnott

  Met Tom Driberg in the Lobby afterwards. He congratulated me. Genuine warmth there, I’m sure of it. Always felt a sort of cross-bench camaraderie with old Tom. Pure disinterested brotherly, or rather sisterly, affection. Nothing physical you understand. Shared interests. He’s High Church too, of course. And we both have a taste for a bit of rough. He always wants to go down, mind you, being a socialist. I suppose he sees fellatio as an expression of democracy. He once confided his conviction that ingesting young & vigorous semen counters the effects of ageing. He was quite serious about it. I replied that it was probably the closest he’d ever get to transubstantiation. I’m not averse to it myself but I usually like to maintain a proper posture when mingling with the masses, rubbing my honourable member up against the constituency. Mutual masturbation, I think, is the tedious technical term. I hate these modern definitions. Makes everything sound coldly medical rather than deliciously sinful. There’s an ancient word that far better describes my pleasure. Slicklegging.

  Of course I’ve always been more discreet, which isn’t saying much when it comes to Driberg. Don’t know how he’s managed to get away with it all these years. I’ve always been very careful, furtive perhaps, but then that’s in the very essence of pleasure in slicklegging. I’ve always acted with caution. Never caught wet handed as it were.

  ‘How are you celebrating?’ Tom asked.

  I shrugged. I hadn’t gave it much thought. All that ceremony seemed enough. Frankly, I’m a bit too broke at the moment to throw a proper party. A few drinks in White’s later on perhaps. Tom suddenly looked at me conspiratorially.

  ‘Well, you must come to a party tomorrow night, Teddy,’ he insisted. ‘I think you’ll find it interesting.’

  He writes down an address & presses it into my hand with an implicative smile.

  ‘Be there around ten,’ he said.

  I went back to Eaton Square & picked up my mail. A few telegrams of congratulation. One from the constituency association. Won’t have to deal with that dreary lot any more. Two ominous-looking letters. One from Ruth, one from the National Provincial Bank.

  Sir,

  Can I remind you that the borrowing on your account is creeping ever upwards and that the overdraft is now about £1,000 higher than a year ago.

  I feel sure that you are as concerned as I am about this. It is not merely a question of credit squeeze or of the absence of security – this borrowing is costing you something in the region of £150 per annum in interest. Is it not possible to re-budget and reverse the trend? Otherwise, without some assurance of an improvement in this situation I would feel compelled to seek the advice and guidance of my head office.

  Yours faithfully,

  George Budgen

  Manager.

  Teddy,

  I really have had enough of you avoiding facing up to our situation. I’d much rather talk to you directly but I doubt if we’d be able to manage that with any civility so I am forced to write.

  I am sorry that our marriage has turned out so very badly. I feel that I have played my part well enough but I am constantly undermined by your behaviour and your extraordinary mode of life.

  It has always been me that has had to make compromises in order to maintain your precious veneer of respectability but I no longer feel that I can go on in this way.

  A final break between us would probably be for the best but I realise what effect a separation would have on you professionally and socially, so I will agree to continue with the charade under certain conditions.

  As soon as you are in a position to do so, I would like the sum of £250 paid into my account at Chase National Bank on a Banker’s Order each month. I want a separate provision made for me financially. I’m sick of having to deal with your increasingly irate creditors and of never being sure whether the cheques I write will be honoured or not.

  For my part, I will be with you occasionally at Hartwell Lodge, say, the first Sunday of each month so that we can go to church together. Also I agree to go with you to such functions in London and elsewhere that will serve to keep up the facade of happily married life in our new roles of Lord and Lady Thursby.

  For the rest of the time we can be free of each other. You can be free to carry on with your selfish and dissolute lifestyle and I can be free of any useless expectations of your duty as a husband.

  Ruth.

  Well, with all the pomp & circumstance over it’s back to ghastly fucking reality, I suppose. I suddenly felt completely deflated. Pour myself a large gin & start to make dreary calculations. Incoming: no MP’s salary, odd bits of journalism beginning to dry up (no one interested now I’m no longer the flamboyant backbencher), expenses for attendance in the Lords (but the less time spent at that Darby & Joan club the better), BBC work poorly paid & notoriously slow in actually coughing up. Outgoing: my ‘selfish and dissolute lifestyle’, as Ruth calls it. Could make some economies there I suppose though I’m loath to do so. And that bitch wants £250 a month! Just where she thinks I’ll find that kind of money is beyond me. Ungrateful cow. I never asked anything of her. Though, on reflection, that could be seen as the root of our problems. Repairs on Hartwell Lodge. Dry rot, wood beetle, estimated costs £2,000. Get up and pour myself another gin.

  Depressing that I should have to be thinking of how I can balance the books on the very day of my glorious investiture. Maybe I could write a book. Get an advance on the royalties and pay off a few debts. What about, though? Still too young to be writing my memoirs even though I am almost as old as the century. The obvious thing, of course would be to sell the house. Hartwell Lodge. The baronial seat of the first (& last, let’s face it) Lord Thursby. No, it would never do. Besides, I love it too much even though its Tudor foundations are falling to bits.

  Get rotten fou brooding over such matters. And so to bed. Gin melancholia well & truly set in.

  Tuesday, 3 November

  Johnson in the White House with a landslide. Yanks obviously had no stomach for this Goldwater creature & I can’t say I blame them.

  Evening & I’m off to this ‘party’ Tom D. mentioned yesterday. Find the slip of paper he handed me with that salacious grin of his in my pocket. A Chelsea address & a name. Harry Starks. The name means nothing. Sounds Jewish. Still, Tom’s contacts always hold some strange promise.

  Arrive about ten thirty. Shown into a large, rather over-furnished drawing room by a blond-haired young man. Some sort of a houseboy maybe. A hideous stone fireplace had been constructed around the chimney breast & a bar, complete with optics, had been built into a connecting wall but apart from that there hadn’t been too much vandalism. There were a few quite agreeable pieces of furniture that one would guess had been here when the present occupier had moved in but, my goodness, the place was stuffed with all manner of junk. Boxing & horse-racing memorabilia, African & Oriental kitsch, trashy porcelain figurines & lots of gilt-framed photographs. Each one showed a heavy-set man with slicked-back hair caught in stillness with any number of what one would call, I guess, ‘showbusiness personalities’. Next to each professional smile, the man, whom I guessed must be our host, held an equally professional stare. Defiant & direct yet shyly cautious, as if superstitious of the camera & somewhat wary of being identified. A lonely expression amidst the cheap & flashy glamour, looking out from the glossy surface as if in search for something more.

  The blond boy brought me a gin & tonic & I looked around the room. Quite a crowd. A close-knit group of men with battered faces who looked like retired boxers or doormen. A few flashy-looking types, someone I’m sure I recognise from the television, more sombre men mingling with them, & lots of young men. Boys. I caught sight of a clerical collar. I saw our host talking with Tom Driberg. An imposingly powerful-looking man. His Savile Row suit gave him an air of savage nobility. It was a dark-blue chalk stripe just like my own.

  Tom caught my eye & beckoned me over.

  ‘Harry,’ he said, ‘let me introduce you to Lord Thursby.’

  His joined-up e
yebrows raised as one. I could see he was impressed. Probably took me for full-blooded aristocracy instead of just a kicked-upstairs life peer. There’s a strange sort of bond between the lower-class tearaway & the upper-class bounder. A shared hatred of the middle classes I suppose. He shoved out his hand, adorned with chunky rings & a big gold wristwatch.

  ‘I’m honoured, your lordship.’

  I grinned. It was the first time I was referred to by my title since the ceremony.

  ‘Call me Teddy,’ I insisted & took his strong grip.

  ‘Harry,’ he grinned back & I just knew we’d get along.

  ‘Harry does a lot of charity work in the East End,’ said Tom.

  ‘Really?’

  Harry shrugged.

  ‘Boys’ clubs, that sort of thing,’ he explained.

  His own sort of noblesse oblige, I suppose, with its optional droit de seigneur one imagines.

  Two of the boys were setting up a film projector & a screen at one end of the room. One of the pugilists had assumed the role of major domo, arranging the seating, giving orders to the other boys & glancing over to Harry, who appeared to be directing everything from afar whilst still engaged in conversation with me.

  ‘Come on Teddy,’ he said with a wink, gently taking my arm & leading me to a seat. ‘The entertainment’s about to begin.’

  The party slowly got seated as the room was darkened. The film was a series of vignettes. Short scenes of innocent depravity. An old-fashioned, almost prelapsarian quality about them. More like drawing-room farce than any of this modern art-house pornography. There was as much emphasis on costume as on nudity in their erotic content. Dressing up was as important as undressing. Master & footman were depicted amidst the golden age of Edwardian romanticism complete with chaise longue & french windows. Sailors on shore leave wrestled with each other in playful brutality. Even a scene with leather boys, despite its bondage & mild sadism, had a naive quality to it, a child-like nostalgie de la boue.

  Gasps of delight & muttered comments of approval from the room as the film proceeded but also other sounds that indicated that what was on screen was merely dumbshow for the main drama of the evening. There was already some groping in the darkness. The celluloid clattered to an abrupt end leaving a bright white square on the screen. Two of the boys started undressing each other. The beam of the projector caught their tight little bodies in a harsh chiaroscuro. Wanton flesh outlined with charcoal-thick shadow. One boy knelt to take the other’s cock in his mouth.

  Harry distributed the boys among his guests as largesse. They went into service or were themselves served. One of the businessmen was on his knees in front of the broken-nosed major domo. Some of the party were content in their role of audience. Touching themselves as they looked on. They also serve, those who watch & wait.

  A young lad was propelled towards me by our host & we found a quiet corner in one of the bedrooms. He leant back against the wall with a lazily arrogant look on his tough little face as we indulged in a little slicklegging. I grabbed at his crotch & kneaded it through the cloth.

  ‘Get your cock out,’ I ordered softly as I undid my own fly.

  I spat on the palm of my hand & rubbed our cocks together vigorously, coaxing some languid groans from the hoarse-voiced youngster.

  ‘You naughty boy,’ I muttered harshly as I brought the two of us off. ‘You naughty, naughty boy.’

  I gave a strangled cry of delight & relief as my mind darkened & sperm spilled out through my hand onto the front of my trousers. The youth gave an indolent sort of grunt then was off, no doubt to continue in his duties. I pulled out the handkerchief from my top pocket & wiped myself off. Felt a sense of calm & no little exhaustion from my exertions. Takes it out of you at my age. From every part of the flat could be heard the strange sounds of sexual indulgence. I felt drained & in need of refreshment. A gin & tonic would do the trick, I thought. Wandered out through the gloom of the bedroom. Nearly tripped over Tom Driberg, honourable member for Barking, on his knees, energetically sucking away.

  Wednesday, 11 November

  I got a call from Harry in the week suggesting that we meet for a drink. So I invited him to White’s. I knew he’d be impressed, not just because it was London’s oldest & most prestigious club. It retains a touch of aristocratic raffishness that has all but vanished from the rest of clubland, a quality that I instinctively knew Harry would be drawn to. Just as I was drawn to his own kind of style. Such a change from the dreary businessmen, the constituency-party Tories I’ve been used to dealing with. Boring me to death in the Hartwell Conservative Club. I suspected even then that Mr Starks wasn’t exactly, shall we say, kosher despite his Yiddish name. He was dangerous, but that was part of his charm.

  I saw him catching his own reflection in the huge mirror on the stairway as I showed him around. Seeing himself framed by its baroque elegance he permitted a wistful smile to play across his lips. We walked through the collonaded entrance into the games room. Harry walked over to the billiard table. He seemed drawn to it, reassured by its familiarity.

  ‘White’s is one of the few clubs in London with a billiard table,’ I explained.

  He looked absorbed as he gently fingered the green baize.

  ‘I used to have a billiard hall,’ he declared. ‘Well, I was part owner. The bloke who ran it offered me a partnership. He was having a spot of bother.’

  Harry grinned over at me.

  ‘Fancy a game, Harry?’ I asked.

  ‘No thanks, Teddy,’ he replied, slapping the side of the table. ‘Solid enough things, billiard tables. Still, so easy for the felt to get ripped.’

  Harry caught my eye with a blank stare. A well-practised look. One that can intimidate & yet draw one in at the same time.

  ‘Let’s have a drink,’ I suggested breezily & we walked through together. Harry leant back in his leather armchair, taking a sip of brandy & soda, casually surveying the fixtures & fittings.

  ‘Nice place,’ he commented. ‘Wouldn’t mind joining myself.’

  I smiled, hoping that he was joking. The club has a two-year waiting list & Harry’s background wouldn’t exactly support an application. I had a vague horror of him making White’s some sort of offer. Then he frowned with the thick line where his eyebrows joined. He took another gulp of brandy & sighed sharply.

  ‘So, Teddy,’ he said.

  I could tell he enjoyed the familiarity just as he savoured the formality. The combination was irresistible.

  ‘I was wondering if we could talk business.’

  ‘Business?’ I countered with a casual cautiousness.

  ‘Yes, business. I have a proposition. I wonder if you’d be interested in becoming involved with a new company I’m starting up. As a director.’

  ‘Well, I’m a bit tied up at the moment, Harry. Otherwise.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t mean that you’d be involved in an executive position, Teddy. I wouldn’t expect you to take part in the day-to-day running of it. Just, you know . . .’

  He shrugged.

  ‘The occasional board meeting?’ I suggested helpfully. ‘Turn up to the annual general meeting. That sort of thing?’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied with a smile. ‘That sort of thing.’

  Friday, 13 November

  To Bristol to record Any Questions? With me on the panel – Dingle Foot, Tony Crosland & Violet Bonham-Carter. Excellent dinner before the programme.

  One of the questions was ‘What do you think will be the effects of a more permissive society?’ I replied that the twenties had been a bit of a wild party but we’d got away with it then because we didn’t ask anybody’s permission. Much laughter and applause.

  Tuesday, 17 November

  Have officially been made a director of Empire Refrigeration Ltd. Appointment confirmed with a cheque for £2,000 brought around to my flat in person by one of Harry’s boys. And it wasn’t only the money that was delivered by hand.

  So, I’m out of a hole financially, for the time being at le
ast. I can keep the bank & Ruth off my back for a while. Things are looking up. Harry’s desire for legitimacy definitely has its possibilities for me. The name Lord Thursby is bound to look good on his letter headings. His strong-arm stuff can get him respect but friends like me can get him respectability.

  Saturday, 21 November

  By way of reciprocation, Harry takes me to his club. ‘It ain’t exactly White’s, Teddy,’ he explained. The Stardust is located at the unfashionable end of Soho, south of Shaftesbury Avenue, virtually in Chinatown. A nice enough place, I suppose, if a little on the kitsch side. Still, if its decor lacked the bohemian charm of some other Soho haunts, this was more than made up for by the real danger of some of its clients. A photographer was on hand, of course, to record my visit. And so I finally enter Harry’s gallery of ‘personalities’, grinning with bow-tied & puffy-faced affability next to a stern Harry & a coloured boxer.

  Monday, 23 November

  Today I joined the board of Victory Electrical Goods. Took rather a shine to the young man that Harry sent around. His name is Craig. Good-looking in a rough sort of way that I find irresistible. Trouble written all over him of course but something shy & vulnerable about him as well. A nervous sensitivity. After some very satisfactory slicklegging we have a little chat. Turns out he’s got nowhere permanent to stay. Suggested that he could stay with me. I would pay him to keep the place tidy, do the odd job here & there. He seemed taken with the idea but said that he’d have to check with Harry first.

  Friday, 27 November