The Boxing course at Aldershot furnished me with an opportunity to discover how things now stood between myself and the various girls I’d left behind - although there was nothing that I could do about it until the competitions had taken place. Then I was due to take a fortnight’s leave.

There were two other cavalry officers in these competitions - Cecil Paynter and David Weir, and it was they who suggested that we go up to London for a celebration binge once the ordeal was over, with each of us inviting his girl-friend to attend. But my own secret problem was that I didn’t really have a girl-friend, upon whom I could rely to accept such dates. It turned out to be a vain hope that [X] might accept the invitation when I telephoned, although I cannot remember what excuse she found to decline. So I then tried phoning Venetia, with better success - despite the fact that I hadn’t even written to her while I’d been out in Germany. But accept she did, so my face was saved.

The evening hardly ranked as a success. For one thing I arrived late at the theatre, so that Venetia got the impression that I was both standing her up, or even passing her off with a blind date. Apparently there had been some icy exchanges of conversation before I belatedly took my seat. But the atmosphere thawed out now that I had arrived. We even went on to The Carousel afterwards, where it was quite evident that she was endeavouring to be most attentive to me. But when the evening came to an end, I had to arrange for the others to give her a lift back to the flat where she was staying, since I was dependent for my own transport on the motorbike which I had borrowed from [R]- Roger the Rover still being out in Germany. Venetia looked at me with wide, reproachful eyes - after which the relationship once again ran out of gas.

One thing that I was indeed to notice however, was the extent to which my sex appeal was now resurrected from the fact of receiving mention in the press as the Army Officers’ new welter-weight boxing champion. This arose because an evening paper phoned me at Sturford to check the fact that it was indeed myself who had been listed as the winner. The reporter was using boxing jargon when chatting with me, and I was unaccustomed to trying to say nothing at all on such occasions. He had caught me with an unfortunate phrase on my tongue, saying: "I just couldn’t finish him off" which must have infuriated David Townsend, who was my opponent, in that he had put up some fierce opposition to me in the ring.

But the effect of the new title upon my sex appeal was indubitably advantageous - despite the fact that Venetia had proclaimed that the three of us whom she had met fell far short of the pugilistic stereotype that she might have expected. The difference became apparent when I accepted a week-end invitation with the Crawleys. Sarah didn’t have much time to spare on me just as little as a year ago, but everyone now seemed to recollect how I’d been quite a glamorous figure at Eton; and they were prepared to give me all the faith that I might demand with regard to my future aspirations as well.

I made quite considerable progress with Sarah sexually, on the evening we were left alone together in the drawing-room, after the others had gone to bed. She stopped me gently when I moved to climb on top of her, and she didn’t volunteer any genital stimulation for myself. It was a situation that I mishandled through inexperience, as I now see it in retrospect. And as a result I felt frustrated by the experience.

Caroline and Gibby Melgund’s wedding took place up in London at this juncture, and the Mayfair set were all present. I caught her eye as she walked back down the isle on this stranger’s arm, and it struck me that her expression was apologetic. But in any case I wished them well. I failed to win the attention of [X] at the reception. But I did obtain an invitation to join a theatre party that was being organised for [F]; and I was invited as her date in particular.

I had always liked [F], but had never felt romantically towards her. But she was full of animation at the night-club, to which her father took us all afterwards, and this increased with the quantity of champagne that she was drinking. Indeed she was known to have been drinking far too heavily over the course of the London season that year. But I was not far behind her, I daresay. Anyway, there came a point when she looked at me with sparkling eyes and exclaimed that she thought she was about to fall in love with me. Unwisely I told her that this would be delightful. And later, when dropping her back home in a taxi, I kissed her briefly.

It was now approaching the day when I was due to return to Germany, but I had the misfortune - or good fortune more accurately - when I was back at Sturford, to be stricken down with glandular fever. In that I never managed to identify any particular friend who had given me this malady, which is usually transmitted while kissing, I must assume that it resulted from my very last visit to a prostitute - which occurred during one of my visits to London immediately after the completion of the boxing competitions. (It was a last such visit in that my personal sex life was now on the brink of becoming slightly more successful, so that I could then dispense with prostitutes.) And on recovering from the glandular fever, I learnt that I was entitled to some sickness leave - quickly authenticated with a signature from my doctor on an appropriate form, which was then dispatched to the Adjutant back at Wolfenbütel. So as soon as I felt well enough, I began to live it up again socially.

To start with there was an invitation from [F] to come over to Stock Farm, her mother’s house in Wiltshire, and - joy of joys! - it was said that [X] would be bringing over a party of friends from [P]. I accepted with alacrity. I discovered that we had the run of the house to ourselves that evening. But my problem, as indeed I should have anticipated, was that [F] intended me as her partner, rather than [X]’s. This led to complications of course. And when [F] discovered that my attentions weren’t for herself, she began drinking heavily - to an extent when she was very soon quite plastered.

Meanwhile [X], who had brought over with her (amongst others) a lugubrious young man called [O], was flirting with me in a manner which enabled her to remain convinced that she was really being loyal to [F]. She kept on telling me earnestly - while gazing at me with those huge, deep set, grey eyes of hers - that I ought to go over and give [F] a little encouragement. But there was finally a bit of a scene, because [F] retired to the kitchen - reportedly in tears.

So I was able to sit there in silence - whereupon [X] decided that she ought to take her own party back home. Before she left however, I was able to fix up a date with her in London; after which I was able to return to Sturford in an elated frame of mind.

During the short time which remained of my sick-leave, I took [X] out on two occasions - ending up at The Carousel each time. She was definitely encouraging me, and I responded fervently. When taking her back in a taxi the first time, to the address where she was staying, I did get round to kissing her. But I did it too roughly - as she subsequently informed me. Apparently I clutched too savagely at her breast, and she felt nervous about letting me go further - even wondering if I had sadistic inclinations. But she still accepted my second invitation. And when I kissed her this time, I was at pains not to be rough with her. She promised to write to me when I was back at Wolfenbütel, and I was now in a state of ecstasy in that it did truly seem that there was someone (at long last) whom I could describe as my girl-friend.

In point of fact there wasn’t very much time at all before my demobization was due to take place. I was even hoping that they might decide it wasn’t worth all the trouble and expense of transporting me out there again. But I was hoping for too much on that score. I went out there for what really amounted to nothing more than the Christmas and New Year festivities. But it was a glorious time for me in that I had the pleasure of savouring all the revised estimates of my worth. I was able to feel that I was a popular and esteemed human being once again.

Not that I was left without any causes for anxiety however, for I received one piece of information which I found quite disconcerting. This came from [Q], who had came out for the second time to stay with Sue Blandford at Wolfenbütel. But some background information may facilitate an understanding. On the previous occasion - in the Summer - when Mariette had come out to Wolfenbütel, she was said to have been greatly smitten with [R], but that the love was not fully requited. And when [R] went back to London for a spell of leave, I suspect that he excused his lack of attentiveness to her by claiming that his heart was taken by [X]. So Mariette was much subdued by the time she came out for her Christmas visit.

I must have told her that I was in love with [X], and was probably enthusing too openly to her upon her qualities. Mariette’s initial line was that I ought to be careful, as there was madness in her family. But I replied quite cheerfully to this one that there was also madness in mine. So she went on to warn me against her in more authoritative terms - claiming that what she was only telling me what came from her in person. If I assess the situation correctly, Mariette had approached [X] to discover how definite was the relationship which [R] had proclaimed to exist between the two of them, only to get told that there was virtually no relationship whatsoever - or only a very amicable one. And to reinforce the point that she was making, [X] had told her that everyone knew how she was in love with someone else.

Whom this rival might be was kept secret from me. But I wrote to [X] intimating what Mariette had said while probing to discover more. She wrote in reply that she had met Mariette and having learnt from her that she, [X] was engaged to [R], told her it was a fantasy. Mariette had been informed of the engagement by Denis Daley, who [X] supposed must be desperate for Mariette and thought thus to put her off [R].

Regardless of the slight qualms which had now been raised in my mind, (and it did occur to me that my real rival was probably [M],) I rejoiced in the fact that I was now corresponding by letter with someone that I could openly avow as my love. I knew that [X] wouldn’t endorse such a description as yet, but that hardly mattered. What was more important was that I knew from my own senses that she had been giving me quite a fair amount of encouragement. And I felt confident that time would take care of the rest.

A few days after the New Year, I drove homewards in the Land-Rover - along with Tim Sainsbury and Angus McNeill. We stopped for the night in Brussels, and then next day made our way to the ferry that would take us over the Channel. For some reason we got badly delayed, so that it wasn’t until about midnight that we finally arrived back in London. I had been fretting badly all the while, since I’d made a date with [X] for that very night. But it should have occurred to me that there comes an hour after which it is politest - to the entire household - to postpone a telephone call until the next morning. It is perhaps a measure of the degree of my infatuation with [X] that I could not restrain myself from attempting to get through to her at this belated hour: a disturbance to the peace which might have gone down badly with Brigadier Sale’s household, where she was currently staying. But I know not if my guilt was detected, in that I suddenly panicked and hung up the receiver.

I did manage to get through to [X] on the following morning. And she was to tell me later that she was uncertain whether she really liked me, until she heard my voice over the telephone that morning. Then she knew that she was "pleased". In any case that was the message that she chose to give me, but it does leave a little to be explained. For the tone of her previous letters did indeed already indicate that she liked me. So it remains indeterminate whether she was inclined to display a false front in her letters, or just wasn’t so good at giving a fully accurate analysis of her own state of mind at any given juncture. But there was some confusion as to whether I might get a chance to see her before I drove down to Combermere later that day, to receive my official discharge. In the event, I went round to Brig Sale’s house in Eaton Place, only to find that [X] hadn’t returned when she said she might. So I was ushered into their drawing-room for a chat with the Brigadier and his wife. But it turned out to be an unfortunate experience, which I was prolonging in the vain hope that [X] might yet arrive.

I was to hear later that I created an unfavourable impression. It is difficult to recollect how the conversation went, but I think my mistake was in a display of military disloyalty. He was enquiring about my immediate superiors. And while I had only good things to say about Colonel Jackie Ward, I may have been less favourable in my tributes to Colonel Gerard Lee, who had just recently arrived at Wolfenbüttel to replace him. Worse still, I may well have told some funny stories about Nipper. Anyway, he decided that I wasn’t the kind of young officer that he would ever want to see on his staff. And that was the gist of the message that he passed on to [X] and her parents. So I was to find it more difficult than I might otherwise have anticipated to arrange my next date with her.

In any case my immediate task was to obtain my official discharge from the army, down at Combermere Barracks. We all put in our appearances at the appointed hour, and I remember in particular how we were required to hand in our pass-books and identification papers at the same time. If I had been a really efficient young officer, I would have insisted on these being destroyed before my eyes. But I was content to leave them with the corporal at the desk in the Orderly Room. I mention this in passing, in that I was to hear much later, how my pass-book had come to be in the hands of an impostor, claiming himself to be the real Lord Weymouth. But that is a story to be told in a later volume.

It was several weeks as it transpired before I actually managed to fix up a date with [X], largely because I went down to Cornwall for a while. Indeed, before I saw her again, I got invited to a party by Sarah Crawley. Now I liked Sarah, and I found her attractive. But there can be no doubt that my sexual interest was currently focused upon [X].

But it eventually transpired that we were both invited separately to a small cocktail party that was being given for Henrietta Scott, on her birthday. I was there for Henrietta - as I was told later - and [M] was there for [X]. And the whole idea was for us all to go on to dine somewhere together. But I was sufficiently insensitive not to appreciate any of this. In fact I was so besotted by this opportunity of seeing [X] again, that I hastened to invite her on to dinner with me almost as soon as I arrived. I did this in full hearing of the others, and in full hearing of the others, she accepted.

So what, I might venture to ask, was the real intention in her mind? She could so easily have nudged me back towards agreeing to participate within a collective outing. But she accepted to go on with me in [M]’ hearing. It could be that she was wanting to goad him into greater attentiveness. Or it could be that she wanted our relationship to develop, and knew how I was on the verge of going to live in Paris for a while. In any case there were developments on this particular evening, which might almost be counted as the start to our affair.

It was when driving her back home, after dancing until a late hour at The Carousel, that I stopped the car in a dark mews and started kissing her in earnest. [X] was making a shameless bid to get me to fall desperately in love with her, without any real intention of herself matching up to that level. Indeed, I was to observe in time to come how she was apt to employ those tactics to ensure the attentiveness of other admirers, who were not (as I judge) of especial importance to her. Yet I supposed that I was succeeding with her very well, when she looked at me from her over-earnest wide eyes to enquire: "Would you mind very much if I fell in love with you?" Taking her words at their face value, I responded with kisses.

Once I was back at Sturford Mead, I tried to assess the situation in my own mind. And there were some factors which might indicate that I was going overboard too quickly. I knew too little about this whole courtship business. And in any case I was due to go to Paris in a couple of weeks time. So I wrote a letter to [X] being very careful not to scare her off, but earnestly advising that we step back a pace and reflect before advancing further. Her reply was warm and reflected feelings in agreement with my own.

I counted the receipt of this letter as a great success. Nor did it occur to me that there might be an element of insincerity in it. But the truth of the matter is that there may have been only partial sincerity in what either of us uttered, or wrote, concerning our feelings about love. For in the absence of knowing what it could, or should be, we both needed to experiment in the expression and description of such emotion.

Shedding our shreds of chiffon sprightly as we prance
the dance our ballet demands, leaping aloft
in tropical warmth, we race in graceful circles,
berserk, on the open ocean-washed beach.
Each of us bearing gifts for the other, snappily
wrapped in colourful paper with happy patterns,
we chatter, enjoying our new generosity -
which costs us nothing, and we know not what they contain.
Remaining at the keyhole of a door, we seek a secret
space to place ourselves inside, where we ride
tip-toe in excitement, playing hide-and-seek,
peeking from fairy-tales - where nothing’s real.
"Knock, knock....!" For others in the world can share
the game of guessing that we too are there.

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