A VERY ENGLISH GENTLEMAN

A VERY ENGLISH GENTLEMAN

(Excerpts from the wartime diary of Oliver ‘Chips’ Copper, born 4th May 1893 - died 5th January 1917)

November 15th 1916

Dined at Arlington Street. The Blue Dining Room looked exquisite in the candlelight. Eight of us, including Diana. Never has she looked more beautiful. Am I in love with her, after all? I do believe I may be. Later, as I was departing, she stole into the hallway and smothered me with kisses. Her feelings towards me, at any rate, are quite clear but, an hour later, as I lay in the arms of a blonde beauty at the brothel on Regent Street, I quite forgot her.

November 17th 1916

Dined at the Montagu’s. Seated between Lily and Constance, the two sisters; both divine. Imagine my surprise (pleasant) when, as her father was holding forth on the situation in France, Lily’s hand slipped between my legs and...ecstasy. I dared not utter a sound, nor close my eyes even. Where has this sprung from? Am I so irresistible? Back in my flat, I felt confused; torn between feelings of lust for the sweet Lily and guilt over my betrayal of Diana.

November 19th 1916

All day at the Foreign Office. Such a dreary bore. One feels that one should be over there doing one’s bit for King and country. How to get round this exemption? I had already had two requests denied. Later, word came that Bunny Holton had been killed at Ypres. I felt a deep sense of loss.

He and I had shared rooms at Cambridge and I confess to having buggered him on the odd occasion. I drank to his memory at the club, tonight. Too much, I fear. Smithers tells me that old Horsfield made mention of my rowdiness. Played Chemin de Fer and stupidly lost sixty pounds. Fool that I am.

November 21st 1916

Made myself cosy up to Mother, all day. Though it was bitterly cold, I took her for a brisk walk around St. James Park before lunching at the Ritz; unlike me, she believes a good constitutional essential for one’s well being. Good food and I abstained from any wine. The old girl noted this and seemed impressed. I was attentiveness personified; talking only of her friends, her interests. Never have I been so flattering. Back at her flat, I insisted on playing several hands of that ridiculous card game, Scrimmage, which I know she adores. She was as putty in my hands and could hardly refuse me when, upon leaving, as if the thought had only just occurred to me, I asked for an advance on my capital of sixty pounds. On second thoughts, better make that one hundred pounds, dear Mother. Armed with her cheque, I walked across the park to the club and gambled, winning almost seventy five pounds, thanks to a little cheating on my part. A tiresome day with a very positive ending!

November 30th 1916

This morning, I was summoned in to see old Folkestone at the F.O. I wondered if I had made some catastrophic error and was about to be dressed down but the old boy simply wanted to advise that, impressed by my repeated requests to be allowed to go and fight, he had decided that my exemption from duty was to be set aside, leaving me free to apply to a regiment of my choice. Suddenly, all

previous thoughts of fighting the Germans on the battlefields of France melted swiftly away. Never had I been more grateful for my cosy, safe position, here at the Foreign Office, now, suddenly, taken from me. All day in a quandary as to my next move. This evening, I met Diana who had driven over to see me and I told her my news. The poor girl was distraught and broke down in tears. I admit that I was moved by the depth of her feelings for me and, in her distress, she seemed even more attractive than ever and I felt monstrously guilty for my dalliances with Lily Montagu and the ladies of the night.

December 7th 1916

I must report to Southampton for basic training on the 10th. Two weeks, after which, all candidates will be tested and a decision made on whether or not our applications for the Officer Corps in the Royal Fusiliers has been accepted. How miserably dreary. Two weeks away from Diana and the delectable Lily. Will I miss Christmas, itself, for which, I have been invited down to Cadogan Hall by Diana? I must find a way to attend. This evening, on impulse, I called to see Bunny’s widow, Sybil. We both cried, comforted each other and one thing led to another and I found myself, unforgivably, taking advantage of her distress and...

December 10th 1916

How utterly ghastly! I have to share a room with nine others. They really are the most common of folks; some of them sleep in their underwear! The uniform issued is truly the most basic, rough looking outfit that I have ever seen. I had to have a photograph taken - just a headshot for my official ID but I look remarkably handsome, if I say so myself. But, oh dear, as for the awful footwear! It was with great difficulty that I managed to find somebody willing to polish my boots and buff my buttons for a few shillings. My only blessed relief came in the form of a letter from Diana in which she praised me for being such a hero. I felt marginally better after reading it for the third or fourth time. A hero!

December 24th 1916

Thank the Lord. I have passed and have been accepted as a junior officer in the Fusiliers. I report for duty on January 3rd which means that I can now travel to Cadogan Hall and spend a joyous Christmas and New Year with Diana and look forward to luxe, great foods and wines after the slop I have been forced to digest for the last fortnight. Hopefully, the Duke, who has never, hitherto, approved of me, will be more accepting now that I am an officer. I shall be sure to arrive in full uniform. Damn, a letter from Sybil Holton, thanking me for such a wonderful evening and hoping to see me again, very soon. Oh, such a weak fool am I.

December 26th 1916

Really the most delightful Christmas present ever! Last night, Diana told me to come to her room if I wished to receive the gift that she had been holding back from me all day. This I did and, joy of joys, she invited me into her bed and allowed me to discover, for the first time, the intimacy of her naked body though she would not permit me to go all the way. Nevertheless, I am now convinced that I am deeply in love with her. Never have I felt this way about any woman. Later today, we strolled in the cold, foggy air of the Hall and she wept as we discussed my imminent departure for France. We were as one, united in our love for each other, I felt. If only I had money, I would rush to her father, the Duke, and beg for her immediate hand.

January 2nd 1917

I am in shock. Last night, after an excellent late dinner at which we rang in the New Year, I was left alone in the drawing room after everybody had retired. My intention was to wait awhile and then, when the house was quiet, tiptoe to Diana’s bedroom for another night of frolics. Imagine my surprise when, upon a side table, I discovered Diana’s own diary which she had neglected to take up with her. Naturally, immediately, I devoured it, page after page, reading of her attraction, love, devotion for C (Chips, of course, the name by which I am addressed by all). But, then, as the diary progressed, I later found myself referred to as Oliver, not C, discovering to my horror that, according to these pages, she was only “very fond” of me, Oliver. My blood ran cold upon reading these words. Then, turning another page, out slipped a photograph of Constance Montagu, Lily’s sister, on the back of which were these words which I inscribe: “Diana, my one true love. Come to me as soon as you can. I send a thousand kisses. C.”

So I was not loved. I was, indeed, a cuckold, in all but name. Diana, the woman to whom I have pledged my heart is a sapphist! I was in turmoil. Distressed, I drank a full glass of port; then another. My inclination was to go immediately to Diana’s room and have it out, vent my feelings, expose her to her family, to the world! But how could I explain my reading of her diary? To I, a gentleman, such things are beyond the pale. All night, I sat alone and imbibed while she, I knew, would be awaiting me, wondering what had happened.

This morning, at the crack of dawn, I departed the Hall and I write these words on my London bound train. Diana will be confused when I do not appear at breakfast, alarmed when she discovers her diary, left unguarded for all the world to see, and shattered and comprehending when she opens a certain page, to see her treasured photograph of Constance replaced by the British Army I.D. of one, Chips, First Lieutenant Oliver Copper.