James Grant

By Stanislas M. Yassukovich

This story of James Grant, his family and the class they belong to is not of our time. That class still exists and its prosperity is unabated. But its position in the American national psyche is greatly diminished, its glitter dulled by the passage of time - and a change in the mores of society as a whole. But I have written it because I believe the foibles of the human heart and its redeeming strengths possess a universality which overcomes the angst of changing times. I have set the stage in an unfamiliar time to mine. Whether my characters that stride upon that cluttered stage would remain credible in a stark, modern setting, I cannot judge. I had no one in particular in mind in devising them. They are as the ghosts that populate our dreams - a compendium of hints and reflections of those who have crossed our consciousness in the ill-remembered past.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Jul 31, 2020
• ISBN: 9781528979917

Stanislas M. Yassukovich

Stanislas M. Yassukovich was born in Paris of a Russian émigré father and a French mother. The family went to America in 1940, and Stanislas was educated there at Deerfield Academy and Harvard College. He served in the United States Marine Corps and then moved to England in 1961, where he pursued a distinguished career in the City of London—becoming known as one of the founders of the international capital markets. On retirement, he moved to the Luberon region of Provence in Southern France, and he now lives in the Western Cape, South Africa. For services to the financial industry, Stanislas was made a Commander of the Order of the British Empire. He is a Fellow of the Royal Society of Arts and a Freeman of the City of London. His previous works, Two Lives: A Social and Financial Memoir, Lives of the Luberon, James Grant, a novel, and Short Stories, a collection, were published by Austin Macauley Publishers in 2016, 2020 and 2021. Stanislas is married to the former Diana Townsend of Lowdale Farm, Mazoe, Zimbabwe, and they have three children: Tatyana, Michael, and Nicholas.

Book preview

Epilogue

About the Author

The author is a retired investment banker who was born in France of a White Russian émigré father and a French mother. He grew up and was educated in the United States – at Deerfield Academy and Harvard College. He pursued a distinguished career in the City of London, and then lived in France for many years. He now lives in South Africa. He has published two books: Two Lives, a Social & Financial Memoir in 2017, and Lives of the Luberon in 2019. He is married and has three children.

Dedication

To my children: Tatyana, Michael and Nicholas.

Copyright Information ©

Stanislas M. Yassukovich (2020)

Front cover watercolour image by Kate Yates

The right of Stanislas M. Yassukovich to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781528979870 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781528979887 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781528979917 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2020)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd

25 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5LQ

Acknowledgments

I am grateful to those who have read my previous work and encouraged me to continue writing.

I also wish to thank Kate Yates, née Babcock, a friend of my youth and ever since, for permission to use her watercolour image on the cover.

"When I was young, all lives but mine

Were windows in a house of stone

From which interior light did shine

On me, outside, alone."

Charles Morgan

Part I

The first friend we make on the first day at primary school provokes more lasting memories than later friends. We make that friend quickly – nervous of the new crowd and to limit the strangeness of this first social experience. There is no reason why a certain one becomes a ‘best friend’, rather than another. No similarity of looks, stature or taste will explain it. Eventually, the smallest might befriend the biggest for protection as playground games become rough, and the most gifted child has been known to help the scholastic laggard. But those are friendships developed, once distinct personalities have emerged. The truly first friendship is unqualified and accidental. And, as later life produces a fork, with two friends going entirely separate ways, neither may recall why they became fast friends in first school days.

I certainly don’t remember why I picked out James Grant on my first day at grade school. The other children were all chattering amicably in the entrance hall. Many seemed to know each other already. I felt I had to approach someone. I am sure he didn’t speak to me first. Perhaps we were dressed alike. We had no school uniform, but grey flannel shorts with knee stockings and a plain polo shirt under a sleeveless jumper were standard wear. My jumper was clearly home knit, by the nanny we had left behind in England. We were a co-educational school, and the girls provided rather more sartorial variety. In the initial melee of children being dropped, self-segregation by gender had taken place immediately. James and I stood silently together, after a brief exchange of greetings. When we went into the classroom, we were to be seated randomly, and by mutual decision my new friend and I took seats in the same row, but on either side of the central aisle dividing the classroom. However, my worst moment came as soon as we were settled as we were asked to rise in turn and state our name. My mother had warned me about this and had told me to be unafraid and speak up strongly. But my heart sank to my shoes. Now I watched each classmate stand up, from right to left, row by row and my distress intensified. From the high-pitched voices, some mumbling – and asked to repeat by the teacher – others, particularly the girls, more confidently, there poured forth a catalogue of English names. Some were vaguely familiar to me as friends of my parents, but all were as thoroughly White Anglo-Saxon Protestant as could be imagined. Sitting there, my heart pounding, I saw, in the corner of my eye, my new friend stand and say, rather languidly: ‘James Grant’. As he sat down, I could feel him turn to look at me, for I was next. I was not sure my legs would allow me to rise. Teacher was looking straight at me. I glanced across the aisle at James Grant and he gave an almost imperceptible nod. I got up and spoke my name as firmly as I could. There was an immediate, class wide titter and some outright laughter. I sat down and looked at James again. He was not even smiling. That unspoken expression of support, of refusal to share in general hilarity, of defiance in the face of potential mockery, left an impression that is with me to this day.

From the earliest conscious age, I had been made aware that we were different – a family displaced by war and revolution, those usually linked geopolitical disasters. In our case, it was the First World War and the Bolshevik Revolution that had exiled my father, and the outbreak of the Second, which had brought us as a family to the United States. My mother was French and we spoke it at home, but a year in England with an English nanny had given me fluency in that language, and my accent was very similar to that prevalent amongst the American ‘old money’ class on the north shore of Long Island. But it did not take me long to realise that our eastern European name was different from those of the society in which we found ourselves, although similar names existed amongst the immigrants my father would describe as ‘modest people’. On that first day at school, after my turn at the rollcall, teacher was quick to rebuke the whole class, pointing out that their names would seem just as funny to people in Russia. Now I wonder whether a group of seven-year-olds had the slightest idea where Russia was. But children being naturally generous, until that virtue is deformed by the bitterness of life experience, I became an object of curiosity rather than scorn. I quickly found that my new friend, James Grant, reacted differently, treating my strange name not as a subject of curiosity, but rather of no consequence, and our friendship was to evolve as if my name had been Smith or Jones. My first impression of James’s nature, which only now, with my adult vocabulary, I can describe as ‘languid’, was reinforced as I knew him better. He was a very good-looking boy, with even features, blue eyes and a shock of sand-coloured hair, which prior to arrival at school had clearly been flattened with a wet hairbrush but became unruly as the day wore on. Taller than most, with an erect carriage, he had a poise of his own, and a seemingly bemused contempt for the more natural behaviour of his peers. His manner contained a subtle air of superiority, but it was paternal rather than arrogant. I was not conscious that he engendered any sort of resentment from classmates by his somewhat off hand pose, and, although I think his friendship with me was noticed, it didn’t hinder his ability to mix with the others – nor did they think curious that he should befriend the odd boy out. Certainly, my way to acceptance was eased by his quietly protective attitude towards me. At games, James displayed an athleticism that was enough to underscore his popularity, but not so excessive as to produce envy. I was in no position to judge his scholastic merit – mine soon proved to be rather unsatisfactory. As the school reports made clear, I had great difficulty concentrating. A cause was my inclination to observe my classmates, at the expense of attention to schoolwork. I felt like an explorer in a distant land noting the habits of the indigenous population. If, gradually, I seemed less different to my schoolmates, they still seemed very different to me. James, from his desk across the aisle, would catch me staring and tap his pencil on the desk to warn me teacher was also observing my lack of attention. In the playground, groups would form, the more important including James. He would make no conscious effort to draw me in, but as I approached, my confidence growing, James would make room for me in a casual and innocuous way. But still I remained anxious to break down any barriers my odd name might create and so became rather loud and boisterous in class, in fact, a bit of a ‘show off’. James would greet my antics with a wry smile and look about, as if to say ‘my friend’s a bit of a clown’. But he never collaborated in any way in what were seen by Teacher as unwelcome class disturbances. Whereas my behaviour alienated some and received applause from others, James stayed neutral; and seemed to regard it as an understandable consequence of my social handicap.

I soon had occasions to observe my new friend outside the confines of schoolroom and playground. By second grade we were able to take the school bus, several of which plied the roads from which the drives of the great estates emanated, and it was deemed we could walk unattended the short distances to gather at the pick-up points. I crossed a neighbour’s estate to get to mine. It happened that James lived off the same road and we foregathered, with a small clutch of other schoolmates – mostly older, at the same bus stop. During our wait and the subsequent journey, I observed the generational segregation that seemed so pronounced amongst the young in my new world. I think there might have been two or three fourth graders and at least two much older children. There was no intercourse whatsoever between the grades – not even a peremptory greeting. But I could not help noticing that one or two of the older girls looked at James with interest. If he sensed the attention, he showed no sign. I had an even more intimate contact some time later. There was a curious custom in our Long Island set of dropping children off at another house to ‘play’. This was particularly curious to my parents who thought it distinctly odd that young children should have organised social occasions. All the houses of my schoolmates I saw had playrooms. Ours certainly did not. One Saturday, I was told I was to be dropped off at a friend’s house to play. The friend was a classmate called Janet Frasier, who was almost an only child, as her sister was considerably older and already at boarding school. On arrival, I found James – to my delight. Janet announced we were going to play ‘families’. In the playroom was a bridge table under a stiff plastic cover in the shape of a house with a roof, windows, etc. And an opening at the side through which the three of us crawled. Inside were little cups and saucers and other miniature artefacts. Janet took control.

You are my husband! she said to James.

No, I’m not – he is, replied James, pointing to me.

What are you then? I asked, trying to get into the spirit of this strange game.

I’m the uncle, said James in a firm voice.

The game continued, with Janet serving a mock tea and chattering away about mock family matters, whilst James and I were mostly silent, quickly bored and not enjoying the intimacy under the bridge table. But the reference to an uncle intrigued me. I had no uncle in my life.

My friendship with James continued as we grew, at school and without, but it remained at a superficial level. We did not yet confide mutual impressions as school friends do. I amused James with tales of what were for him the eccentricities of my family life, but without describing my parents in much detail. He never spoke of his own. Soon I was dropped off to play at his house, usually alone, and at first I did not ask my parents to issue reciprocal invitations because we had no playroom – only a house full of antiques, making indoor play difficult. I thought I would wait until summer when we could play on the lawn. Our house was small by comparison with the bulk of our neighbours’ mansions, even Janet Frasier’s, where we had played ‘families’. Reputedly, ours was to have been built for the mistress of a magnate whose domain lay on the other side of the golf course of our country club – we were within the club grounds, and both houses were on a rise, so that he could gaze across the fairways at his fair love. Like so many houses in our parts, its architecture was in the European tradition. It might have been a manor house in Normandy, with its stuccoed oak frame, and its builder had imported the panelling in the drawing room from France. By contrast, James lived in a huge, cavernous, Palladian style mansion at the end of a long drive, surrounded by park and paddocks. It took him more than a half hour to walk to the bus stop.

I become familiar with my surroundings by drives with my parents, the school bus route and conversations at home about the particularities of our neighbourhood. I knew that the north shore of Long Island had once been agricultural and dominated by potato fields. Indeed, a few still existed in between the great estates. These last had been laid out at the turn of the century by the rich merchants, bankers and lawyers of the city of New York – soon to be joined by moguls of the great industrial fortunes from Pittsburgh, Philadelphia, Chicago and points west. The creators of this new wealth mostly sought to emulate the great estates of England. Some were of French inspiration, and not a few copied the 19th century imitations of the genuine châteaux one sees in France itself. There was also Victorian mock Gothic in clapboard or stucco – but most were in the Georgian and Palladian style. The enduring legacy, however, which remained after the break-up of most of the estates, was arboreal. Landscape architects, in the tradition of Capability Brown, had planted millions of trees – from the native flowering dogwoods and birches, to limes and oaks and every known species that might thrive in the sandy soil. They were the ultimate transformers of the dull and flat plains of that ‘slender, riotous isle’, as F Scott Fitzgerald had termed it in The Great Gatsby.

That first visit to James’s house was my most direct introduction to the physical environment that was to decorate my early life and surround both its joys and its tragedies. The house seemed strangely empty. I asked him where his parents were and he replied, Oh – away, you know – here and there. Of course, I didn’t know and didn’t ask again. The house was fully staffed with a butler called Baines, a cook and several maids – all Irish.

Who looks after you? I asked on an early visit.

Oh… Bridey does, of course, James replied, surprised I didn’t know.

Bridey was a Mrs O’Brian who served as both governess and housekeeper. She was a well-set woman of a certain age with a ruddy complexion and a very full head of grey hair, carefully arranged in a bun. Her deep-blue eyes exuded both intelligence and affection – and her bustling movements added some life to a strangely lifeless interior. There was also a head groom called Shaughnessy who doubled as chauffeur. When James could see over the steering wheel, he let him drive an old car around the estate lanes, using the choke and hand brake, and a piece of wood attached to extend the clutch. In fact, Shaughnessy was a principal source of entertainment for James, who seemed without regular playmates until school began to provide some. James continued to be highly reticent about his family. All I knew was that he was an only child. I probed further one day.

Who checks on Mrs O’Brian? I knew my mother kept a critical eye on my governess.

My uncle comes by from time to time, was James’s brief reply.

This took me back immediately to our famous game of ‘families’ at Janet’s house, when James had wanted to be the uncle. I always looked forward to going over to James’s to play, as there were a huge variety of toys inside and out. Shaughnessy had rigged up a lawn mower engine to power a big sled with treads over the runners and in winter we roared about, inevitably overturning. My father had early on taught me to ride on hirelings from our country club stables. At James’s there were ponies and horses and a paddock with small jumps – plus a good deal of space to gallop about in the park. We were looked after by Shaughnessy who laughed when we occasionally fell off. Finally, in the spring, my mother said, Why don’t you ask your friend James to come and play this Saturday afternoon? Containing my excitement and trying to be nonchalant, I passed the invitation on to James next day at school. When he arrived, dropped off by Shaughnessy, he immediately asked to see inside the house. I think he had never seen such a small house filled with antiques. He shook hands politely with my mother – with a curious little bow. That evening I overheard my mother say to my father, Il y a quelque chose qui ne tourne pas rond avec ce petit. (There’s something not quite right with that little boy). I didn’t dare ask her what she meant by that but thought about it a good deal.

Our school days progressed normally until one day a scandal broke. In our class we had no idea what it was all about, but we saw teachers in deep discussion and various rumours circulated. It seemed James Grant might be implicated as he suddenly disappeared from the bus stop and the teacher announced, James won’t be with us for a while.

She didn’t say he was ill, and a classmate whispered to me, He’s been thrown out! Still no one had a clear idea of the circumstances, but the incident produced the first serious conversation my father had with me. My father stayed well away from the nursery and subsequent contact with me, until I was of what he called the ‘conscious age’ which, for him, started around fifteen. But now he took me aside, saying there had been trouble at my school and warning me not to play with or show what he referred to as the ‘little tail’. It took me aback and I didn’t immediately grasp why he was issuing such an intimate warning. It would seem James had exposed himself to a girl. The headmaster had reported the incident to parents for fear inaccurate rumours would reach them. James returned to school some weeks later, and if the incident was discussed, it was not in my hearing. I made no mention of it to James and he acted as though nothing had happened. Invitations to go and play at his house did not cease, but, more often than not, I was the only guest.

On one such occasion James announced, Uncle’s coming to tea. He showed no emotion whatever at this prospect, neither joy, nor annoyance and made no effort at further explanation.

Coming from where, I asked. Where does he live?

Oh, here and there, replied James in his usual, casual fashion, he’ll probably tell us where he’s just been – shooting, I guess.

Once again, this puzzled me, ‘here and there’, the same expression James had used regarding his parents. How can one live ‘here and there?’ I wondered. I knew school friends went to holiday homes, in Maine, for example – in the summer. One always talked about a quail farm in Georgia, where he had exciting times following the shooters in a horse and buggy. And, of course, I knew that multiple homes were a consequence of divorce, and a large number of my schoolmates, perhaps even most, had divorced parents. ‘Daddy lives in Florida’, they might say – or ‘I’m going to stay with my stepfather in town’. This idea of divorce had intrigued me from the first, particularly when I heard accounts of generous Christmas and birthday presents from as many as four parents, when the original ones had remarried. My parents had explained that divorce was a peculiar habit of Protestants, and my mother had added that it was often coupled with drink. References to my schoolmates with divorced parents, after my play days at their houses, usually drew a remark such as le pauvre petit from my mother, and I quickly realised that she was not referring to the financial condition of the family in question, as they were always in big houses with servants. But James had never told me his parents were divorced, whereas other children seemed to boast about it. Nor had he ever referred to multiple presents. In fact, when the inevitable conversation comparing Christmas presents took place on return to school after the holidays, James was a silent participant. None of this explained how it was possible for parents to live ‘here and there’.

The uncle turned out to be a rather jolly Pickwickian figure who introduced himself to me, with mocked formality, as ‘Nathaniel Grant, Esquire’. I stammered my name, and he smiled. What on earth shall I call you? And, by the way, under no circumstances are you to call me ‘Mr Grant’, or ‘Nat’. Young James here knows better than to call me ‘Uncle Nat’. What do you call this whippersnapper? he asked, tousling my friend’s hair.

James, I whispered, nervously.

Good! If you had said ‘Jim’, I would have chucked you out the front door. You can call me Nathaniel.

Yes, sir.

Nathaniel! And you still haven’t told me what I call you.

Misha, er…I mean Michael, I had not faced this dilemma before. My parents called me Misha and so did the parents of the children I played with; most of my schoolmates did the same, but clearly this uncle had a dislike of diminutives.

Aha! boomed the uncle, Another bloody nick name! But I rather like it. What does young James call you?

Here was a devastating question, for I realised, almost for the first time that James didn’t call me anything – perhaps so as not to draw attention to my foreign origins. But suddenly – he did.

I call him Misha, said James, intervening sharply.

Do you now? Well, well…in that case, so will I. Let’s have some tea.

At tea, Uncle Nathaniel drank a whiskey and soda, whilst we consumed lemonade, cake, biscuits and bread and butter. We never learned where he had just come from; James didn’t ask, and I was too shy to say anything. My friend was interrogated about school by his uncle, but not in any searching way, rather as a way of making conversation. There was a discussion about ponies, and I was asked how I liked this one or that one, as by now, I had ridden almost all the horses in the yard. There were racehorses in training in Aiken, South Carolina, and Uncle Nathaniel reported on their racing prospects. The only reference to James’s parents was a question as to whether James had received the silk pyjamas his mother had sent from Paris. When James nodded, with a quick look at me, Uncle Nathaniel muttered, Good grief! Kids in silk pyjamas! at no one in particular. At no point was James’s father, mentioned, though I assumed Uncle Nathaniel must be his brother. Finally, he downed the last of his whiskey and soda, picked up a biscuit, looked at it, frowned, and put it down.

Well, back to play you lads – I’m off to confer with Bridey. Fetch my briefcase on the round table in the hall, will you, Misha?

This command left me with two impressions. The first was that Uncle Nathaniel had accepted me, and social acceptance remained my principal pre-occupation, and the second was that uncle and the nephew wanted a private conversation. To accommodate this possibility, I lagged a bit returning from the hall, to be greeted by a friendly reprimand.

So, Misha, daydreaming on the way back, eh? James was still sitting, taciturn as usual, in the same chair. When Uncle Nathaniel had left, I was even more curious to know about him, but all James would say was, Oh, I never ask him about what he does, or where he goes – he doesn’t like it.

As it became established at home that my best friend was James Grant, my parents found it strange that I was unable to say much about him. I explained that he never talked about his parents and never asked about mine. I didn’t say that I had volunteered quite a bit about our lifestyle. I suppose my parents made enquiries, and I ended up learning more about James from them, rather than from my friend directly. It seems the Grants were an old Philadelphia family – Quakers, originally, and their fortune was based on merchanting and banking. During the 19th century, they had sold the family banking and trading house that had borne their name, converted to the Episcopalian religion and become prominent members of first Philadelphia, and then New York, society. Like so many American fortunes, theirs had benefited from honest and wise custodianship by private banks, lawyers and trustees. Naturally, black sheep and spendthrift offspring had appeared from time to time, but protective trusts had been established at an early stage, even before the First World War. The two decades that followed had seen a loosening of morals and many a family fortune had suffered from the feckless behaviour of the heirs. But the Grant fortune was very much intact, and four generations had now lived on the income from trusts – in no gainful employment whatever. James’s parents were not divorced, but his mother had been living in Paris for some time. She was originally from Boston and named Catherine Bramwell. Little was known about his father, at least nothing my parents could discreetly discover, although my mother suspected a drinking problem. There were uncles, aunts and cousins – including, of course, Uncle Nathaniel, and these were scattered about at home and abroad, in various locales well suited to the needs of the idle rich.

Our life as friends went on in the same casual fashion. James was increasingly good at games whereas I was middling at best. His scholastic work was below mine but his prowess in all the sports on our primary school programme secured his popularity, even amongst the teachers. I had matured in one important way – I was increasingly more comfortable amongst my peers, sensing a growing acceptance – not just because I was known as James’s friend but, I fancied, because I was more confident. My behaviour in class improved, to the relief of my teachers and parents. We all belonged to the same country club, one of the most exclusive in the country, and the fact that my parents had been elected as members was quickly known, even amongst my classmates. This unquestionably boosted my standing. I was given tennis lessons at the club with a Basque professional who was actually a court tennis player, having been brought up on jeu de paumes in southwest France., This is an ancient game closely linked to court or ‘real’ tennis, as it’s called in England. Most of the year, Pierre was based at the Tennis & Racquet club in the city, where there were two such courts, including others for squash and racquets. But in the summer season, Pierre gave lawn tennis lessons to the young at our country club. My mother enjoyed the fact that my lessons were in French. One day we were having a pre lesson rally, when James wandered by, having been active on another court. Suddenly Pierre addressed him in French and suggested he join us. To my astonishment, James answered in the same language, and continued on, as we played a bit of two against one. As we finished, Pierre asked after James’s father and said, What a player he was! The reference was clearly to court tennis.

I didn’t know you spoke French, I said to James as we left the court.

I don’t like people to know, replied James, stinging me a bit, as I didn’t think I was ‘people’. I suppose this was why he had not spoken French to my mother.

So, your father plays court tennis? I went on.

He plays lots of things, racquets, golf, polo – you name it.

Where? I sensed a breakthrough.

Oh, here and there, said James, Let’s go get a coke.

So, we were back to ‘here and there’. I didn’t insist, as I knew the form now. James would not only refuse to elaborate – he would grow surly and moody when anyone raised the subject of his parents. His classmates knew better than to do so – and I knew even better, as our friendship was at stake. I couldn’t resist telling my mother of my new discovery of James’s bilingualism, and she shook her head and said, Quelle honte! – and there followed a diatribe about the scandal of Protestant parents abandoning the care of their child to a housekeeper and an uncle who was hardly ever there. My mother was not a particularly extreme Catholic, but she tended to ascribe the perceived sins of our new neighbours on Long Island to their Protestantism.

As we entered our early teens, inevitably the subject of sex began to creep into our conversations, in private and at his house. One day, James asked me if I ‘did it’. I blushed and stammered a bit. Of course, I had begun to play with myself in an experimental fashion.

I’ll bet you don’t know how, he said, at my unease.

Of course, I do.

Show me.

What, here?

Why not? Here – I’ll start.

We were in his large bedroom, and James sat on the bed, proceeded to remove his shorts and underpants and started to stroke his penis.

Go on! he said to me, – I was in a nearby armchair.

Take your pants off and start. I want to watch you. I did as I was told, to reveal a member rather smaller than his, which was enlarging as he stroked it. He didn’t really watch me, but lay back and started to groan, raising and lowering his hips as he speeded up his actions. I was trying to keep up with only moderate success, but James seemed to be reaching some sort of climax and, with a shout, he ejaculated.

You haven’t come yet, he said, taking a tissue. It was the first time I had heard that expression. Keep going! he ordered.

James started to play with himself again and pulled a magazine full of pictures of naked girls from under his pillow, which he spread open and put on the floor in front of me.

Look at that! he commanded. I did, having never seen such a thing before. The feeling began to grow in me, and as I looked at the pictures and then at James, who was starting again, it happened – for my first time. James continued frantically and had a second climax.

This first sexual experience preyed on my mind for some time – and, of course increased the frequency of my own onanism at home. A maid had a word with my mother about stains on the sheets, for she told my father whose only remark to me was, Keep a box of tissues by your bed. Never had my father spoken to me about such an intimate subject – and he never did again. James was, as usual, totally casual about it all and treated the experience, and those that followed, as if we had merely taken up a new game, like chess or badminton. His supply of increasingly explicit pornographic magazines multiplied, and I guessed Shaughnessy, the groom, must be the source. I never dared to take one home for fear of discovery. One day, James, inspired by photographs in his magazines, suggested I lie on top of him and