WALKING THE SOMME BATTLEFIELDS

 At the end of the village of Authuille, the Thiepval

monument can be seen on the right hand side. It was

here that I found some bone in the field behind the post

and respectfully placed it back where I found it.

AUTHUILLE MILITARY CEMETERY

Set in the beautiful landscape of the Ancre Valley the graves of Authuille Military Cemetery stand on a gentle slope down towards the Ancre River. I visited this lonely and tranquil spot around eight-thirty in the evening and stayed for almost an hour, watching the cows in the fields beyond and listening to the haunting screech of the peacocks, the drumming of the woodpecker and a lone, distant cuckoo. As it grew darker the bats began to swoop around me and I felt an immeasurable sadness for the fallen warriors in this peaceful glade as if drawn here – it remains my favourite cemetery and although one is quite alone amongst the stones there is a sense that one is not really alone. 

The cemetery was begun in August 1915 and used until December 1916 by field ambulances which brought the dead from the trenches at Thiepval. The cemetery contains 451 British graves, 14 Indian and 3 South African; many of the dead are from units in the 32^nd, 36^th (Ulster) and 49^th (West Riding) Divisions which were key units in the fighting around Thiepval in July 1916. 

Other graves are also from the 51^st (Highland) Division which held the trenches at Thiepval towards the end of 1915. The bell of the village church at Authuille struck the hour and half-hour intervals and as I was staying in the village near the church on rue d’Albert, the sound seemed somewhat comforting.

BLIGHTY VALLEY CEMETERY

Walking from Authuille following the River Ancre towards Crucifix Corner one finds Blighty Valley Cemetery on the left, which was a short distance from the front line and regularly shelled. A light railway was laid along its length by the Royal Engineers after the commencement of the Somme battle and many units bivouacked here on their way to the trenches. 

The cemetery was begun in the summer of 1916 and positioned a short distance from the Authuille – Aveluy road. There were originally 223 graves (now plot 1) which was extended after the war from surrounding battlefields and the majority of the men fell on 1^st July 1916. Today it holds 993 British, 2 Australian and 2 Canadian; there are 532 unknown graves and 24 special memorials.

Shell found near to Blighty Valley

Crucifix Corner

LONSDALE CEMETERY

Walking from Crucifix Corner and skirting Authuille Wood which although beautiful has an eerie sense about it, one soon gets a feel of the terrible fighting that occurred in these woods and lanes when one discovers the barbed wire piquet posts in hedgerows and out of the way places, still used by farmers today; continue on and one approaches Lonsdale Cemetery, originally known as Lonsdale Number 1 which contained 96 graves (now plot 1); it was enlarged after the war to contain 1,515 British and 4 Australians; over half are unknown with special memorials to 22 British soldiers. Many of the graves are from 1^st July 1916 from the fierce fighting around Leipzig Redoubt (not far from the cemetery if one continues to walk in the direction of Thiepval) and Nab Valley which one will also pass. Look out for the grave of Sgt James Yuill Turnbull of the 17^th Highland Light Infantry who won a posthumous Victoria Cross in the 1^st July attack on the Leipzig Redoubt.

THE THIEPVAL MEMORIAL

Walking towards Thiepval with the monument in the distance I suddenly glanced into the field and saw a large piece of iron shrapnel, I held it in my hands knowing it had lain in the ground for over a century and that my hand was the first to touch it; it may even of been the instrument of some poor soldier’s death. (I carried the shrapnel with me for the rest of the battlefield explorations as a reminder for it held great ‘energy’ and later, while in the Church of Saint John the Baptist, Arras, the shrapnel fragment was given to an old French man who guides visitors around the church and whose father was in the Great War at the Battle of the Somme and survived; there were tears in his eyes as he accepted it!)

Built upon the ruins of a chateau which became part of the front line, the village of Thiepval was taken in September 1916 and very little remained of the it. The memorial designed by Sir Edwin Lutyens and finished in 1932 commemorates the missing with no known grave (approximately half of the 150,000 British soldiers who died on the Somme in 1916). 

The memorial now commemorates more than 72,000 service men of the Army, Royal Naval Division and South African. At the rear of the monument is the Thiepval Anglo-French Cemetery containing 300 unknown British soldiers and 300 unknown French soldiers.

CONNAUGHT CEMETERY

A short walk from the Thiepval memorial is Connaught Cemetery which stands a little in front of the British front line of July 1916. Looking across to Mill Road Cemetery which lies opposite you can get a sense of how close the German front line was. Connaught Cemetery was begun in late autumn of 1916 as the fighting of the Ancre Heights moved towards Grandcourt. After the war there were 228 graves (now plot 1) which was extended to hold 1,278 British soldiers, 642 of which are unknown and there are 7 special memorials. Many of the graves include the heavy losses by the 36^th (Ulster) and 49^th (Wesr Riding) Divisions around Thiepval.

MILL ROAD CEMETERY

Almost opposite Connaught Cemetery is Mill Road Cemetery which was near to the German front line on 1^st July 1916. There are 1,304 graves with 6 special memorials, 815 of the total graves are unknown. The cemetery is unique that in the centre you will find a series of flat graves due to the many tunnels and dugouts from the German front line still in existence which causes subsidence. In the distance the Ulster Tower comes into view.

ULSTER TOWER

The Ulster Tower is a copy of Helen’s Tower at Clandeboyne near Belfast where during 1914 some units of the 36^th Division trained. The Tower was built after the war as a memorial to those men of the division who died on the Western Front, especially around Thiepval in 1^st July. The Tower stands on what was the front line German trench attacked by the 9^th Royal Irish Rifles. Walking towards the gift shop at the rear one notices the many shells stacked up, collected from the ‘Iron Harvest’ and a visit to the tea room should not be missed as I had the best cup of tea in all of France there! Also note that not far along a farm track as yo leave the Tower there are the remains of a German observation post which the Ulstermen referred to as the ‘Pope’s Nose’.

Some of the 'Iron Harvest' at the Ulster Tower

LOCHNAGAR CRATER

This massive mine crater was blown on 1^st July 1916 when 60,000 lb of explosive was detonated under the German position at Sausage Valley. Richard Dunning, a British man, bought the site in 1978 and today the crater is preserved. Walking from the crater towards Authuille (via Crucifix Corner) one can see the distinctive golden glow from the statue of the Virgin (sculpted by Albert Rose) atop the neo-byzantine Basilica Notre-Dame de Brebieres in Albert; during the conflict there was much destruction of the Basilica and the Virgin famously leaned to one side and was known as the Leaning Virgin (take the opportunity to visit if you are able). A short detour from the road takes one to Ovillers Military Cemetery.

OVILLERS MILITERY CEMETERY

On 1^st July 1916 the 8^th attacked Ovillers and the 34^th La Boisselle yet both villages remained in German hands. By 4^th July the 19^th (Western) Division had cleared La Boisselle and on the 7^th July, the 12^th (Eastern) and 25^th Divisions gained part of Ovillers and the village was cleared by the 48^th (South Midland) Division on 17^th July. Unfortunately both villages were lost to the German advance in March 1918 but were re-taken on the following 24^th August by 38^th (Welsh) Division. The cemetery was begun behind a dressing station before the capture of Ovillers and used until March 1917. The cemetery contained 143 graves which was increased after the war to 3,440 Commonwealth Servicemen, 2,480 of which are unidentified. There are also 120 French war graves. I sheltered here from the heavy rain that suddenly burst upon me and as the sun poured forth just as quickly I walked solemnly between the wet graves that have seen many a summer and winter come and go.

ANCRE BRITISH CEMETERY

The original cemetery (now plot 1) was started by V Corps in the spring of 1917 and was known as the Ancre River Number 1 British Cemetery. It contained 517 graves which were mostly from the 36^th (Ulster) and 63^rd (Royal Naval) Divisions. The cemetery was expanded after the war to include 1,965 graves from the Ancre Valley battlefield and today there are 2,446 British burials, 32 Newfoundland, 2 New Zealand and 1 South African. Around half of the total graves are unknown and there are 49 special memorials. Standing at the back of the cemetery one is looking out towards no-man’s land where the German trenches were situated on the high ground to the right. Later returning from Beaucourt there appeared after a downpour a beautiful rainbow above the cemetery.

Shell found on the way to Beaumont-Hamel

FRANKFURT TRENCH BRITISH CEMETERY

Frankfurt Trench with New Munich Trench in the distance

This cemetery is situated near the village of Beaumont-Hamel which was attacked by 29^th Division on 1^st July 1916 but not held; it was attacked again and taken on 13^th November 1916 by 51^st (Highland) and 63^rd (Royal Naval) Divisions. The cemetery stands upon the German trench system which they occupied until their retreat in early 1917. The cemetery was made by V Corps after that retreat when V Corp units cleared the Ancre battlefield. This cemetery was also known as V Corps Cemetery Number 11. There are over 150 graves located here from the war, many of which are unidentified. Standing here on a lovely sunny day with the gentle breeze in your face and skylarks singing overhead, it is hard to believe that just over a century ago it was the scene of such carnage!

NEW MUNICH TRENCH BRITISH CEMETERY

In view of Frankfurt Trench Cemetery is the New Munich Trench Cemetery, a short walk away.  The Munich Trench was occupied by 51^st (Highland) Division on 15^th November 1916 and the New Munich Trench was dug the day before on 14^th November by the 2/2^nd Highland Field Company and the Company of 8^th Royal Scots and lengthened by the 8^th Devons in December. The cemetery was made by V Corps in spring 1917 and was also known as V Corps British Cemetery Number 25. It held almost 150 graves during the war with almost 20 unidentified, soldiers which fell between November 1916 or January 1917, the majority of which belonging to the 10/11^th , 16^th or 17^th Highland Light Infantry. From the New Munich Trench Cemetery I descended into the village of Beaucourt where a German Pill Box can still be seen and a memorial to the Royal Naval Division. Further on along the road to Authuille can be seen the old, disused and now derelict Beaumont-Hamel Railway Station which played its part during the war carrying supplies and troops to the front.

Shell seen on the way to Newfoundland-Beaumont Hamel memorial

Trench Mortar shell found on way to Newfoundland-Beaumont

Hamel Memorial

NEWFOUNDLAND-BEAUMONT HAMEL MEMORIAL

Trenches at Newfoundland-Beaumont Hamel Memorial

Walking towards Newfoundland-Beaumont Hamel Memorial from Authille there is a track across farmland which has some stunning views and some wonderful glimpses of wildlife – hares, dears and many different birds but all this competes with the startling juxtaposition of war when suddenly shells appear at the side of the track, turned up like turnips ploughed by the farmers, pieces of iron and I even found a bullet lying on top of the soil!

The Caribou

On 1^st July 1916, the 1^st Battalion of the Newfoundland Regiment suffered 684 casualties here and after the war the regimental chaplain, Tom Nangle purchased the site to erect a memorial to the fallen. 

It is the largest extent of battlefield preserved on the Somme and has trench systems still intact, including the German front line trenches. In the centre of the Newfoundland Park is the statue of the caribou, the symbol of the Regiment and the work of the British sculptor Basil Gotto.

Y RAVINE CEMETERY

Located in Newfoundland-Beaumont Hamel Memorial Park is the cemetery of Y Ravine, one of the three military cemeteries in the park. Walking through what was no man’s land towards the German trenches, the cemetery comes into view after passing the Danger Tree, a petrified tree close to the Wellington Trench. 

The Danger Tree

Behind the Y Ravine Cemetery, about one-hundred metres was the German front line so the cemetery actually lies in no man’s land and holds many of the men killed on 1^st July 1916. There are 328 British graves, 38 Newfoundland and 61 special memorials. Continuing the walk uphill towards the German front line one passes the monument to the 51^st (Highland) Division and Hunter’s Cemetery at the upper end of Y Ravine. The cemetery is a large shell hole containing 46 soldiers of the 51^st Division who fell during the capture of Beaumont-Hamel on 13^th November 1916 and buried after the battle. Further along the path is Hawthorn Ridge Number 2 Cemetery.

HAWTHORN RIDGE NUMBER 2 CEMETERY

Created by V Corps after the clearance of the Ancre Valley battlefield in the spring of 1917; most of the 214 graves are those of soldiers who died on 1^st July 1916. 23 are British and the rest are Newfoundland.

The Grave of Jacques Tati

"MONSIEUR HULOT"

JACQUES TATI'S GRAVE

ANCIENT CEMETERY, SAINT-GERMAIN-EN-LAYE, PARIS.

Jacques Tati, the French actor and film maker was born Jacques Tatisceff on 9th October 1907 in Le Pecq, France. His father was George Emmanuel Tatisheff (1875-1957) and his mother, Marcelle Claire von Hoof (they were married in 1903).

George and Marcelle had two children: Natalie, born 1905 and Jacques born 1907. Someone has added the bicycle tyre to the grave in reference to Tati's first film 'Jour de Fete' which was very touching. My wife, who is also a huge fan of Tati, left the white rose at his grave in remembrance!

Jacques Tati married Micheline Winter in 1944 and they had a daughter who also became a film director: Sophie Tatischeff, born 23rd October 1946 and dying 27th October 2001. He also had a son named Pierre-Francois Tatischeff born in 1949.

Jacques Tati died of a pulmonary embolism and he will be remembered for his marvelous films which have brought me great joy:

Jour de Fete (The Big Day). 1947.

Les Vacances de Monsieur Hulot (Monsieur Hulot's Holiday). 1953.

Mon Oncle (My Uncle). 1958.

Play Time. 1967.

Trafic. 1971.

Parade. 1973.

Aleister Crowley and the Oscar Wilde Tomb

ALEISTER CROWLEY

AND THE 

OSCAR WILDE TOMB

'And alien tears will fall for him,

Pity's long-broken urn,

For his mourners will be outcast men,

And outcasts always mourn.'

[inscription carved by Joseph Cribb (1892-1967), 

assistant to sculptor Eric Gill]

one of the many splendid avenues in Pere Lachaise cemetery

a beautiful necropolis

with rather ornate statues and carving

The Oscar Wilde Tomb at Division 89

the tomb is made of Hopton Wood Stone which is a type of limestone quarried in Derbyshire, England. Robert Ross, Wilde's literary executor was a close friend of the English sculptor Jacob Epstein (1880-1959) and a commission was placed upon Epstein to create a suitable memorial for Wilde. The plinth is by the English architect, Charles Henry Holden (1875-1960)

Epstein designed a sphynx-like winged figure or messenger. The young male figure is vibrant in flight and it took Epstein around ten months to create the sculpture and it was transported to Paris in 1912

the genitalia created quite a stir and was covered up by a bronze 'butterfly' by the authorities. The figure was vandalised in 1961 and the testicals were removed!

the glass barrier was erected in 2001 to prevent damage from lipstick on the stone

a side view of the monument

The monument was unveiled by the English occultist Aleister Crowley on Wednesday 5th November 1913. Here is what he has to say in his 'Confessions':

'At this time the consciences of men were exercised, as our fathers put it, with regard to the monument which Jacob Epstein had made for the tomb of Oscar Wilde in Pere-Lachaise. This monument had been on exhibition in his studio in London for some months and the most delicately minded dilettanti had detected nothing objectionable in it. No sooner had it been put in the cemetery than the guardian objected to it as indecent. The Prefect of the Seine upheld him. I went to see it. I did not greatly admire it; I thought the general design lumpish and top-heavy, but the modelling of the winged sphinx, or whatever it was, seemed admirably simple and subtle. The aesthetic point was, however, not at stake. The attitude of the authorities was an insult and outrage to the freedom of art. The entire innocence of the statue made their action less defensible, though personally I do not believe in any restrictions based on prejudice. Great art is always outspoken and its effects on people depends on their minds alone. We have now discovered, in fact, that the most harmless phenomena of dreams really represent the most indecent and abominable ideas. If we choose to find an objectionable meaning in Alice in Wonderland, or determine to persuade ourselves that the frank oriental obscenities of the Bible are indecent, no one can stop us. Mankind can only rise above his lower self by facing the facts and mastering his instincts.' (Confessions. Chapter 67. p. 644)

the rear of the monument

Crowley goes on to say that:

'I was indignant at the insult to Epstein and to art in his person. I therefore resolved to make a gesture on behalf of the prerogatives of creative genius. I printed a manifesto:

AU NOM DE LA LIBERTE DE L'ART

L'Artists a le droit de creer ce qu'il vent!

Le beau monument d'Oscar Wilde au Pere-Lachaise, chef d'oeuvre du sculpteur Jacob Epstein, quoique deja mutile et degrade par ordre du Prefect de la Seine, reste toujours voile. A midi, Mercredi prochain le 5 novembre, M. Aleister Crowley, le poete Irlandais, va le devoiler. Venez lui preter votre sympathie et votre aide, venez protester contre la tyrannie pudibonde et pornophile des bourgeois, venez affirmer le droit de l'Artiste de creer ce qu'il veut. rendez-vous, Cimetiere de pere-Lachaise, aupres du monument d'Oscar Wilde, a midi, Mercredi, 5 Novembre.

I had this distributed widely through Paris. My friend and landlord, M. Bourcier, shook his head very sadly. they would send soldiers, he said, "with cannon and bayonet" to form a cordon round the monument and prevent me from removing the tarpaulin. Oh, will they? said I. So I opened my mind to an enthusiastic young American, who agreed to help me. We bought a coil of extremely fine and strong steel wire, which would be practically invisible in the dull November gloom. We waited till the gates were closed and then proceeded to attach the wire to the tarpaulin, so that from the shelter of a tree a couple of hundred yards away, a gentle pull would suffice to bring it away, I having cut through the cords which kept it in place in such a way that they held only by a fibre, apparently uninjured. I was to make no attempt to rush the military forces of the Republic, but make a speech on the outskirts. When I threw up my arm to apostrophize the empyrean, he was to pull the wires from his lurking place. these arrangements completed, we got out by explaining to the gatekeeper that we had lost our way.' (p. 644-645)

detail showing the sculpture's foot

'The next day at the appointed hour, I went to the cemetery with one or two desperate adherents. A distinguished concourse of enthusiasts was awaiting the Darling of Destiny, the Warden of the Worthiness of Wilde, the Emancipator of the Ebullition of Epstein. We marched in solemn procession to the tomb. I was amused to observe that the patrols, immediately they saw us, scuttled away like rabbits. I suppose at first that they had gone to give warning, and expected to be arrested before the conclusion of the entertainment, but when we got to the tomb I found no serried ranks of soldiers shouting, "Il ne passeront pas!" There was not a soul in sight!

I then understood that orders had been given on no account to interfere with the mad Irish poet. It rather took the wind out of my sails. I made my speech and unveiled Epstein's effort in the dull drizzling weather. It was a disheartening success. The affair, however, made a great noise in the newspapers, both in France and in England, and the funniest thing about it was that Epstein himself, the one person above all others who should have been gratified, one would have supposed, took my action in rather bad part.' (p. 645-646)

adopting a French attitude and 

walking in Crowley's footsteps

'The Oscar Wilde monument was fated to furnish further amusement. With unparalleled insolence, the authorities decided to mutilate Epstein's work. They employed a sculptor, who must, by the way, have been utterly lost to all sense of shame, to fix a bronze butterfly over the "objectionable" feature of the monument. This feature had been quite unnoticeable to any but the most prurient observer. The butterfly, being of different material and workmanship, clamoured for attention to exactly that which it was intended to make people forget.

This incidentally is a characteristic of puritan psychology. Nobody would notice that side of nature to which those folk whose goodness resents that of God, attach a "bad" meaning, if they did not persistently emphasize its existence. The bad taste of this outrage went even further. The butterfly was notoriously the emblem of Whistler, whose controversies with Wilde were so savagely witty. To put this on the very symbol of Wilde's creative genius was the most obscene insult which could have been imagined. Martial never composed an epigram so indecently mocking.

I did not know that this outrage had been perpetrated. I had gone to the cemetery simply to see if the tarpaulin had been replaced. I confess that I fully enjoyed the flavour of this foul jest. It was all the more pungent because unintentional. (The idea had been simply to make a quiet, inconspicuous modification. It is really strange how polite propriety is always stumbling into Rabelaisian jests. I remember, for instance, writing in some article for the New York Vanity Fair, "Science offers her virgin head to the caress of Magick." The editor thought the word "virgin" a little risky and changed it to "maiden"!

Recovering from the first spasm of cynical appreciation, I saw that there was only one thing to be done in the interests of common decency and respect for Epstein. I detached the butterfly and put it under my waistcoat. The gate keeper did not notice how portly I had become. When I reached London, I put on evening dress and affixed the butterfly to my own person in the same way as previously to the statue, in the interests of modesty, and then marched into the Cafe Royal, to the delight of the assembled multitude. Epstein himself happened to be there and it was a glorious evening. By this time he had understood my motives; that I was honestly indignant at the outrage to him and determined to uphold the privileges of the artist.' (p. 647-648)

The Silver Cigarette Case

THE SILVER CIGARETTE CASE

BY

BARRY VAN-ASTEN

Mr Thomas Fairfax, a man of slight wealth and much leisure, called upon Mr Esdmonde De John at his rooms in Eaton Square, Belgravia and finding the latter at home and busy in his drawing room which was sometimes called the library and sometimes called the study, seated amongst a few Christmas decorations, he took the opportunity of wishing Esmonde a merry Christmas. Esmonde in turn sighed and slumped further into his chair.

Thomas was a tall, dark-haired young man with an air of affected aristocracy who wandered through life with little purpose or regret, ‘you know Esmonde’ said Thomas,  ‘there’s a name for people like you, rarely used in polite society and frowned upon amongst the lower classes – a humbug!’ and Thomas drew closer to his friend.

‘Don’t mock me Thomas for I am in yuletide disarray!’ Esmonde said, his eyes looking up and directed at Thomas, filled with some perceivable heartache. Esmonde, a gentleman of similar wealth and appearance stood a little taller than Thomas and had about him an air of tragedy, a sort of melancholy that pervaded his persona.

‘Esmonde, dear boy, you look as if you have the weight of the world on your shoulders; what is the matter?’ Thomas asked quite affectionately, putting a hand on Esmonde’s shoulder as if to feel the weight of the world for himself. Esmonde looked up into Thomas’ eyes like a small boy full of dejection, ‘Aunt Augusta has sent a letter to inform me that she will be joining me for Christmas after all as the Vicar has had an unfortunate accident in the bell tower and shall be spending Christmas, and no doubt several weeks, disposed in the infirmary!’

‘No doubt it shall do him the world of good Esmonde to be amongst his parishioners in suffering! A pity he could not join them in abject poverty or at least meet them half-way, that would teach him something real and useful!’ Thomas laughed.

‘Yes but now I am condemned to suffer under the auspicious gaze of Aunt Augusta who does not appreciate my bachelor ways.’

‘My dear Esmonde even I do not appreciate your bachelor ways and I am quite broad-minded! I think in some respect even you fail to fully appreciate them and put them to good use! Perhaps it is time you entered the sanctity of marriage?’ and Thomas peered upon the condemned man with loyal tenderness.

‘Good God Thomas, you sound like a missionary!’ Esmonde said with a look of shock upon his face that could give ecclesiastical circles a run for its money! ‘Besides’, he continued, ‘I have it on good authority that the state of matrimony is doing very well without my interference and it would completely upset my soft furnishings!’

‘Ah, the fairer sex does have a tendency for upsetting a gentleman’s orderly conduct and haberdashery!’ uttered Thomas, ‘and children of course have that propensity to destroy a man’s sanity with the charitable thought that fatherhood is the apex of manhood and the paternal instinct the very meaning of existence; as if it is our sole purpose and duty to leave the next generation in a better condition than the one that abandons it!’

‘I have little regard for the next generation, the previous or the present for that matter and even less regard for the molluscs that crawl across the surface of the earth and have no wish to add to its population!’ Esmonde said, grasping the spirit of Christmas as if it were a thorny rose.

‘Why you sentimental old fool, you do have a heart after all!’ Thomas said with a look of tenderness in his eyes which can only be established through years of friendship. Thomas continued, saying ‘far be it for me to speak ill of the dead Esmonde but surely you can put up with the old girl for one day, it is Christmas after all?’

‘Christmas be damned! She has requested to stay the night as her daughter Francesca who would usually wait upon her in festive drudgery is attending a Christmas Ball at the parents of the man she intends to marry, a nice fellow, but rather dull! I can see it now - the carols will resound throughout the household like an introit for the dead! The dinner bell shall toll like a death knell and there will be a slow march to the awaiting grave that is breakfast in the clear light of day! My epitaph shall read “here lies the mortal remains of Esmonde De John, confirmed bachelor, who succumbed to the devastating and destructive influence of old age”.’

Thomas chuckled, ‘and I shall produce a marvelous eulogy, at no cost. The cemetery is filled with similar good intentions I believe.’

‘And the church is filled with wickedness,’ retorted Esmonde, ‘but nothing so wicked as having to sit opposite Aunt Augusta for Christmas dinner; her teeth rise like half-submerged derelicts from the exposed sands littered with the wrecks and prison hulks of yesteryear and her lips cover them like the shifting dunes of time! They died an awfully long time ago, when Victoria took the throne I am told!’

‘Then it’s high time she joined them! I have not had the pleasure of her company myself but I have it on good authority, actually Reverend Baldwin, that she has a fine complexion, not unlike cheese. Take comfort Esmonde that she will depart from this world at some point in the not too distant future one hopes and leave her spoils to her favourite Nephew, no doubt!’

‘Yes, and probably on the condition that I produce a family to order!’ and Esmonde winced.

‘Tricky! Thankfully I do not believe in miracles. Have you ever really been in love Esmonde, I mean all that surrendering of the spirit and two hearts as one sort of tosh? I hear it does wonders for the soul and for filling tedious idle hours which would otherwise be spent in fascinating manly pursuits.’

‘I was in love once, Thomas’, Esmonde confessed as if it were some sinful crime, ‘it was during the bloom of my youth and she was the most stunning creature that ever dreamed by night and walked by day, or perhaps I should say dreamed by day and walked by night as she was of a nocturnal beauty; her mind was piercingly fierce of intellect and her eyes were of a vaporous moonlight, the pure feminine, a goddess in stature who stood between worlds, that of the living and that of the dead; the most exceptional woman I ever met and ever will meet!’

‘And you let her go?’ Thomas said abruptly.

‘It was an inevitable catastrophe! She haunts my every thought and lingers in my dreams. I pour my love upon her from afar as if she were an altar of devotion and shall do till my dying breath on earth. I was a fool, an absolute fool to my shame!’ Esmonde bowed his head as if seemingly before that altar of his desire.

‘Well there is no use dwelling on the past old boy and what could have been; “might have beens” won’t cut any ice with Aunt Augusta you know!’ Thomas said in an attempt at sympathy. Esmonde looked off into the distance remembering things as they were between him and his lost love or inventing them in a new light of imagination and some moments elapsed until the silence was broken by Simpkins, Esmonde’s valet and general manservant entering the drawing room.

‘Excuse me sir, but I have taken the liberty of unpacking a case of sherry as your Aunt is so fond of it! Oh and I have disposed of that matter to which we are not supposed to talk about sir.’

‘I’m sure I don’t know to what you are referring to Simpkins but thank you anyway. That will be all for tonight, and merry Christmas to you!’

‘Yes merry Christmas!’ echoed Thomas, adding, ‘I say, he’s the very Sphinx isn’t he?’

‘I couldn’t do without him!’ whispered Esmonde, ‘he sweeps all my desires under the carpet until there is no trace of them! Everyone should have a Simpkins!’

Simpkins, a long-necked, reliable man in his forties left the room in his easy and distinctive manner; usually his head would enter a room peering round the door and the rest of him would appear several seconds later. He was a confident man not averse to covering certain misdemeanours of his master and employer, Mr. Esmonde De John; a man in receipt of much trust and favour in pasting over the socially embarrassing cracks that appear from time to time following his master’s excursions into unknown pastures of London.

Esmonde took his cigarette case from his pocket and offered it to Thomas, who took one and smiled, and then Thomas said, looking at the cigarette case: ‘I see you are still loath to part with this little treasure! See how close he clutches the abomination!’ Thomas mocked as Esmonde rolled the sparkling cigarette case in his hands.

‘There are so few cigarette cases in the hands of the recipients as most were pawned for hard cash Thomas and besides, it was a gift from Oscar to me and it has become a symbol of friendship – I could never part with it!’

‘Friendship indeed! You met him once or twice and consider yourself a life-long comrade of the condemned man!’ Thomas said as if scolding his friend.

‘Thomas you sound like a common shop girl! You know you are much mistaken and you are much like Oscar when you speak so ill of me for he was an inveterate snob also and I told him so, in jest of course, to his utter amusement.’

‘I know you did, it’s been trotted round every dinner and luncheon table ever since!’

‘You seem to doubt me Thomas.’ Esmonde said, hiding his upset.

‘On the contrary old boy I know the truth of the matter and have refrained from referring to it in society. Please do me the honour and haul it out once again just for me won’t you!’ Thomas put his hand on Esmonde’s hand with the touch of firm friendship.

‘You are rude Thomas and I shall do no such thing!’ Esmonde looked decidedly hurt by the remark.

‘I am sorry Esmonde, really I am, it’s just my way, I could never do anything to hurt you really. Please do relate the story once more.’ Pure love blazoned from Thomas’ eyes upon his friend, a love unspoken and eternal.

‘Oh very well, as you asked me so nicely. Well, I said he was an inveterate snob and Wilde, grasping at his jowls, thanked me and said he was much flattered by the observation and that the world revolves on flattery and coins of the realm and that he was rich in one and poor in the other!’

Thomas yawned; ‘I bet he never mentioned those stained sheets of the Savoy and that horrid chamber-maid; it will no doubt haunt him for the rest of his days – they were his undoing you know!’ Thomas chuckled.

‘Thomas, how could you be so heartless?’ Esmonde was decidedly perturbed.

‘Heartless nothing old chap! And fancy making that remark about the ugly boy, what was his name?’ Thomas rubbed his fingers together as if searching through an imaginary directory of ugly boys.

‘Walter Grainger.’ Answered Esmonde triumphantly.

 ‘Yes, that’s it, and not kissing him due to his peculiar ugliness! What a fool! It sealed his fate of course!’

‘Rot and you know it!’

‘Perhaps, was that the only time you met Wilde?’ Thomas inquired.

‘I’d rather not say.’ And Esmonde changed the subject. ‘Tell me Thomas, how is that book of yours coming along? Is it as indecent as its author pretends to be?’

‘Motets and Moon-Threads? Not so well but it’s to be expected; one cannot thrust a volume of poetry upon an unsuspecting public and expect a fair trial. The critic you know says what is on his mind and the artist says what is in his heart but the general public replies with what is in their bank accounts.’

‘There is a distinct lack in humanity to appreciate good poetry these days. When I am called to answer for my foibles Thomas I shall take Saint Peter aside and have the failing corrected!’

‘I have always suspected you of having fraudulent connections in the next world!’

‘You shouldn’t treat the matter so lightly you know Thomas, there are more things in heaven and hell… tell me, what is your opinion of death?’

‘Like honouring one’s debts it is to be avoided at all costs! You do surprise me Esmonde, for if I want a lecture upon immorality and spiritual affairs I go to my barber and if I want advice on all the riches heaven supposedly has in store for me I go to my tailor; likewise a sermon on the wickedness of fornication and the sins of the flesh is dispensed by my butcher – for business and financial management and salacious gossip I go to the Church!’

‘Then we are of a similar mind for I always go to my dentist for the dangers of democracy and political affairs of state to which he is privy! But seriously Thomas, what are your views on death?’ Esmonde gazed into Thomas’ eyes searchingly.

‘We exist and then we die, that is all, it is a bitter-sweet tragedy I know but there is no evidence to the contrary. Why are you so morbid this evening Esmonde?’

‘These dark nights of winter turn my mind to mortality and other dark thoughts I am afraid. I fear I am condemned to the obscurity of the grave; I have made no singular difference to the life of another living soul – I have been and ever shall be an unsatisfied and un-manifested afterthought and my life is not worth the skin I inhabit!’

Thomas put his hand on Esmonde’s shoulder, saying ‘such tragedy in twenty-seven years of existence! These thoughts are not peculiar to you alone you know, the essence of humanity is bathed in darkness.’

‘I can only speak for myself Thomas’, Esmonde said with a look of dejection on his face, ‘I am tired of the artificial and want something real to have and hold! I produce no sensation and provoke no emotion – I am already dead!’

Silence ensued and Thomas put his hand to Esmonde’s head and softly stroked his hair which seemed to pull Esmonde a little from his despair.

‘Aunt Augusta believes in spiritualism’, Esmonde said like a child, ‘you know all that table-rapping stuff and conversing with long dead entities such as Drake and Cromwell!’

‘If it were possible then why do we not hear from the likes of Judas, a much maligned man if I may say so, and Caligula and Genghis Khan? No doubt it shall come as some surprise to her when she looks death square in the teeth to find no celestial plane on which to play bridge or stand eye-ball to eye-ball with the great and the good! Have you ever seen a ghost Esmonde, you talk as if you are half converted yourself?’

‘I have a yearning towards such things but to say I have seen a ghost would be a lie, yet I might add, that the apparition of Aunt Augusta rising in the night like a spectre from the grave might have a similar effect upon the living!’

‘How perfectly frightful! You know Esmonde, I never could understand why you adore Christmas so much, or at least pretend to, you a complete pagan, and deplore New Year! Will you be attending mass this year?’

‘I would not miss it for the world! Those delightful choristers brighten up anyone’s Christmas mood especially after the Reverend  keeps insisting on mentioning some fellow named Jesus which completely spoils the atmosphere of Christmas!’ Esmonde sneered.

‘I quite agree’ said Thomas, ‘there is much too much importance placed on this Jesus chap, I mean, what did he ever do in the name of Christmas? It’s not like he invented the bloomin’ thing! Did he distribute presents to the children who slept soundly in their beds at night while Lord and Lady Dillweather-something-or-other hurried the servants along – no he did not! It seems to me all he did do was to stop people having damned fun; look at what he did in the market place for God’s sake, completely ruined everyone’s day – what a dullard, a real dowdy sort of fellow and not someone you’d care to rub shoulders with. He must have been thoroughly dead to every sensation, except suffering, he was very good at that so we are told constantly, but did he ever have one, just one strong and sensuous emotion or express beauty in the form of flesh upon flesh? These are the high sensations of life Esmonde. But I forget, I’m preaching to the converted.’

‘You are a born philosopher Thomas and a barbarian to boot! If I were born with your immeasurable kindness I should think I could accomplish wonders, but as I was not I do not and therefore waste away in utter obscurity; please say you will stay for dinner.’

‘Ah and be a witness to the ritual slaughter of Christmas by Aunt Augusta! When is she supposed to arrive: the witching hour?’

‘At eight and she is always punctual! Please say you will stay Thomas and protect me from her infernal questioning. I shall be an absolute wreck before New Year hammers the final nail in the coffin. You haven’t made other arrangements have you?’

‘That depends on what gastronomic delight you have prepared.’

‘Lobster!’ Esmonde said as if it were some sacred word of the Ancient Order of Gentlemanly Layabouts, uttered in darkness before an altar of depravity.

‘What a thoroughly wicked life you lead!’ Thomas squealed, knitting his brows together at the thought of lobster, ‘speaking of lobster, how is your sister Clarissa?’

‘I do not know why you should force lobster and my sister Clarissa into the same sentence as if it were a cooking pot; you know perfectly well she is engaged to be married.’

‘Is that still going ahead? I thought it had all fallen through.’

‘And why shouldn’t it? My sister is perfectly respectable and will make an excellent wife to Rector Spotiswode.’

‘I have frequently found that country Rector’s wives have all the erotic allure of an old Saint and the patience of a tuppeny strumpet!’

‘Thankfully I have never been so rash or so extravagant as to spend so much as “tuppeny” on a strumpet, patient or otherwise and never will and your attempt at humour is as disagreeable as a cold shower on a wet weekend in Hastings. Well, shall I set another place for dinner? It will be no trouble.’ Esmonde pleaded with his friend.

‘Very well old boy, I shall stay in the name of friendship and in the line of duty to defend the good name of De John!’

‘You are a marvel Thomas!’

‘So I am frequently told. You know, I cannot say myself that I have experienced love; all that passion sort of thing, it seems to me that lust is an ever-present condition and usually unsatisfied. I tend to believe that madness is the outward manifestation of love. You know Esmonde, I have always had this strange affliction for nuns, all that restrained passion suppressed by the spiritual bindings of the church and the material barrier of the habit. To tap it and see that passion gush forth like oil upon water in every conceivable fleshly direction, splashing upon poor sinning me. No doubt it shall all come out in my autobiography – Touched by Raven and Rook!’

‘You’re speaking like a common Bishop! Pull yourself together old boy and if ever such an autobiography were to appear it would be avoided like the plague!’ Just then a bell rang.

‘Talking of the plague!’ Esmonde turned quite pale and said ‘into the lion’s den!’

‘Remember Androcles!’ Thomas said defiantly.

‘He didn’t have to contend with Aunt Augusta!’ Esmonde went into the hallway to receive his Aunt.

‘Good gracious Esmonde! Have you sunk so low that you must open your own front door?’ Chimed Aunt Augusta.

‘And merry Christmas to you too Aunt Augusta!’ Esmonde bellowed, stifling his laughter before continuing, ‘I have given Simpkins the night off, it is Christmas Day after all!’

‘Yes, yes’ waved Aunt Augusta. ‘You know Esmonde, I have always noticed in you a nasty streak of lavish generosity. Such liberties did not occur in my day!’

Aunt Augusta entered handing her coat, hat and gloves to Esmonde. ‘I suppose cook will be available or have you completely taken leave of your senses?’

‘Cook has prepared a most admirable dinner and I have sent her home to be with her family at Christmas.’

‘How very bohemian of you, I really don’t know where you get it from, it’s certainly not from your mother’s side. Are there any other wild Saturnalian surprises in store?’

‘Just one and he is waiting for us in the drawing room.’

Esmonde ushered in Aunt Augusta whose stern face seemed to whither away the Christmas cheer at an alarming pace and replace it with Christmas misery.

‘And who is this, the parlour maid I daresay?’ said Aunt Augusta under her breath before intoning, ‘Esmonde, who is your charming friend?’ and Aunt Augusta stretched out an arm in the general direction of Thomas.

‘Aunt Augusta may I introduce my dear friend Mr. Thomas Cyril Fairfax!’

‘Pleased to meet you Mr. Fairfax; and what is your profession?’

‘I am a poet Madam! Therefore I have no profession!’

‘Ah, an honest sloth, how delightful.’

‘May I get you a sherry Aunt?’ asked Esmonde.

‘Esmonde, you know I deplore strong drink! But one must be festive I suppose, perhaps a small one.’ Esmonde handed Aunt Augusta a glass of sherry which was very far from small and very near to full and they all sat by the fire.

Aunt Augusta noticed a book on the fireside table and picked it up and turned it around in her hands, ‘Pride and Prejudice. Esmonde, have you been reading this?’

‘Yes, it’s really rather good Aunt.’

‘Hmm, a lady may write novels, it is a harmless occupation, but it is most unbecoming of a gentleman to read them! I find it quite deplorable that a lady should reveal a woman’s intimate and genteel shortcomings which would otherwise remain one of life’s great mysteries!’ Aunt Augusta sniffed and dropped the novel as if it were contagious.

‘Esmonde tells me Madam’, Thomas said in an effort to change the subject, ‘that you are interested in spiritualism, how fascinating!’

‘Yes, do you know that I am on the most intimate and friendliest of terms with most of the deceased Kings of England? They are really quite charming, except for Henry VIII, he’s quite a bully you know! When my time comes and I am called to the veil it is more than likely that I shall be returning like Marley’s ghost to rattle my chains and haunt the family who think I am slightly mad you know?’

‘Well as you shall be in the business of haunting I must give you the name and address of my tax collector!’ chuckled Esmonde; Aunt Augusta ignored the remark.

‘Tell me Mr. Fairfax, are your parents still with us or are they in the afterlife?’ Aunt Augusta stared inquisitively into Thomas’ eyes.

‘Gladly still with us Madam on the side of the living but sadly not here with us. I am of Hampshire stock Madam and my father is in the business of agriculture.’

‘He means he’s a farmer’s son Aunt Augusta.’ That distinguished old lady turned her nose up and shrivelled intensely at the thought.

‘Nothing of the sort Esmonde, father is an exporter of agricultural implements and is highly respected in that field and made a sizable fortune from it!’

‘Farmers and their fields!’ sighed Aunt Augusta, ‘shall you be returning to that delightful county for New Year Mr. Fairfax or have you completely lost all sense of proportion and accustomed yourself, like Esmonde, to London society?’

‘I am a simple man of nature at heart Madam and therefore have become fully acclimatised to the whirl of London life which I so enjoy and shall not be indulging New Year in Hampshire or any other county for that matter. Speaking of New Year, Esmonde quite abhors New Year.’ Thomas looked at Esmonde with unfaltering love.

'Yes, and do you know why Mr. Fairfax?’ Aunt Augusta squeaked, looking down her nose.

‘Don’t believe a word of it Thomas!’ said Esmonde handing Aunt Augusta another sherry with a look of absolute fear on his face as if he were to be exposed of a crime.

‘Because’ continued Aunt Augusta in a tone of reverence, ‘he was found doing something quite unspeakable one New Year’s Eve with the house-boy!’

‘That’s a lie Aunt Augusta and you know it!’ Esmonde said defiantly.

‘I had it from the lips of your own dear mother Esmonde and I would hardly disbelieve my own sister now would I?’ There was a silence as Thomas looked at Esmonde and Esmonde glanced at Aunt Augusta who in turn was staring at Thomas. Esmonde nervously took his cigarette case from his pocket and put a cigarette to his lips.

‘Esmonde must you, you know I detest smoking and do not approve of it!’ declared Aunt Augusta, ‘you would not’ she continued, ‘do such a thing in church.’

‘That depends Madam’ said Thomas, ‘in theory – yes, in practice – no.’

‘Are you a church now Aunt Augusta?’ Esmonde asked sarcastically.

‘Don’t be impertinent!’ said that austere old lady taking another sherry for herself, ‘you may have acquired a smoky reputation which invariably occurs from some nefarious point of ignition but there is no need to fan the flames further by smoking!’

Esmonde glanced at Aunt Augusta and a chill surged through him as his attention was drawn to her atrocious teeth which rose like broken battlements in that valley of death which was her mouth; he returned the cigarette to the case, ‘and besides, continued Aunt Augusta, ‘that case has beastly attachments!’

‘It has nothing of the sort. It was given to me by a very dear friend, an artist; one might even go so far as to say a genius.’

‘That may be so but must he suffer for his art so literally and so publicly and offend society by so doing?’

‘Society can go hang!’ Esmonde said under his breath. Thomas chuckled.

‘You said something Esmonde?’

‘Merely that Society is everything! Thomas, you were telling me something of your interest in the church before Aunt Augusta arrived and how you admire those dutiful and poor sisters who work so tirelessly in their devotion.’

‘You are quite exceeding the realms of friendship dear Esmonde to speak of such personal spiritual aspirations which I spoke of in strictest confidence.’ Thomas handed Aunt Augusta another sherry.

‘You are quite right Mr Fairfax it is most unbecoming of Esmonde to bring the matter up. Are you married Mr Fairfax?’ Aunt Augusta asked.

‘Sadly no madam, I have not had the good fortune to find love.’

‘Good gracious! One does not marry for love Mr Fairfax; one marries for position and social standing. I absolutely detested my first husband Major Barclay, we never saw eye to eye on anything. He was stationed in India you know, until he had a touch of sunstroke and went queer, putting several natives in the family way before running off into the bush to do the only decent and honourable thing he ever did in his entire life: he put his revolver to his head and shot himself! Now my second husband, ah, Mr Wade, a good, kind man, poor Stephen… it was a most unfortunate accident, he bent down to tie his shoelace in Sloan Square and was kicked in the head by a horse, the cab man was most apologetic!’

‘Do they ever contact you, from the other side I mean?’ asked Thomas.

‘Good heavens no! The Major was never one to speak much in life, certainly not to me so I don’t see why he should suddenly become a chatterbox in death! Although I did hear from Stephen once, he told me that he didn’t mind me marrying again but I am hardly likely to try a third time! I find I am suited to widowhood, it has really made me!’

‘I must say you don’t paint an awfully pretty picture of marriage.’ Said Thomas with a smile, handing her another sherry, ‘if only I were twenty years younger Mr Fairfax I should attend to your peculiarities a little more carefully,’ Aunt Augusta said, smiling to reveal the sunken wrecks. ‘Forty years younger would not be stretching the imagination too far!’ Thomas thought to himself but politely said ‘Your Aunt Augusta Esmonde is a lady of impeccable taste and refinement!’

‘My dear Mr Fairfax, how very perceptive of you,’ returned Aunt Augusta, and so the conversation drifted into this and that corner of half-hearted attempts at prolonging humour and interest but in the face of such adversity as Aunt Augusta the barrage became a minor tirade of boredom and displeasure which eked itself out through dinner.

Aunt Augusta was decidedly unimpressed with the lobster but held her tongue on the matter and following two more glasses of sweet sherry she retired to her bed chamber for the night. Esmonde and Thomas sat up a while enjoying their brandy and cigarettes now that the old dispenser of gloom and disapproval had extinguished her eyes and found the world of sleep full of new opportunities for misery making.

‘I’m not sure I like the idea of your making love to My Aunt Augusta, Thomas, it is most distressing and thoroughly obscene.’

Thomas agreed to stay the night also as it was late and carriages would be difficult to be had and he was as much averse to walking as he was hard work, so he took up space on a sofa and made himself comfortable before falling into a chain of nightmares all of which featured the terrible sight of Aunt Augusta’s teeth.

The next morning, having woken quite late, Esmonde knocked on Aunt Augusta’s door to inform her that breakfast would be prepared shortly. Receiving no answer Esmonde slowly and cautiously entered the room and to his utter astonishment there was no sight or sound of Aunt Augusta; in fact, her bed had not been slept in. He scanned the room and worked by a process of elimination and made a search for her handbag for Aunt Augusta was rarely far away from her handbag and failing that he looked for her gown and then in turn looked for her gloves, hat and coat which were nowhere to be found and neither was the small and imperfectly formed body of Aunt Augusta or the rotten, broken tusks that rose from her gums and passed for teeth; in fact, she was nowhere to be seen in the house! Esmonde woke Thomas and told him his concerns and that Aunt Augusta was not there and seemed as if she were never there at all. Where could she be? Was she spirited away in the night? They both made a thorough search upstairs and downstairs and not a thread of her was to be found. It was as if she had never been there and further, not existed at all!

Esmonde discovered his cigarette case was missing – ‘I’ve been burgled Thomas’. A search for the item turned up nothing and the mystery deepened.

Thomas had to leave as he had already made arrangements that afternoon but he promised to return later that evening to comfort Esmonde who was beside himself with worry for his Aunt, and of course for the whereabouts of his cigarette case.

 It was towards the evening that a letter arrived from his cousin, Miss Wade who informed him that on her return from the country she found that her mother, Esmonde’s Aunt Augusta, had sadly died sometime around six p.m. the previous day, Christmas Day. But how could that have been when shortly after this time she arrived at the home of Esmonde in Eaton Square, and attended dinner and stayed the night? Miss Wade went on to say in the letter that Esmonde’s cigarette case was found on her person when she died at home which she could not account for. Esmonde was dumbfounded. How could it be? When he told Thomas of the letter that distinguished young gentleman was equally perturbed and perplexed and they both thought that perhaps some occult disturbance had been at play and they both agreed to put it out of their minds and resigned themselves to never talk about it again. Esmonde did not even ask for the return of the silver cigarette case as it would now hold a most distressing significance. Whatever had indeed occurred on that fateful Christmas Day it had a lasting and profound effect upon the lives of Mr Esmonde De John and Mr Thomas Cyril Fairfax.