The House Party
© Bad Hobbit 2012-2024
Author's Note:
Many people think of the 1960s as the start of the sexual revolution, and for much of society, that may well be true. However, for the privileged classes in Britain and Europe, and particularly those who moved in artistic circles, the first half of the 20
th
Century was just as much a sexual playground as the second. And this was at a time when things like oral and anal sex were treated as perversions, and homosexuality - at least between men - was illegal and punishable by imprisonment in the UK. And, believe it or not, as late as the 1960s, sex education leaflets published in the UK claimed that women didn't experience orgasms. This shows just how dreadful most men must have been in bed!
The inter-war years were particularly rich in stories of scandalous goings-on among the wealthy, and this story simply embellishes a little on the well-known affairs of a few of these people. I started writing this way back in 2012, after visiting Mottisfont, near Romsey in Hampshire, England. (It's now owned by the National Trust and open to the public). All but one of the characters in this story are based on real people - sadly all long dead. Maud Russell was a society hostess, and she and her husband Gilbert supported and socialised with artistic people and entertained many celebrities of the time, holding weekend parties at Mottisfont, their country house, during the 1930s. Her relationships with some of the men in this story are well known, although whether they were quite as earthily sexual as I've implied here isn't known.
I've tried to tell the story in the third person, described as it might frame itself inside Ian Fleming's head, using language and manners that would have been appropriate for the period. In so doing, I've included a few slang words with which readers may be unfamiliar but would have been natural with this set of people. Maud says 'gel' (with a hard 'g') instead of 'girl' - as people with upper-class accents frequently did. The word 'quim' was used by the British instead of the American 'pussy'. 'Rogering' was a slightly more polite euphemism for 'screwing' or 'fucking'. The word 'jacksie' was regularly used in preference to the coarser 'arse'. Also, men in this tier of society usually referred to each other, even in face-to-face conversation, by their surnames. And everybody smoked.
It would have been fascinating and fun to have been at some of these gatherings and meet these interesting people, who were in many ways ahead of their time. I hope this is the next best thing - an imagining of what might have happened on one idyllic weekend in 1938 before the spectre of war thoroughly ruined the party.
Part 1. Three's Company
Fleming took a cigar from the box presented by the butler and inhaled its aroma, before lighting it. With the silver lighter still clutched in one hand, he strolled towards the open French windows onto the terrace. Maud was framed in the doorway, the rich black silk of her close-fitting dress contrasting with her pale skin.
"Oh, be a darling and light my cigarette for me." Maud smiled at Fleming, holding up the long ebony cigarette holder between her silk-gloved fingers.
In a smooth movement, Fleming lit the aromatic French cigarette. Maud drew air through the slender black tube, making the end of the cigarette glow in the dim light, then in a casual movement, cocked the holder upwards, pursed her lips and allowed a stream of smoke to escape her mouth.
"Thank you, Ian. Are you enjoying this evening?"
"Lovely as ever, Maud. You always attract the most interesting company."
"I'm glad you approve. What do you think of Ellen?" Maud indicated the sweet, rather delicate blonde who had been sitting opposite him at dinner, next to Rex Whistler.
"Quite pretty. Where did you find her?"
"Her father owns the brewery over in Romsey. I'd invited him and his wife, but they're at some brewer's convention in London. She would otherwise have been at home on her own, so I asked her instead. She has ambitions to be a dancer. Nice child, if a little naïve."
"She's sweet enough. Whistler seems smitten with her."
"It's you she's been making eyes at all evening."
"Perhaps, but I don't really have any interest in her. Rather skinny and a little flat-chested for my tastes. Nice legs, though."
"If you give her the right encouragement, I'm sure she'd open them for you."
Fleming bent forward, closer to her ear. "Maud, you are quite incorrigible. As you know, I'm a little bored with virgins. I prefer more experienced ladies. Which brings me to the most important topic; will you be opening for me tonight?"
"Eleven o'clock. I have something special for you."
Fleming straightened up and smiled at Maud. Little she did surprised him, but she still held a powerful fascination. Although she was married to Gilbert, Fleming felt sure that she had had other men, apart from himself. And he'd certainly had his share - some would say more than his share - of other women, many of them younger and more classically beautiful than Maud. She was over fifteen years his senior, but there was something about her, a confident sexuality, not to say a downright dirtiness of mind, that kept him in thrall.
"Now, as the hostess, I think I should circulate. As you say, Rex seems to have his eye on Ellen. If you're not interested, perhaps I should encourage them. I think he's still mooning over that Paget girl at Plas Newydd."
"Lady Caroline? Wasn't there something of a scandal? I recall he painted her in the nude."
"Yes, and no one's quite sure whether she modelled for him or whether it was from his lurid imagination. If it's the former, she must have borrowed his razor!"
"I say! Or perhaps he was simply trying to be Renaissance and aesthetic about it."
"Perhaps, but he painted her in an unmade bed, looking like she'd recently been quite royally rogered, and neither of them would say anything about it."
"The dog! But I understand he's no longer welcome with the Pagets, so perhaps he needs young Ellen to take his mind off Lady Caroline."
"Perhaps. But he's really quite a darling, and I hate to see him unhappy, so I'll try to encourage them to become a little more friendly."
"Maud, you're a filthy-minded angel. I hope you're still thinking your disgusting thoughts when I drop by at eleven."
"Of course, my dear boy. I'm sure you won't be disappointed. I'll see you later." She smiled, gave him an affectionate peck on the cheek, and strolled over to where Whistler was conversing with the ingénue Ellen. Fleming's gaze followed Maud, watching her nicely-rounded rear, enticingly wrapped in the clingy dress, wiggling slightly as she walked, and felt the familiar stirring in his loins that accompanied most of his conversations with his long-term occasional lover.
He stepped back into the room and stood for a while, observing Whistler, Ellen and Maud in conversation. Fleming had met Rex Whistler several times at Mottisfont. The man was decent enough, and a very talented society painter and theatre designer. Maud had charmed him into redesigning one of the main rooms at Mottisfont, using clever paint effects to resemble intricate stucco mouldings. She now seemed to be flattering both Whistler and the girl, perhaps to convince him to complete his work in the Music Room - they'd argued about it and he was threatening to put down his brushes - or just for her own amusement, to get the couple into bed together.
Then he heard Gilbert's voice behind him. "Evening, Fleming. Enjoy the meal?"
"Excellent, as always, Russell. The cigars are particularly fine, and the company engaging as always."
"Thank you. Yes, Maud's quite a hostess. Amazing woman, my wife, don't you think? She's - now let me see - 45 - no, 46 - and she's had two sons - fine boys, both of them - yet I think she still looks like a debutante. And she has such wonderful taste and an extraordinary circle of friends. I feel blessed, and I must say, I think it's jolly interesting to have so many artists around the place all the time. Don't you agree, Fleming?"
Fleming, still slim and almost boyish, even though he had just turned 30, looked at his host. "Well, yes, Russell. She is an amazing woman and, as you say, an excellent hostess. I always look forward to my visits to Mottisfont."
There was an expression on Russell's face that made Fleming think 'He knows! He knows I'm screwing his wife and he doesn't seem to object. This is the strangest household.'
"Yes, I think what Maud's done with the place is quite remarkable. Whistler is getting on so wonderfully with all that amazing
trompe l'oeil
in the Music Room, and I understand she's ordered ermine-trimmed curtains to give the room more of a 'Versailles' look! It's as well we have the money. And now she's started talking about getting Anrep to do a mosaic for her."
Fleming glanced across at Boris Anrep, the Russian mosaic artist, in animated conversation with the young Derek Hill. Anrep was tall, heavily built, now in his early fifties, beginning to spread a little and lose his hair, but still imposing. It used to be said that he was the only man in London who could intimidate the tall, powerful - and somewhat aggressive - Augustus John. Over dinner, he had talked about his commissions in London, including for the National Gallery. His deep, sonorous, heavily accented voice - but speaking perfect English - matched his big frame.
By contrast, Hill was smaller, young - in his early twenties - slight, a little effete, Fleming thought. He seemed to be a favourite of both Maud and Gilbert, though Fleming himself felt that Hill's artistic talent was at best middling. Still, they were convivial enough company.
"I have to confess, a lot of what they talk about goes straight over my head," Fleming said. "I'm not the painterly type. I prefer writing."
"Have you never thought of going back to journalism?" Russell said, before sipping his brandy.
"I'd love to, but my family won't hear of it. 'Not a job for someone educated at Eton', my mother said. Can't they see that it's the only thing that I've ever been any good at? How many other British journalists have received a signed note from Joe Stalin? I was really happy in Moscow - all the intrigue and the danger. But my family insisted I join the bank, and frankly, I'm hopeless at it. No disrespect, Russell - I know it's your line of business - but it bores me rigid. If only I could get back to Reuters and get myself a posting to where the action is. Russia again, or China - or maybe Germany."
"Germany, eh? Weren't you there a few years ago?"
