The Gilded Madonna by Garrick Jones (ebook reader for comics TXT) 📕

open with his foot, closing it behind us with a quick bend of the knee and a push with his backside.

“I’m Two, that was One who took your car, and Three will be looking after you during your stay,” he said, ushering us into a wonderful, high-ceiling room at the end of the corridor on the floor above, with view over a lake at the side of the house.

There weren’t many times since I’d known him that I’d seen Harry stand stock still, the wheels in his mind turning so obviously that one could almost hear them click. “You’re not—”

“Identical triplets, yes. Mr. Farrell sponsored us to come here from the Philippines after he returned there with the American liberation alongside General Macarthur. He knew our parents before the war, and we’ve worked for him since 1946. Our names are so similar, they’re confusing, and not even Mr. Farrell can tell us apart sometimes, so the house rule is One looks after outside activities, like tennis, the pool, riding, hiking, or whatever; Two is in charge of the house; and Three looks after special guests while they’re staying. He’s also Mr. Farrell’s valet. So, if you see any one of us and you need help just ask. None of us will be offended, and it’s easier to just say something like ‘could you ask Two if we could have lunch down by the pool’. Whoever it is will make sure the message gets to the correct one of us, even if it’s him you’re actually addressing.”

“What a great room,” Harry said, putting his hands in his pockets and walking to the window. I knew it was to hide his enormous desire to pry further. I must admit I wondered if having triplets work for him was Howard Farrell’s ultimate sexual fantasy, but then remembered how often I’d been told he always had some famous sportsman or actor on his arm … and in his bed.

“The furniture was Mr. Farrell’s grandparents’ choice—all of it locked up for fifty years in storage in a warehouse in the city. The house was a ruin when Mr. Farrell was given it by his father. We arrived from Manila just in time to help with the renovations. It took three years to get it looking like this, but it still takes my breath away. I can’t believe I actually work here.”

“Talking of work,” a voice said from behind us. Another of the triplets had joined us. By this time, I was standing next to Harry at the window and was gazing out over the lake. “Mr. Farrell says you should change into your swimmers—or not, it’s your choice—and join him down by the pool for morning tea. I’m Three, by the way,” he added as his sibling left us.

He put our suitcases on the bed and began to open them.

“No need to do that—” I began to say.

“Then you’ll be robbing me of my greatest pleasure. It’s my job to look after you while you’re here, and valet service for Mr. Farrell’s guests is what makes my life special.”

I looked at Harry and shrugged. We’d had similar treatment at the Windsor while staying in Melbourne.

“When you said it was our choice, did you mean whether to join Mr. Farrell or to have a swim?”

“Oh, no,” Three said with a bright smile. “The option was whether you wanted to wear your bathers or swim au naturel—like everyone else does.”

*****

“They didn’t look like Filipinos,” I said to Harry as we followed Three’s directions and made our way down to the pool. I’d been unceremoniously told I couldn’t wear my yellow Speedos, they were far more erotic than going naked, so I threw on the pair of pale-blue American shorts I’d stolen from Harry on Australia Day earlier this year. In the end, we’d decided to wear swimmers and then if Howard was naked, we’d strip off. “When in Rome,” Harry had said.

“Two said Howard had known their parents before the war. Perhaps one of their parents was an American? Or maybe both? They could easily have been working there in export/import when the war broke out. It’s not hard to guess they didn’t survive.”

I recognised the gazebo the moment we walked out on the veranda at the back of the house. I remembered it from photographs that Ray Wilson had taken, and it was also there that Augusto had told me he’d first made love with Daley Morrison. The path led around the back of it through dense plantings of summer annuals, perennials, and low bushes before arriving at the edge of the pool.

“Hello there,” Howard called out as he saw us come into sight.

“Guess it’s goodbye to cossies,” Harry whispered, shucking his off and then waving back to Howard. I took mine off and put them on top of my head, like a flimsy, lopsided hat of sorts. Howard laughed and then stood from his deckchair and shook hands.

“Dai!” he called out to a man who was doing laps in the pool. Serious laps, not paddling or casual breaststroke like I would be doing on a lazy summer’s day. “Dai!”

The swimmer didn’t seem to notice, so Howard picked up a beach ball and then threw it in the water. It landed a few yards in front of the man, who of course collided with it, turned onto his back, and looked back at us. He waved.

“Dai? Not—”

“Yes, Dai Carew, the Welsh one hundred metre champion.”

“We saw him in the semi-finals in Melbourne at the Games not more than a few weeks ago.”

“We’ve been casually involved for nearly a year now. I talked him into taking a couple of weeks with me after the Olympics before he goes back home. I rather think he may have turned me down had it not been for this,” Howard said, nodding at his huge swimming pool.

“That must be awkward,” Harry said, “managing a relationship over such a distance.”

“The team was here for months before the Olympics acclimatising, and before that