Elsingham's Son

A Family Drama in Sixteen Scenes

by Airn Hethaway

email: s_psoli@yahoo.co.uk

Scene IX

The coroner returned a verdict of accidental death due to reckless driving whilst under the influence of alcohol. The post-mortem also revealed that at the time of her death, Poppy had been about six weeks pregnant, although the fact was kept quiet, at Larry’s insistence. Not even Paul was told. Larry thought he could guess who the father was, but as no-one would ever find out, why bother making it public, just for the maiden aunts to get their teeth into.

     The driver of the van was cleared of all blame; he never had time to react, much less try and avoid the collision.

     The funeral took place ten days after the accident.

     Outwardly, Paul seemed to be coping, his demeanor quietly efficient, his appearance stoic, but inside, he was stricken. Although he seemed to be a distant person, always in control of his feelings, he had loved his only daughter very dearly, in his own way. Never a demonstrative man, he now blamed himself for never telling his daughter what she meant to him. When his wife had died after a short but vicious illness, from cancer some twelve years ago, Paul had become even more inward-looking. Never one to wear his emotions on his sleeve, many thought him a cold fish, but inside, Paul was flesh and blood. Alone, he wept bitterly for his daughter, accusing himself with countless if-only’s.

     Larry, too, was deeply saddened by Poppy’s passing. However, he was more pragmatic about it. If truth be told, it had always been a question of when not  if some accident would befall Poppy. Either a car crash, as was the case, or any number of other ways – in his estimation Poppy had always been a disaster waiting to happen. She lived life recklessly, unlike himself. She took risks, physically and emotionally, whereas he preferred to maintain the status quo, she would always be the one who went too far, be it in a practical joke on friends, or the hare-brained holidays she went on, her infamous bouts of drinking, as well as her driving. When he saw the little yellow Porsche smash into the side of the van, his immediate, involuntary thought was, Poppy’s done it again!

     Gerda’s reaction was slightly more complex. Of course, she regretted the girl’s demise, but she could not feel deep grief. Silly little bitch! The spat they had had at lunch of the day of Poppy’s death still rankled. Lile Larry, she saw how Poppy sailed through her life as if she were immortal, as if nothing could ever harm her. But what could one do? What happened, happened. The foolish girl was dead, at least there would be no awkward scenes in the future over Hamlyn’s and her split. That was one good thing at least. The family need never know that the wedding wouldn’t have gone ahead. Face would be saved. Now all the maiden aunts could commiserate over their amontillado after the funeral and be none the wiser.

     Claude simply didn’t care. The little pricktease was dead, so what? At least he wouldn’t have her snide comments every time they met after he and Gerda were married and he was her father’s boss. Sacking Paul would be just that little bit easier, that was all. And if he wouldn’t go, then there were other ways to make the problem go away.

     Horatio was genuinely sorry about Poppy’s death. Although he had never cared for her selfish and egotistical view of life, he couldn’t say he hated her, hardly even disliked her. He had genuinely forgotten that time all those years ago when she nearly, very nearly got him to have sex with her. She would never know how close he really was. But he had stood firm, reasoning with himself that he was gay, not physically attracted to women in general, not Poppy in particular. Even then, he knew it would be damn nigh impossible to explain it to her, so she had gone away hurt and embarrassed, her ego bruised. Since then, there had been an uneasy truce between them. Horatio had no fight with her, no scores to settle. He knew she disliked him, but, to give her credit, she never actively sought to hurt him in any way. She mocked him and put him down, but mostly she treated him with indifference; to her he was invisible. Horatio liked that just fine.

     For Hamlyn, Poppy’s sudden death was yet another blow to his fragile sensibilities. It seemed to him that his troubles seemed to be coming thick and fast, not singly but in battalions, a phrase he had read somewhere.

     If he had been distracted since his father’s death, he was even more so now. He more or less exiled himself in his own home, locked away up in his suite of rooms in the otherwise unused west wing of the house, his mobile phone switched off, skipping meals, preferring to sneak down to the kitchen at night after everyone else had gone to bed. He didn’t answer when anyone knocked on his door, not even Horatio.

     In his days of solitude, Hamlyn went over his life to date, going over and over the minutiae of his existence. Had he ever known real happiness? He could answer that question in the affirmative, at least in his early years, when his father seemed to have all the time in the world for him. One thing he was sure about, and that was that he and his father had a special bond. His father had been there for him ever since he could remember. It was Daddy whom he remembered taking him piggyback riding before the boy could walk. His father taught him to cycle, swim, shoot, ride, play chess. His father was there all the time. Picking him up when he fell, dusting him down and convincing him that it was just a minor scratch. He remembered the outings on the estuary, sailing the little dinghy, imagining they were Robinson Crusoe or Blackbeard. His first puppy, Honey, was a present from his father on his sixth birthday, a playful Golden Retriever, all paws and slobbery muzzle, excitedly jumping all over Hamlyn. His father was there when they buried Honey eight years later, comforting the boy after his first loss, his first acquaintance with mortality. Shortly thereafter Daddy explained the birds and the bees to his son, who found the whole thing a little ridiculous and faintly distasteful. He recalled he was only too glad when the little talk was over and he could get back to his train-set.

     His mother seemed more fleeting, more shadowy, a little distant. He recalled how elegant she always was, how she looked so cool and sophisticated at the many parties his parents seemed to hold. And yet, it was as if she was a stranger to him. She never took the initiative. He remembered long boring days in the summer holidays while his father was away on business trips, how he would hardly see his mother from breakfast to dinner. There never seemed anything spontaneous about his mother, unlike his dad. She would never just hug him, out of the blue, or suggest they go on some sort of expedition, or play a game of something. Mother was always preoccupied, somehow not there.

     Then there was Poppy. They were almost like brother and sister. At least at the beginning. She lived in the Dower house with her parents and Larry. Hamlyn knew Paul and his father were close business associates and had known each other a long time; his father talked about when he and Paul had been at school together. Larry was away at school for much of the time, so he only met him during the holidays. Poppy seemed to change schools quite frequently and therefore spent quite a bit of time at home, with a succession of tutors and governesses. Even as a little girl, she was wild; full of schemes and daring games. He found her a little frightening at times, her intensity, her impulsive, reckless behaviour.

     Hamlyn’s thoughts turned to Horatio, his oldest friend. Horatio’s father was a mixture of gamekeeper, gardener and odd-job man around the big house and grounds. The two boys became firm friends from the very outset. Hamlyn now wondered whether his father had sent him to the local grammar school because that was where Horatio went. Looking back, he now found it a little odd that he hadn’t followed in his father’s footsteps; public school then Oxford, the same as Larry had. All he knew then, was that he had a best friend, lived at home with his father and that he was content.

Then sex reared its head.

     Shortly after his father’s fairly lame ‘birds and the bees’ talk, when Hamlyn was about thirteen or so, he of course did what every boy has always done – and always will; Hamlyn discovered the joys of masturbation. His view of the world, his parents, friends - in particular Poppy and Horatio, changed dramatically. Like every boy, before or since, Hamlyn became almost obsessed by his penis, managing to masturbate to orgasm three or four times a day, sometimes more often. Yet it was a strange fact that except for only one occasion, he and Horatio never talked about what was happening to their bodies, their hormones rushing madly about, an erection an almost continual companion. Occasionally, Hamlyn would catch his friend giving him an odd look, or else after P.E. he sometimes looked for a split second too long at another boy’s genitals. But didn’t all young males do that? Wasn’t it a normal reaction, to compare oneself with one’s peers?

     ‘Gay’ was not part of Hamlyn’s vocabulary.

     In Poppy’s case, as she hit adolescence, she became even more wild, if that were possible. It was she who ruthlessly pursued the ‘I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours’ ritual. Hamlyn had a brief glimpse of a hairy mound between Poppy’s legs as she lifted her skirts in the stables one wet Saturday afternoon. Poppy’s breasts were always petite, the pale mounds reminded the juvenile Hamlyn of small cakes covered in white icing with a cherry stuck on top. He remembered her order to him to stroke her breasts; it was more than his life was worth to disobey Poppy. He recalled their softness, the nipples becoming rougher as they became erect under his touch. Meanwhile, she had put her hand down his trousers and as he nervously fondled her petite breasts, she stroked his throbbing member to a sticky, messy climax in his underwear. With a cruel laugh, Poppy wiped her semen-covered hand on his face, telling him to have more control of himself in the future. He never forgot the incident.

     Much later, when they became lovers, Poppy had the habit of covering his face with her vaginal juices and after intercourse, would make him lick her pussy clean, calling him a ‘dirty little boy’ as he did so.

     Hamlyn was ambiguous about his sex-life with Poppy. It gave him much needed relief, but at the same time, paradoxically, it left him deeply unsatisfied. He tried all sorts of adventurous techniques with Poppy, always looking for something new, something which gave him more pleasure than just an orgasm. He never knew if what he and Poppy did together pleased her sexually or not; she never said. She would lie in total silence, the only sign of any arousal being the deep flush which spread upwards from her breasts to her face. Apart from that, she gave no sign that he satisfied her.

***

Alone in his suite of rooms, either pacing up and down, backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, or else sitting motionless for hours on end, Hamlyn thought on.

     He recalled the only time sex had come into his and Horatio’s friendship.

***

It was a fortnight after his brief, messy encounter with Poppy in the barn on that wet Saturday afternoon. He and Horatio were out riding together. It was a baking hot day and the boys had ventured out of the large estate and up onto the moors. They had been riding for about two hours when Horatio said,

     “I’m hot and tired and need something to eat! Why don’t we stop up at the tarn?” Hamlyn had readily agreed and the boys headed for the small lake. Hengil’s Tarn was a favourite spot of theirs when they were younger, going there with Hamlyn Senior for picnics and a quick dip in the icy cold waters. It lay in a cleft between the two hills known locally as Hengist and Horsa and was fed by a spring which bubbled out of the side of one of the hills and maintained its depth by waters running from the tarn southwards between the hills.

     Lying as it did in the shadow of the hills for much of the day, save at high noon, this meant the waters were very cold and it was not unusual for the lake to be frozen over well into May. Now, however, in late July, it lay there, placidly reflecting the cloudless skies above. On it’s southern shore was a shepherd’s hut, a small roughly made drystone shell with a turf roof, affording shelter in the late autumn and early spring for the shepherds. No-one really knew how deep the waters of the tarn were and local legend told of the ghost of a Viking chieftain, Hengil, who, in his lust for gold, lured unwary travellers to their deaths in the icy waters. 

     The boys’ horses made their way delicately down the gently inclining slopes to the shore of the tarn. Sheltered from any breeze, with the noonday sun beating down, it was pleasantly warm. The boys hitched their horses to one of the bothy’s walls and unpacked their saddlebags. Seated with their backs against the small hut’s sun-warmed stones, they tucked into their sandwiches and sodas. Apart from the gentle sounds of the horses munching at the grass on the roof of the bothy, the silence was absolute. Not a bird sang, the stillness was profound.

     Hamlyn and Horatio sat in silence next to each other. They did not feel the need for talking, they knew each other so well that they could be in each other’s company for long periods of time without more than half a dozen words being spoken. They felt comfortable in each other’s presence, or rather Horatio had felt comfortable with Hamlyn until adolescence. As he became sexually aware, his feelings towards Hamlyn changed subtly. He began to look at his friend in a new light, without fully understanding himself how his attitude to his friend had altered. As the two teen boys sat together against the old stones, basking in the sunshine and deep silence, Horatio began, for the first time, to feel slightly uncomfortable in the company of his best friend. He stole a glance at Hamlyn, who, having finished eating, leaned back against the wall and sighing contentedly, allowed his eyes to close, feeling the sun’s warm rays on his face. Horatio, seeing his friend apparently asleep, allowed his eyes to travel over Hamlyn’s prone body. He stopped when he got to his best friend’s crotch. He and Hamlyn had often seen each other naked; they had been swimming together on innumerable occasions, were in the same P.E. class at school and even on the same football team, so had had occasion to see each other’s naked body countless times. Until recently, Horatio hadn’t given this a second thought, but in the past couple of months or so, he now and again found himself wondering what it would be like to stroke his friend’s penis. Recently, his jerk-off sessions had centred around visions of him and Hamlyn naked together. As he gazed at his sleeping friend, he felt himself harden.

     “Penny for them?” Hamlyn’s soft voice startled Horatio out of his reverie. He felt himself blush and stammered, “er … nothing really.”

     “Nice here, isn’t it?” said Hamlyn, who appeared not to notice his friend’s confusion.

     “Er … yeah.”

     “It’s bloody hot!” In one impetuous move, Hamlyn removed his tee-shirt, exposing his well-formed, pale chest. He was filling out nicely, Horatio thought. Hamlyn had the beginnings of a six-pack and a trail of very faint hairs led from his ‘innie’ navel down into the waistband of his trousers. Horatio’s penis got even harder as he drank in the sight of his friend’s torso. He felt, rather than saw Hamlyn’s gaze on him. Looking up, he saw a faint grin on Hamlyn’s face. “Are you perving me up, Hobs?” The use of the familiar nickname, coupled with the grin, took the sting out of the question. Horatio giggled. “Maybe I is and maybe I isn’t, Prince!”

     “Well go on, then!” Horatio must have looked confused, so Hamlyn elaborated.

     “Get yer shirt off, spaz!” Hamlyn tickled his friend, who squealed. He felt relieved that his friend didn’t know what he had been thinking moments ago. He didn’t know how Hamlyn would have reacted. It was more impoortant for Horatio to keep Hamlyn as a friend; he suddenly couldn’t bear to lose him. All at once and unusually quite shy, he too took off his top.

     “Mmm! Feels better eh?” asked Hamlyn.

     Horatio had to agree. But his cock was still very, very hard. He hoped Hamlyn wouldn’t notice.

     “You dirty old sod! You’ve got a stiffie!” Hamlyn had noticed. Horatio blushed deeply.

     “It’s the sun,” he said, saying the first thing that came into his head.

There was a long silence. Horatio didn’t know where to look.

“I’m getting one now, you old bugger!” Involuntarily, Horatio glanced down at Hamlyn’s crotch. Sure enough, there was a definite lump apparent. The silence became drawn out.

     “Shall we, … er, you know …?” said Hamlyn, himself blushing.

Horatio felt that this was not the moment to tease his friend. Simultaneously, both boys reached for the buttons on their trousers.

     “I will if you will,” said Horatio in a husky voice.

The boys removed their trousers and pulled down their underwear. Hamlyn’s penis, freed from the confines of his tight underwear sprang out, slapping against his flat stomach.

     A very respectable six inches or so, fairly thick in circumference, the glans protruding from the generous foreskin. Hamlyn’s balls hung low and he had only a small thatch of very blond hairs at the base of his penis.

     Horatio licked his dry lips, as he stared down at Hamlyn’s nakedness, his own cock fully erect, stood proud of his body, curving upwards for about five inches or so. Thinner than Hamlyn’s, it produced large amounts of precum which ran down the shaft, making it glisten in the sunlight. His dark pubic hair a triangle against his pale skin.

     Sitting side by side, the boys began to stroke their respective penises. Horatio, his fantasies coming true, seeing his best friend masturbating beside him, was very close to orgasm. He wanted the moment to last, so he slowed his strokes down. Hamlyn, leaning back against the wall, eyes closed, was into his self-pleasure. A few gentle moans escaped his lips. Unable to control himself, Horatio reached over and gently pushing his friend’s hand away, took Hamlyn’s cock and began to stroke. After a momentary look of surprise at his friend, Hamlyn closed his eyes again and allowed Horatio to bring him to orgasm. As Hamlyn shuddered and his orgasm hit, Horatio, too reached his climax, shooting his semen in a high arc whence it landed on his neck and chest.

     “Awesome!” said Hamlyn after he had caught his breath.

     “Amazing!” agreed Horatio. Then, in silence, both boys cleaned themselves up, got dressed again and shortly after made their way back home.

     They never mentioned the incident and their friendship continued as before.

     For many years afterwards, Horatio was content.

     Until the other day, when he told Hamlyn of his dream.