White City, London, 1908
“If you think I’m going up on that thing…” Orlando Coppersmith looked at the great metal creation. It seemed to reach up miles into the sky, higher than the Eiffel Tower or anything he’d ever seen. Even though the measurements, the beautifully accurate and logical measurements, meant it couldn’t be as high as he perceived it was, his eyes wouldn’t believe his brain.
“Why not?” Jonty Stewart’s eyes were ablaze with awe and wonder. “Everyone goes on the Flip Flap.”
“I’m not everyone.” Orlando knew all about his lover’s delight in bell towers, follies, any high places which gave panoramic views. “Anyway, you’ll be sick.” It was a feeble, inaccurate shot, inevitably missing its target.
“I’m never sick. Sorry.” A wide grin crossed Jonty’s handsome face, attracting the attention of two passing maidens. He raised his hat to them and carried on blithely, “I correct myself. I was once sick when some idiot took me on a helter-skelter two hours after a sporting dinner at St. Bride’s, but that was when I was a mere stripling.” No fellow of such an august Cambridge college was going to admit that he’d also been horribly ill just three years previously, after sledging with his nephew down a snow-covered hill. That was before he’d met Orlando and therefore both pre-historic and confidential.
“I’ll be sick.”
“Ah. Good point. I’ll never forget the ferry crossing to Jersey.” Jonty looked crestfallen, so disappointed at thwarted ambition that it knocked any argument out of Orlando’s mind.
“Oh, blow it. Let’s go on the thing then.” It was worth suffering just to see the delight on his friend’s face. “And if I’m sick I’ll do it in your hat.”
The Flip Flap. Everyone was talking about it, even the people who hadn’t yet been to the Franco-British exhibition at the great White City which was the talk of the country. There were songs about it in the music halls and Ella Retford wasn’t the only one singing “Take me on the Flip Flap”. Jonty and Orlando had heard a group of youths warbling it just the day before as they’d been wandering down Regent Street. Even Jonty’s father had been on the contraption, becoming so loquacious about his experience that Mrs. Stewart had been forced to have words. “I told your father, Jonathan,” she’d addressed her youngest son so loudly over the telephone that Orlando had been able to hear from the other side of the hall, “that if he doesn’t shut up, I’ll be filing for divorce and naming the Flip Flap as co-respondent.” Much to her dismay that conversation had made Jonty decide he and his lover had to visit the White City as soon as possible to see for themselves.
Orlando had been reluctant despite Mr. Stewart’s glowing reports. He’d seen Paris and been stunned by both the simpering Mona Lisa and the oddly masculine Venus de Milo. He’d strolled through Monte Carlo, as urbane a boulevardier as if he’d been born to the role, or at least a good imitation of one. Why should he want to see imitations of glory when he’d encountered the real thing? The unanswerable argument was that Jonty wanted to see these things and what Jonty wanted, he got. The dunderheads had gone home from the university, back to families who would be astounded by their brains even if Cambridge wasn’t, and the long vac stretched ahead, full of promise. And a visit to the White City could incorporate a visit to the Stewarts’ London home, which would brighten anyone’s summer.
So they were here, in the Court of Honour, Orlando with his eyes as wide as a child’s, taking in the sights. He was pleased the skies were slightly overcast, certain he would have been overwhelmed if the white buildings had been in full sunlight, dazzling against a piercing blue background. Dull white against hazy blue-grey made the whole thing manageable. It was still astounding. He knew it wasn’t real, just a form of structural prestidigitation, wood and concrete and plaster creating a wonderful illusion of buildings which had stood since time immemorial. It wasn’t the Louvre, or Sacre Coeur, but it was magnificent.
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