Saturday, the Fourth of July 1914, was a seminal date in my life. Eighteen years old, and the year in the Royal Navy after I left school had changed me from boy to man, shaped by discipline and duty. On the first of the month, I had been granted a fortnight’s leave before joining HMS Marlborough, one of the newest and proudest dreadnoughts, at Portland as a seaman writer.

On my first morning at home, I was glancing through the Echo, and an advertisement for a concert in Salisbury caught my attention. It was a programme of Debussy’s works, so I posted an application for a ticket. Two days later, Mother delivered the return envelope to my bedroom. I slid my paperknife under the seal and proudly showed her my prize.

“Debussy? Oh, David, he’s one of those modernists. Not my cup of tea, or Father’s either.”

I smiled, for I knew their views well enough. Yet something in me wished to step beyond the familiar. And so it came about: on the Fourth, I found myself travelling by train toward Salisbury, the carriage rattling and swaying gently as it made its way through the countryside. 

I purchased a copy of the Daily Telegraph before boarding at Eastleigh station and read it during the journey. The problems in Ireland took all the headlines, but an item low on the front page caught my attention. The assassination of the Austrian Archduke on the previous Sunday was followed by reports of mobilisation across the continent.

I pondered this while I stared out at passing pastures. A frisson of excitement flooded my head, and I spent most of the remaining time on the train wondering whether the Royal Navy would be drawn in.

At Salisbury, I alighted and passed out through the station entrance. Before me, the great cathedral spire rose above the town. Turning left, I set out upon the half‑mile walk to the Assembly Rooms, my pace unhurried, my thoughts upon the evening’s entertainment.

On entering, I purchased a programme and located my seat. The concert proved delightful: a small ensemble of a dozen ladies, their assured playing interspersed with solo turns of considerable charm. 

The final work was Chansons de Bilitis – two flautists, two harpists, a celesta player, and a narrator. The effect was exquisite. Brief movements enclosed spoken verses of French poetry. My recent schooling helped me follow the sense of the words, yet my gaze was repeatedly drawn to the flautists.

They were identical twins, pretty young women whose poise and grace were most engaging. As they played, they bent and swayed with the music, the silver keys of their instruments catching the light as their melodies intertwined. I had never encountered music of such character before – sensuous, languorous, and captivating.

Walking back to the station in the half-light, the rise and fall of those pieces lingered in my mind: flutes, harps, and celesta in perfect accord.

On the platform, I seated myself on a bench, prepared to wait the half hour for my train. Closing my eyes, I allowed the memory of the concert to return. In my reverie, the narrator’s voice seemed accompanied by tinkling laughter and light conversation.

Opening my eyes, I perceived the source. The two flautists stood a few yards distant, still in the dresses they had worn upon the stage, their flutes stowed in small black cases.

I rose slowly and stepped forward until I was within their view. Facing them, I doffed my hat and spoke in a low, respectful tone.

“Ladies, I wish to convey my appreciation of your talents. Your performance was sublime.”

The twins shared a glance, then the one wearing white, perhaps the bolder, smiled towards me, her voice soft and breathy. “Sir, you do us great honour.”

Her sister intervened, “It was a most agreeable evening, and the audience was attentive and appreciative. That is all a musician could ask for.”

I wanted to keep within the bounds of propriety, carefully thinking through every word before I spoke. “It was a privilege to hear you. I have not heard Bilitis performed before. It is unlike anything else I have known.”

The first sister opened her mouth, as if to speak, but her words were drowned out by the shrill whistle of the approaching train. Further conversation was hopeless; the noises of the locomotive became a crescendo of sound that only died away when all motion had ceased.

I turned to face the nearest carriage compartment, laid a hand on the brass handle, twisted it and pulled the door open before standing aside and motioning with my free arm for the twins to board.

They sat on the seat side by side. Then I made a sudden decision. A true gentleman would have closed the door and found another compartment, but in an act of impetuosity, I stepped up, closed the door, and sat on the opposite seat.

Immediately, I felt a need to explain myself. I sat up straight and held my hat against my chest, then started, “Ladies, I beg you to forgive me if I have been overly forward in joining you for the journey. The pleasure of your performance has quite disconcerted me.”

I paused and noticed them sharing a glance before I continued, “It was never my intention to presume upon your acceptance.”

The sister in white, who appeared to be the more confident one, smiled sweetly as she replied. “Sir, you need not trouble yourself. As artists, we appreciate the attention of music lovers.”

My next move was easier, as the humiliation of rejection had not come to pass. Keeping my formal pose, my demeanour was humble. “May I introduce myself? My name is Mister Page. I am a writer in the Royal Navy on leave before my next appointment.”

White dress smiled, generous and genuine. “We are Miss Harefield.”

Red dress broke in, "Miss Evelyn Harefield," pointing at herself. She glanced at her sister, inclining her head slightly, then continued, “and Miss Philomena Harefield".

I relaxed, lowering my arm and dropping my hat on the cushions beside my body. “Mister David Page”.

Our carriage shuddered; outside there was the sound of a laboured chuff chuff chuff as the engine strained to pull the train on its way.

Her voice rising above the din, Philomena said, “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, David.”

She turned to Evelyn, who continued without a break. “Are you travelling far this evening? We are going all the way to Gosport, where dear Papa has arranged a cab to take us home.”

At ease, I replied, “Only as far as Eastleigh. Then I will ride my bicycle home. It’s only two miles away across the valley.”

I glanced from one to the other, like two peas in a pod. The same dark-brown hair parted in the centre, the same lustrous eyes and rosy red lips, the same delicate arms protruding from their dresses, the same long and slender fingers seemingly designed for fingering wind instruments.

It was beyond my ken at the time, but I was smitten by these two beauties. Momentarily, I was overcome with shyness, stuttering out a repeat of my initial words to them, “Ladies, it was a real privilege to listen to your performance this evening; it will remain long in my memory.”

Philomena smiled softly. “We thank you again. The audience was most appreciative this evening, and it is always a pleasure to meet someone who listens so attentively.”

By then, I felt we had exhausted the conversational limits of my musical knowledge, and I relaxed into the corner, with my head nestled between the side bolster and back cushion, then flicked off the switch to the electric lamp above my head. The twins turned together, their whispered conversation inaudible to me.

As I drifted off into sleep, I noticed one oddity. Philomena’s delicate little hand was raised, stroking her sister’s cheek tenderly. My eyelids became heavy, the monotonous click-clack of the wheels over the rail joints acting like a sleeping draught.

I don’t know how long I was asleep, but sudden jolts roused me as our carriage passed through some points. I half-opened my eyes and saw a most peculiar sight. My two companions were wrapped around each other. Evelyn’s hand pressed against Philomena’s bust, gently rubbing around her bodice area.

Their lips were pressed together, and I could see strange movements within their cheeks, first hollowing, then puffing out.

But the sight that perplexed me most was the hem of Evelyn’s red skirt pulled up to her knees by Philomena’s arm, her elbow jerking around. I thought her hand must be somewhere around her sister’s privates.

Then there was the moaning. With their mouths pressed together, I could not fathom the source. Stranger still was the effect of this spectacle upon my body. Deep within the place where my trousers meet, there was a stirring and a series of little pleasurable surges. I had felt this before and remembered the result of bodily issues wetting my pyjamas.

Mother always told me these sensations were carnal urges, and I should control them. Some of the boys at school whispered tales of incredible sensations, but I remained chaste, following Mother’s advice to avoid touching myself there. “Keep your hands away from there, David. Remember that purity of heart leads to purity of life.”

In fact, nothing anyone had ever said to me prepared me for the feelings that were running through my body at that time. I could not help myself; temptation won over discretion, and I abandoned any self-control when my hand gravitated to my trouser front, my fingers pressed down on the growth inside.

Through lidded eyes, I watched their faces move apart, though they only had eyes for one another. I heard Evelyn’s whispered words, “Mena, darling, I’m near; make me spend, please."

I saw Philomena’s elbow jerking grow faster, and over Evelyn’s privates, her hand made the folds of Evelyn’s red skirt flutter. She started to whimper, little moans that increased in strength. I could see her complete figure writhing around, her lower parts spread wide apart.

Finally, Evelyn seemed to enter a series of spasmodic crises, her head thrown back, her stretched mouth emitting a panting, droning sound. My feelings were extremely difficult to control, and I kept my hand pressed firmly into the cloth down below, desperately trying to control my body.

Then, Philomena turned towards me. I felt a great fright, and blood rushed to my head. I was sure my face had turned bright crimson in shame. Her words seemed to convey a threat: “Oh, Evie, just look at Mister Page; he seems totally discombobulated. He is surely in want of our attention.”

I thought, 'What does she mean by that?' If I had not been so engaged in their activity, then common sense would have ruled my head, and the lessons that had been drummed into me by family, school masters and clergy would have emerged triumphant. I should not have been alone with these young ladies. My conduct was not honourable, and I had not chosen my companions wisely. But, in a moving train at night, I was trapped by my own fecklessness.

Philomena slipped from her seat and knelt on the floor in front of me, then placed one of her delicate hands on each of my knees. My pulse was racing as her hands slid along my trousers, slowly approaching my parts. My hands clawed at the seat cushion, and when she pressed against my privates, a great shudder passed through me.

Her eyes were locked on mine as she spoke to her sister. “Evie, draw down the blinds. We will be at West Dean soon.” 

I sensed Evelyn moving around, pulling down each blind in turn, but my sight was riveted to Philomena’s face as she tussled with my trouser buttons, her palm pressed against the hardness inside.

“Now, Mister Page, close your eyes.”

It was a relief to enjoy the darkness behind my eyelids as she ferreted around my underpants. When her fingers closed around my shaft, I felt a shock course through my body. Then, I realised my privates were no longer confined within my clothes, and I sensed her fingers running up and down.

“Oh, Mister Page," she exclaimed, “you are in want.”

I opened my eyes, looked down, and saw her thumb touch the very tip. There seemed to be some substance leaking from my pee, and I watched as she touched it and then spread it around my engorged part. The feeling was exquisite, and I gasped as my whole body shuddered.

She looked up at me, smiling lasciviously, her tongue flicking along her upper lip. Then her head bent down; I felt the warmth of her breath on my most private place, then the sensation of her tongue touching this most sensitive place. I groaned, long and deeply, having never known such intense pleasure in my life.

I watched her head bobbing as she pleasured me, with wet sounds the likes of which I had never heard before. My body jerked as if I were a marionette, utterly beyond my control.

The carriage juddered with me as the train slowed, then clattered to a stop. Evelyn, whom I had forgotten, stood at the door and lifted the blind. I realised she was there to block anyone else from joining us.

Philomena did not pause in her ministrations to my engorged part, though with the door window no longer covered, I felt bound to stifle my groans and cries.

Outside, there was a mournful whistle from the engine, a series of chuffs, followed by a soft jerk as the train gathered speed.

Evelyn pulled the blind down, then clambered across my body, straddling me with one foot on either side of the seat cushion. She stretched an arm to the luggage rack and pulled herself up, her corset line blocking my view of her sister.

Then she lifted her skirts, and I was confronted with her garden. That mysterious place we had whispered of but had never seen at school. By the dim light, I saw dark brown curly hair coming ever closer to my face.

When she touched my flesh, her aroma filled my senses. It was like no other bodily smell, sweet and powerful. My mind made the connection between Philomena’s ministrations to my privates and Evelyn’s garden. I nestled my nose within her folds and used my tongue to lick her there.

There was a bitterness on my tongue, acidic and sharp, but to my surprise, I wanted more and more. I probed deeper, listening to the whimpering above.

Evelyn pressed against my face, seemingly rotating her parts to gain the most pleasure. I knew it had to be intense; the pleasure in my groin was almost beyond bearable.

Her voice was hoarse and demanding. “Harder, David, harder. Make me spend.” I didn’t need much in the way of encouragement; my mind and body were as one. I knew the effect that spending would have on her – I had seen it earlier through lidded eyes.

When it happened, despite the preview, I was unprepared for the force of her crisis. And I was unprepared for the spurts of fluid cascading over my face. 

Above my head, Evelyn’s cries resounded through the compartment. Amid the complexity of her convulsions and the cascade of her emissions, I felt a surge in my loins; the area of my privates became a singular and intense feeling of joy as I joined her, spending my life in Philomena’s mouth.

I felt my hips jerking and arms thrashing around while a wave of intense pleasure surged from groin to head before a sense of completion and satisfaction overwhelmed me.

I felt Philomena’s mouth leave my shaft as Evelyn lowered herself to squat across my lap. She placed a palm on each of my cheeks, then leaned in and kissed my lips.

Her breath wafted across my face as she spoke softly, “Thank you, David; only a real man could have given so much.” 

Then her lips pressed hard on mine, and I felt her tongue push through into my mouth, seeking and finding my tip. I wanted her to be there forever, and when she left me, I still wanted more.

Evelyn slipped off my legs, then settled down opposite me next to her sister, smoothing her skirts while they reclaimed the demeanour of the sweet young ladies I had met earlier. I glanced down at my privates and realised I was still exposed. Carefully, I tucked my shrivelled member away and buttoned myself up.

Silence reigned; no one spoke. I heard a shrill whistle, then the brakes were applied as the train drew into a station. Evelyn stood by the door once more, lifted the blind, lowered the window and leaned out into the night air. I heard the plaintive cry from outside, “Romsey, this is Romsey. Change here for Southampton.”

Shortly after, the engine’s whistle announced our departure. Evelyn closed the window, then sat next to her sister. I had ten minutes more with these beauties until my station. 

Silence continued until Philomena delved into her handbag, then leaned across the divide and handed me her calling card.

“David, write letters to us from your ship.” It wasn’t a request; it was a command. I nodded my head, then watched as they opened their music cases and drew out their two flutes.

Philomena shuffled away from Evelyn, and then they raised the instruments to their lips and played sweet melodies – not Bilitis, but other romantic tunes. A private concert in a railway carriage.

At Eastleigh, when I stood to leave, they played a few bars of Auld Lang Syne. I stood on the platform as their train pulled out, doffing my hat to my two beautiful musicians. As I pedalled along the lane on my way home, my thoughts turned to the future, HMS Marlborough, and to the letters I would write, not just to my parents but also to my two young ladies.