CHAPTER 47

How Life Changes: Part  C  

September 1948  - September 1949

Things were quieter for me for the first week or so once the baby was born.  Kats stayed in hospital and rested.  Young Francis looked all pink and rubbery, and, really, except for one thing, looked like all the others ranged around the maternity ward.  He did have black hair, masses of it.  However I was told it would probably fall out and regrow.  Oh, you learn something new every day!

     Everyone came  to visit.  Ma and Pa were down next day and stayed with the Buchanans.  They, of course, were overjoyed with their grandson.  Pa had to be dissuaded from walking off with him.  He said, much to Kats' amusement that he was a typical Thomson, full of water and wind.  Actually, we knew the phrase should be 'piss and wind' but Pa was being extra polite, but what a thing to say about his own family!

     The Marchams were also very happy.  Mrs M, or mum-in-law, hugged me and kissed me soundly as soon as she came into the ward where I was sitting by Kats' bedside and said that she was so pleased with her first grandchild.  This caused much amusement for the young lady in the bed next to Kats.  Young?  Her child was her sixth and she was thirty-two.  Tony brought in a big bunch of flowers for his sister and said he hoped the boy's first words would be 'Uncle Tony'.

     Even Julia Ward came in.  She was full of the joys of spring, or autumn, and had an announcement to make.  She and Chris were getting married next Easter.  I had asked her to type up my translation and she said that she had received another batch of exercise books from Ma!  She brought her brother's best wishes and said he wished to be a godparent.

     The next afternoon  I was there again with Tony.  There was a bustling at the ward door and a smiling nurse, obviously buttered up with flattery, led a couple of young men up the ward.  Of course, it was Cleggy and Nobbo come to visit.  They had now finished their first year of medical training but had another five to go!  They wanted to know all the gory details so I left them chatting to Kats and went out for a wander with Tony.  I asked him how he was going to spend the rest of the vacation as we had nearly a month before term started.

     “I'm going up to Yorkshire tomorrow to stay with Perce Magill for a fortnight,” he said, “We'll probably go walking.  Never been up there before and Perce says there's plenty to see.  Oh, and Cas and Phil Laker will be there as well.”

     He said this most nonchalantly.  The foursome!  Playing the field, no doubt!  Well, all four were usually out playing on the field, but!

     “And which one?” I queried.

     “Any, or all,” was his short, laconic reply.  He changed the subject.  “We'll all go to Ulvescott when I get back.  Aunt Mary and Miss P are itching to see the baby and I hear Dora's knitting like mad!  Now you can drive you can whip us there in no time.”

     Oh yes, another of my accomplishments, learned over the summer, was now my ability to drive.  Pa had given me his old car.  He said he wouldn't need it in London so I might as well pay for the petrol and any repairs.  I reminded him I couldn't have it at Cambridge and he said he'd arranged with Mr Phelps that it could be left in our garage and he could drive it as well.  In fact, Mr Phelps had offered to insure it.  Can't look a gift horse, or gift car, in the mouth!

     Sean's boss at the garage had given me some lessons and I'd passed the driving test very easily.  Huhn, but I still had some difficulty in doing hill starts.  Thank goodness most of the road to Ulvescott was pretty level just in case I had to stop for any reason!

     “And what about Big Jim,” I asked, “Seen anything of him recently?” Although Kats and I were living in the same house as him, Tony came and went without much interaction with us.  I supposed he thought we wanted just to be together.

     He laughed.  “Oh, yes,” he said, “Saw him last week a bit.  Well, more than a bit!”  He jabbed me on the arm.  “Went round to his house.”

     Ah, I'd forgotten, his parents lived on the outskirts of Kerslake.

     “Josh there?”  I enquired, wondering if the thick hanging object I'd seen at the medical had been exercised as well.

     “No, thank God!” he said, “He's gone to stay with that Ozzy at the old Colonel's place.   His father's taken against him as he's only a squaddie but his grandfather thinks the light shines out of his arsehole - ” he snickered, “ - so does Josh, and if what Jim says about the pair of them there won't be many rays getting out.   Josh told him poor Ozzy's been so deprived since he joined up so Jim says he bets they're fucking each other like jack-rabbits!”

     “And you and Jim?” I enquired sweetly.

     “Just like little bunnies,” he replied, equally dulcetly.

     As both sported larger than average weaponry, 'little bunnies' would be a good example of litotes for Old Mother Riley!

     I was in something of a quandary.  I, as a married man, would be assumed to be having sexual release regularly.  As my wife had been pregnant and was now in hospital having been safely delivered of our offspring I was on the outside, as it were, and had been for quite some time, in fact since saying farewell at Easter.  We had fucked, carefully, over Easter, but since then all my needs had been assuaged by my trusty right hand.  Coming up to nineteen I was still coming as much as before.  Almost always twice a night.  I needed release and here was my best friend getting his oats and I was a solitary masturbator!  I wondered if all men in my position were in the same boat?  They must be!  Would I be betraying any trust if I went off with Tony?  Kats knew we'd fucked each other in the past.  What about now?  Also, I had to admit I liked fucking both Kats and Tony.  Was I odd?  I wondered if Cleggy and Nobbo would be able to tell me?  Were all boys, or young men, like me?  Tony, I knew, only craved union with other young men.  There were plenty at College who consorted with each other.  Charley, not a virgin as far as boys went according to Jem, seemed rather sexless.  He's made comments about the May Ball but never spoke of any female involvement.  I knew he was rather sensitive about his leg.... ....Oh, Oh, Oh, we all had our problems, I supposed.

     “You've gone all quiet,” said Tony.

     “Just thinking,” I said, “I've got lots to think about.”

     “Yes,” he said quietly, “But you've got the best of both worlds.”

     We had stopped walking and I looked at him in silence.  He looked at me and smiled.

     “I mean you've had the best of both worlds, eh?” he said.  I nodded.  “Not now?”

     I shook my head.  “Nothing since Easter,” I said, hoping I didn't sound too wistful.

     “Just?”  He moved his right hand slightly.

     I nodded.

     “What about Charley?” he asked, “He's itching for it.  The way he looks at you.  Any time I would say.”

     “Tony!” I said rather sharply.  “Charley's a good friend.  I've seen or heard nothing that makes me think he wants anything more.  I can assure you even that night he got attacked and we kept warm together nothing happened.”

     Tony put a hand out and stroked my arm.  “Don't get rorty, old mate,” he said, soothingly, “Trust me, I know the signs.  Don't worry, I don't think he'll make the first move.  Worships from afar he does.” He giggled.  “But, I'll tell you what, that pair, Jem and Sam'd have you in the sack any time, as sure as eggs!  I bet they console themselves daily with images of that mighty tool of yours.....”

     I slapped him on the arm.  “Leave them out of it.  They're only kids!”

     “Seventeen-year-old young men since August and you know they're at it.  You bloody well lend them your bed!”

     “That's for them, not me,” I expostulated.

     Tony was well away.  “Bet they sniff your pillow or your sheets before they start!  Get a bit of the old Jacko aroma.  Wow!  I bet that sets them off!”
     “Shut up you, you've got a really filthy mind!” I said giggling and secretly wondering if they did.  I'd noticed my cast off underpants had once materialised in the bed after they'd been.  And, I'd mopped up a load with them the night before and was sure I'd put them in the small basket with my dirty shirts and socks.

     “Come off it,” he said.  “Me, dirty mind?  I didn't stand and watch your best friend being fucked and then said nothing until he confessed!”   He lowered his voice.  “And some of the things you, yourself, personally, have whispered in my shell-like ear when you've been having your evil way with me.  Wow, wait until I ask Kats if you shout out 'f.....”  He stopped suddenly.  Cleggy and Nobbo had materialised - like my underpants and probably just as stained with cum, dirty mind I have! - round the corner and were heading for us.

     “Oh, my God,” said Cleggy, as they hurried up to us.  “We had to get away.  Bella and her mother just turned up.  Old Nobbo here fancies her, I'm sure!”  Nobbo gave him a punch on the arm.  “But that mother!  Doesn't she rabbit on.  Doesn't stop for a breath.  My mother says she calls it verbal diarrhoea!”

     “Looseness of the vowels, eh?” said Tony, quick as a flash.  We all laughed.

     “Bella's OK,” said Nobbo quietly.  He turned to me.  “Had a couple of dances with her at your wedding..  Got her out of the clutches of that twit.  Roo found out he wasn't hung like a horse, just normal, but he did have an interesting medical condition from the description....”

     “....Medical condition!” interrupted Tony, “It's Jacko and me who've got medical conditions...”

     He didn't have a chance to say more as Nobbo turned his attention to me and carried on.  “...And how's your knee?  Would you mind if Cleggy and I had a look at it.  We'd like to see where Mr Foljambe did the pin insertion.  Had a look at the standard procedures in one of the textbooks.”

     Oh, my God!  “O.K.  You can have a look.  I need feeding this afternoon so I'll come round for tea.  And I'm not hung like a horse either, as you well know!” I said the last emphatically.

     Cleggy who was obviously amused by the earnestness of his fellow student laughed.  “No need to check on that with you, that thing's been waved around enough times to check.  But the knee's interesting....” He paused.  “....That reminds me.  Your pal at college with the gammy foot...” I nodded and said 'Charley Lascelles', he nodded too, “....I asked Geoff, he's just doing his orthopaedics stint, and he asked if the lad's foot was normal size.”

     I said I thought it was.  I said I'd only really since it fully when I'd removed his boot and calliper the night he was attacked, but, I held my hands out gauging the size.  I said it was deformed and twisted but as far as I could  remember it seemed about the same size as his good foot.

     “That sounds good,” said Cleggy.  “Geoff said it would be difficult to do anything if the foot hadn't grown when your pal was growing 'cause you said he'd done the damage when he was twelve.  He said he'd ask his tutor to have a look at it if he liked to make an appointment.   Wouldn't mind having a look at it myself.”

     The inquiring mind!  I said I would talk to Charley as soon as I got back to college and see what he said and, no, he wasn't hung like a horse either!

     So, I was to have my knee examined at four o'clock.  Tony was invited as a witness and to tea as well.  They sauntered off, deep in conversation - medical matters, no doubt.

     Tony was laughing quietly to himself.  “They're a pair, aren't they?  I bet they never let up until they know something.”  He jabbed me on the arm.  “That lad with the funny balls.  Wonder what his interesting condition is?  I shouldn't have interrupted.  And you!  'I'm not hung like a horse'. More like a large pony, eh?  Remember that time at Ulvescott?  Nearly had a rosette pinned on it!”

     Thinking back, I'd had some marvellous times with my friends.  I also noted that Tony didn't mention seeing Billy Clarke at that dinner party.  Perhaps Nobbo didn't know how his brother supplemented his student grant.  We went back into the hospital and found Kats in solitary state.  She said she had to rest so we were dismissed with the strict injunction not to wake young Francis up if we peered int the cradle in the nursery room.  He was fast asleep.  Tony made some remark about him looking like me after I'd had a pint or two and were sleeping it off.  I suppose he did look like me.  Black hair, lovely blue eyes, dimple on the chin - Oh, Oh,  Oh, he's mine - I helped to make him!  I thought of all those millions and millions and millions of sperm I'd produced in my short adolescent life and here was my son - my Francis - the result of just one of those, the strongest, the fittest, I hoped, hitting that single egg inside Kats!  I was so happy.  But there was something I had to ask Tony.

     We had both cycled to the hospital so retrieved our bikes and set off back to the Marchams.  It was about half past three and we didn't have to get to Nobbo's until four.  I needed a pee anyway, so did Tony as it turned out.  We had about ten minutes before we need set out again.  Time enough to just broach the subject.  I was sitting in the drawing room looking at the partially filled-in Times crossword when Tony came in from 'straining his greens' as he rather euphemistically described the good piss he's just had.

     “Tony,” I said, “I've not said anything since, but what's happened since your mother said she knew about you - I mean, about what you liked?”

     He lumped down on the sofa next to me and laughed.  “Runs in the bloody family, I'm sure,” he said.  “Mum's brother Robert obviously was the same and Dad's brother Lester must have been his boyfriend.  All I know is that Uncle Lester went to America, changed his name, at least he's Lester March now and he works in Hollywood in a film studio.  He's an artist of some kind and Mum says he's got a stupendous house in some hills or other.  He wrote at Christmas inviting us out there but it's a long way.  Perhaps we'll go sometime.”  He slapped me on the knee.  “Wouldn't mind seeing America.  I intend to!  Anyway Mum's said nothing else and Dad treats me just the same so I suppose as long as I keep my nose clean they're not worried..”

     That was so interesting.  Here was Tony - who could get into real trouble with the law if ever found out - being supported by his parents.   I think I understood.  Both Tony's Mum and Dad had lost loved ones.  One had died and the other gone.  Their lifestyle hadn't come into the equation - they were both loved and now missed.  I think I had supplied something which could have been missing in the family.  Their daughter was now married and they had a grandchild.  Whatever Tony did was up to him.  He was loved.  If ever Tony needed me I would be there, too.

     Kats came home with Francis the next week.  I helped as best I could with looking after the baby.  He slept most of the time and I loved to hold him and watch him.  Kats took over the running of the house.  Mrs Marcham employed a lady to come in everyday to clean and to do some cooking and left us to it.  She said I was not to worry when I went back to Cambridge.  She said she wanted both her son and her son-in-law to do well.

     Tony came back from Yorkshire looking very fit.  He said the four of them had hiked all over the moors surrounding the old hunting lodge where Percy's parents lived.  However, I don't think they were over-tired after their days in the country as he winked when I asked if all had enjoyed the stay.  I would have to ask more when we had more privacy back at Cambridge.

     I drove the four of us, Kats, Francis, Tony and me, to Ulvescott.  I never imagined how much clobber a baby needed - his luggage was about three times what I packed for myself.  Someone had already opened the big gates of the main drive and there, waiting, were Bran and Finbar.  We all had to get out of the car and the baby was solemnly introduced to both.  Bran put a paw up and touched Francis's little coat he was wearing.  He was accepted as another generation within the Crossley clan.  He, of course, was not only directly descended through the two lines but also through the married-in line as well.  Finbar was not to be outdone.  I lifted his paw and touched my son's coat with it.  All was well.  I hoped Francis would be able to visit Ulvescott as he grew up and come to love it as I did.

     Aunt Mary and Miss P were waiting at the main steps.  Kats handed Francis to Mrs Crossley and she held him and carried him into the house.  We noted that a cradle had been found and put in Piers' room.  It had originally been his nursery and as he grew up into the young man who died for his country it remained his room.  Now a relation of his would have the room as his nursery for the stay.  I knew Piers would be happy with that.

     Tony was in the Horsebox and he said it was much more suited to Kats and her love of the equine tribe.  She thumped him on the arm and said if he thought he was sleeping with me and putting her in there he had another think coming.  He just grinned - he and his sister understood each other exactly.

     Downstairs again we found Dora smiling broadly.  She had knitted the most exquisite baby clothes all in blue.  I thanked her profusely and gave her a hug and a big kiss - much to Mrs Browne's amusement.  She produced a rattle and a small furry dog and got the same treatment.  I only wish my friend Hans had been there.  I had grown into that big boy he said I would!

     So, Francis was back in the place he'd been conceived in.  He was truly a part of that ancient edifice and belonged truly to the line of soldiers and lawyers and doctors and farmers, stretching back both in England and in France.  That evening, before dinner, I played the first movement of a favourite Beethoven Sonata, Opus 57, the Appassionata.  I had been having lessons over the past year with the Organ Scholar of King's College in exchange for help with his French subsidiary paper and I was able to practice almost every day on a piano in one of the tutors' rooms as he was away on a sabbatical.  I played that as a thank-you to all the countless generations who had produced my son.

     That night we slept quietly and contentedly in that room where he had been conceived and where I had had all those wonderful experiences with my friends.  I felt I was home.

                              *
     On Thursday the Thirtieth of September I was nineteen.  Nineteen, married and with a child.  I could hardly believe it...   I assumed I was now fully grown.  I had a good look at myself in our bedroom mirror while Kats was bathing Francis.  I had filled out somewhat in the past year.  I hadn't been able to run but had exercised three times a week on the boathouse equipment and lifted the weights Mike had given me every day in my bedroom.  My shoulders had broadened and my chest was well defined.  I was even hairier - the trail up from my belly-button had increased and there was a dark patch of short fur across my chest.  My knee was much better.  No twinges for ages but I was still chary of doing anything too drastic.  Certainly not running.   Actually, I missed my runs.  Nothing else seemed to have changed.  Whenever I shot a load - which was still very frequent - there was a massive amount.  I needed to fuck.  Kats was still sore and I was going back to Cambridge within a week.

                              *
     All too soon it was time to return to Cambridge.  I was torn - but I knew my duty.  I resolved to do even better this year.  But first, I had to see Dr Blake.  A postcard had arrived asking me to see him, if possible, the day before students would generally be arriving.  So,  I went up, with Tony, a day early.  Also an early start as we caught a very early train as Tony had some sort of assignation with Cas lined up for the afternoon.  Oh Ho!, a bit of Welsh lamb, I twitted him on the journey.  He's no lamb, was Tony's reply, but would not be drawn on his attributes.

     Willy was on duty when I entered the Porter's Lodge later in the morning.  He seemed to be more and more in charge.  I knew Mr Mason liked his drink and I think loyal Willy covered up for him.  There was a whole batch of letters and documents for me and as I flipped through them he filled me in on local gossip.  Mr Phelips was going in the New Year.  He had accepted a Chair of Geography at an expanding Northern university.  I wondered how Charley would take the news.  Charley would now be in his final year - I hoped he would keep on the straight and narrow.  Another don had complained of a nasty smell in his rooms.  This had been tracked down to three decaying kippers hung behind a valued portrait of his grandfather.  He'd upset one of his students before he'd gone down after taking his degree and this was his revenge.  Then, an elderly don from another college had been spotted riding his bicycle along Regent Street clad only in a deerstalker hat, cycle clips and a pair of hob-nailed climbing boots.  Otherwise all was calm and quiet.  Small gossip but essential in an academic world.

     When I saw Dr Blake at midday he congratulated me heartily on being a father but I realised straight away there was something else, much more weighty, on his mind.  He was all apologetic.  He was humming and hawing about something and it took quite a while before I heard what it was all about.  As two of my mentor group had been awarded their degrees, they had had only the one year to do towards completion, would I be prepared to take on two newcomers?  I said I would.  He got very red in the face and started apologising.  I wondered what on earth it was all about.

     “One's all right ,” he began, a little more coherently, “He's a lad from down Bristol way.  Nice lad, Grammar School, like you.”  He nodded vigorously.  “But..., the other one...,” he looked as if he was gritting his teeth, he shook his head vigorously this time, “....I have to tell you,   ....the other one is my great-nephew....  Poor show.  Couldn't do anything about it.”

     Couldn't do anything about it?  Short of strangling the mother, or castrating the father, before conception, I don't suppose he could do anything about the creation of a great-nephew.  It took him several goes before I got the whole and true story out of him.

     What it boiled down to was that the great-nephew, the son of his sister's daughter and thus not bearing the patronymic and thus could be kept at arm's length and not recognised as a relative, was being awarded a place, it seemed, entirely on his sporting prowess.  This sport being rugby football and why couldn't the child be safely ensconced in one of those colleges where such sports - meaning those creatures which biologists say differ from the norm - could exist without impinging on the more scholarly beings in a college such as ours?  Dr Blake was getting rather worked up.  But no, his sister had insisted that her favourite grandson should be placed in the best college possible.  Dr Blake, I knew was under his sister's thumb.  He'd made several references during the past year to her demands on his time and good will.

     I tried to pour oil on troubled waters.  I said our college had a good sporting tradition as well as academic.  He nodded, glumly.  I said his great-nephew couldn't be too bad.  I thought of Prosser and his prowess - both at rugby and farting - but I'd changed my mind about his general character as I had observed how helpful he was to both me and others under the bluster.  Surely, I continued, the great-nephew must be a bright, hardworking specimen of young manhood, or words to that effect.

     “But he is Australian,” countered Dr Blake gloomily as if this encapsulated all, “He's only been in the country five minutes and he's complaining it's cold and small and there's no food!”

     I couldn't help but laugh.  Dr Blake realised he was getting rather worked up.  But we were interrupted by a discreet tap on the door.  It was Sam from the Buttery.  He was carrying the usual covered tray and smiled at me as he placed it on the desk between us.  He was rewarded by a rather distracted thank you from Dr Blake.  I stood as Dr Blake had pointed to the cupboard.  As Sam went past me I winked at him and he smiled again.

     Pointing at the cupboard had become the signal at the end of many tutorials for the nearest student to do the honours.  I went over to the cupboard, opened the door,  and poured two schooners of his best dry sherry.  In the state he was in I thought the larger glasses most appropriate.  We sat and sipped and he gave me further details.

     The lad's father had been exported to Australia during the 20's, around the time of the General Strike and lots of unemployment, as the family farm in Suffolk couldn't support him and his brother.  Later he'd sent for his girl-friend, Dr Blake's niece, and now ensconced on a huge sheep farm which he'd helped a cousin to build up, Farley Lockhart had married her and the boy, Bruce, came along in all good time.  The boy and his elder sister were educated at home until two years ago when the boy, at the age of seventeen, was sent to Sydney to complete his education.  His sporting abilities were recognised and his Headmaster had sent word to his friends in Cambridge where, on his recommendation alone, plus the fact the boy had almost failed any examinations taken, he was offered an immediate place.  Dr Blake looked deflated.  Would I take on the task of a) keeping the boy on some sort of academic path as he was not material for the Honours School but would be taking French, God help us, as one subject, and b) keeping the boy away from Dr Blake, who though bound by blood ties and the dictates of the boy's grandmother, felt he was too old and too unable to act as nursemaid to a rugby-playing, no doubt, beer-swilling, late teenager whose conversation seemed to be devoted to....?  He held his hands up in despair and shook his head.  I smiled and said I would do my best.  Two crisp five pound notes were pressed on me - for entertaining the lad and seeing he was kitted out decently - and would I warn young Jem he would be his scout, he had already talked to Mr Mason and Mr Roberts about him.

     I thought Mr Mason could be eliminated from the equation.  The lad - what was his name? - Bruce, was already somewhere on the premises so Willy would have met him, no doubt.

     We ate the cold collation supplied by the Buttery and talked of other things.  His diatribe about his great-nephew had been in English.  I was now cross-questioned in French and German about the child, his mother and her welfare, what I had read, where I had been during the vacation.  I think I acquitted myself quite well as he harumphed at the end and said second year work was going to be more intensive and he suggested certain lectures which were essential.  He said Mrs O'Hagen had commented most favourably on my progress and Frau Metzner was equally laudatory.  All I hoped was that I could carry on as before.

     I went straight to my rooms as I hadn't had time to unpack.  Jem had obviously been apprised of my arrival as there was a merry fire blazing in the small fireplace.  Cambridge, as  Charley had pointed out very forcefully, was a cold place at the best of times as the winds blew across the German Sea straight from the Urals!  This October day was fairly blustery and, though almost cloudless, the wind was sharp.  I was interrupted in putting out the books I had brought back with me by a loud thump on my outer door.  I went to investigate as I thought I'd left it open.  It was, but the whole of my small entrance was blocked by the figure of a huge young man.  He was about two inches shorter than me but otherwise he was massive.  Both John and Charlie Prosser were big and the bass-drummer, Browne with an e, at Lachs' and Flea's school was huge, but this lad was built, as Titty in a more delicate mode might have said, like two brick conveniences.  His massive shoulders almost touched either side of the door frame.  In fact, he blocked the light so his features were in semi-darkness.  A vast, meaty paw was thrust at me.

     “G'dye to yu,” he said loudly, but in a curiously rather high-pitched voice, “I'm Bruce, you must be Jacko, ....Mr Thomson, I mean.”

     The paw crushed mine.  I stepped back and he followed, still gripping my hand.  Once in he let go and looked around my room.

     “God Almighty!” he said as his eyes took in his surroundings, “This is a fuckin' sight bigger than the fuckin' mingy little bastard I'm fuckin' holed up in.  Too bloody small to swing a bleedin' cat.  And it's up all those bleedin' stairs as well.”  He grinned at me.  “Mustn't fuckin' grumble though, that bloody boat was the real shits!”

     I grunted something about would he like to sit down, mentally wondering if my decaying furniture, or any furniture, would withstand his weight.  He sat and the chair withstood!  I mentally calculated.  He was, from what Dr Blake had said, somewhere between eighteen and nineteen.  And he was huge.  I knew the boxing Prosser at school had weighed in at five feet ten and fifteen stone as that was printed on one of the boxing programmes.  This behemoth was two inches taller but must be eighteen or nineteen stone to match his age!

     “Uncle Will said you'd show me the fuckin' ropes,” he continued.  I didn't think 'Uncle Will' would have used the adjective but this seemed a standard insertion on the part of his great-nephew.  “Godda get used to all this fuckin' palaver.”  He was holding the usual sheaf of documents issued to new students in his other massive paw.

     I said that Dr Blake had asked me to take him around if he was agreeable.  He nodded then looked at me closely.

     “D'yu play rugger?” he asked.

     I said I had played at school until I busted my knee, but I did exercise at the college boathouse.

     “You married?” the interrogation went on, “Uncle Will said you fuckin' was.”

     I said I was and displayed the gold band I now wore on the third finger of my left hand.  I said, very proudly, I also had a son.

     “Fuc....kin' hell!” he said breathing out loudly, “You were fuckin' getting it away early, weren't you?  Girl up the fuckin' pod when ya married her?”

     I said very quietly that I objected to his questions.  Perhaps it would be better for his great-uncle, of whom I had the greatest respect, to find another willing student to act as his guide and mentor.  My little speech made him collapse.

     “Sorry,” he said, most abjectly, “I didn't mean no harm.  Always shootin' my fuckin' mouth off.  Comes of being with those bastard jackaroos all the time.”  He smiled as I must have looked puzzled.  “They're the hands on the ranch.  Lots a fuckin' sheep and a whole crew a fuckin' jackaroos to keep 'em steady.  My Dad said I had to earn my fuckin' keep so I bunked in with them most of the fuckin' time.  I grew big when I was about fourteen and he put me to fuckin' work then.  Played rugger for the fuckin' team when I was fifteen.  Now I'm fuckin' here!”

     I said it was OK.  I realised he'd only just arrived in the country but he'd better watch what he said.  On the other hand, I thought to myself, there weren't going to be many who would argue with him at his size!

     He was off again.  “Fuckin' poke hole I've got.  There was some kid in there making the fuckin' bed.  Said he was a fuckin' Boy Scout or bastard something.  I told him to rub two sodding sticks together and make a fuckin' fire as my arsehole was clamped shut with the bastard cold, then fuck off as I didn't want no fuckin' Boy Scout around sniffing my undies.”

     I explained, carefully, that Jem was his scout, or gyp, not a Boy Scout.  That he was a college servant and would look after his room and also, if he didn't want a lady bedder, to make his bed.  I said Jem was most trustworthy and he would find him very helpful.

     “Bloody Sheila,” was his comment, “Got me own bloody Wambo!”

     I found out that Wambo was the aborigine boy who, between disappearing on walkabouts, kept the jackaroo's bunkhouse in some semblance of tidiness and order.  We then went through the lists of regulations and required dress.  He was much put out about having to wear a square and an undergraduate gown on any college business or when in the town.  Looking at him, I hoped Ede's would have one in his size.  I offered to take him to the shop and arrange for him to be tailored - I explained about subfusc and the arcane ceremonies when in Hall.  He nodded sagely and said the school he'd attended in Sydney had gowned beaks and a High Table at meal times.  How the English system had been exported to the Colonies!!

     We made an incongruous pair as we walked along King's Parade to Ede's.  He had on a vast, multi-coloured knitted pullover, made by an adoring mother so he said, brown corduroy trousers and large tan boots with a brown brimmed hat on his head and me, taller but slimmer,  in undergraduate gown and mortar-board, suit and neat black shoes.  I still couldn't get over his voice.  It didn't match his size.  I had expected, each time he opened his mouth, for a deep rumble, but there was this adolescent high tenor, plus, of course, the endless stream of obscenities.  Most of us swore at times but his output was the highest I'd ever encountered.  I remembered Billy Clarke's description of the general barrack-room talk with the 'fuck' inserted even between syllables.

     Ede's, of course, had gowns of all sizes and, not to be outdone, young Bruce paraded back to college clad in sombre black over his vast frame.

     “Fuck me!” he said, as we entered my rooms again, “Look a right fuckin' poncy tart in all this!”

     This announcement was made before he noticed that Jem was tending the fire and had a pot ready to make tea.

     “Fuck me!” he went on.  “It's Wambo!”

     He marched over to Jem who had stood upright now and turned to gape at the gown-clad giant.  He thrust out his large paw again.

     “Sorry old mate,” he said, “Got me bastard scouts up the fuckin' chute.  I'm Bruce and you're Jem, eh?  You're me own fuckin' Wambo so Jackaroo here tells me!”

     Oh God!  Here was I - a helping hand, no doubt.

     I introduced Jem, who with an absolutely straight face, shook hands and said he was delighted to welcome Mr Lockhart to the college.

     “Huhn,” said Bruce, “That's what that fuckin' black-hat said yesterday in that fuckin' poke-hole.”  He did a good imitation of Willy's orotund phrasing.  “'Welcome to the College, Mr Lockhart.  We hope your sojourn with us will be happy and profitable.'  Fuck me, 'sojourn' he said!” He turned to me.  “I ain't used to that fuckin' shit!  Then he said there was a fuckin' invite from some Charley Squeals for fuckin' sherry on Thursday.  Who's this fuckin' Charley Squeals?”

     I laughed and said that he'd misheard what Willy had said.  It was Charley Lascelles, who had the rooms opposite me.  But he'd better learn the important thing, here I winked at Jem, was not to alienate the Porters.  We sat and had tea.  I explained about Charley and the invite was probably because his family knew Bruce's.  We would have to see.  Invites to partake of sherry were a Cambridge institution.  I explained about dons' breakfasts and tea with friends and so on.  He listened almost open-mouthed.  Jem on his own initiative had got some crumpets and had scrounged some margarine from the Buttery and he joined us.  There were six crumpets.  Bruce scoffed four and I and Jem had one each.  I wondered if he was more used to a half a sheep for tea and possibly a whole one for breakfast.  What he was going to make of Buttery stodge was a moot point.  He'd already complained of lack of food.  I certainly wasn't going to risk a visit to the Blue Boar on Lord Harford's account with Bruce in tow.  Old Bert would have apoplexy if Bruce demanded not only a whole shepherd's pie but the shepherd to go with it.  I whispered to Jem at a convenient point that he'd better warn Sam and the kitchen staff - double the potatoes at dinner!  Too fuckin' true!  There were only about twenty in for dinner that night and Bruce almost caused a riot when he ladled about half the tray of roast potatoes onto an already laden plate of carrots and over-boiled cabbage with the small pork chop balanced on top.  I vowed to keep my distance at other meal-times.  Let my compatriots deal with him.

     He went off, replete, and said he'd have an early night as he intended to go for a little run in the morning.  I went to my rooms, read through the lecture lists again and went to bed to dream of Kats, Francis, Piers and a huge multi-coloured amiable giant who ambled unconcernedly through all my own multi-coloured dream world.

                              *
     “Mr Thomson, sir,” were the first words I heard next day.  It was Jem, bless him, mug of tea in hand.  “What are we to do?” he went on.  “We can't have language like that in college, can we?”

     Some of the ex-military types we had around had very colourful language at times but nothing to match Bruce's.  

     I turned in bed and grinned up at him.  “He'll learn, young Wambo,” I said.

     Jem might have felt like pouring the hot tea over me if I hadn't laughed and he joined in and wrinkled his nose.  He composed his face.

     “But what if Dr Blake hears him?” said Jem concernedly.

     “More like, what if his Gran ever hears him,” I said.  “I'll talk to him any way.  And anyway, those rugger types swear like troopers most of the time.”

     “But not in polite company,” countered Sam.  “Mr Johnson was most put out when he asked was that all the...”  He paused.  “ ....the effing chops he was getting!”

     Mr Johnson was chef on duty last night - a very prim and prissy little man, much given to small portions for those of whom he didn't approve.

     “I did say that meat was rationed here,” I said, “I got an effing mouthful as well.  Don't worry, Jem, we'll cope.”

     I climbed out of bed and stretched.  Jem looked at me appraisingly.  He turned and went out of the bedroom but returned as I was idly scratching a delicate part of my anatomy before asking for the kettle of hot water for my basin.

     He handed me two small parcels.  “My mother sent this for your boy with our congratulations and this is from us to thank you for all you did for Sam and me last year.”

     The present for Francis was a delicately knitted and embroidered top coat and mine was a pocket-sized university diary.   I thanked him profusely for both and, much to his embarrassment but I hoped secret pleasure, hugged him close and ruffled his hair.  I guessed he'd relate that to Sam and the pair of them would wank together with the image, or the description for Sam's benefit, of the nude Jackaroo with his morning stiffy.

     There was a thump on my door at about eight o'clock just as I was going to Hall for breakfast.  It was a red-faced and sweating Bruce, in very short running shorts, showing off his strangely hairless massive thighs and legs with huge calves, and a thin white singlet barely covering his well-developed chest.

     “Ran along that fuckin' road outta town.  What's that Grantchester?  Isn't that where that poet fucker lived?”

     I said that Rupert Brooke had lived in and written about Grantchester.  Bruce nodded.

     “And where's the fuckin' baths?  I ain't a goin' to dive into that fuckin' river today, it's fuckin' freezing enough to.....”

     I never heard the ending to that as a smaller figure materialised behind him.

     “Mr Lockhart,” came Jem's much deeper voice, “Allow me to escort you to the bathroom.”
     “Hi ya, Wambo!” said Bruce, revolving like a huge totem pole.  He left my door at a rate of knots pursuing a very fleet youngster.  I breathed a sigh of relief and went to breakfast.

     My first visit that morning was to Heffer's bookshop where I bought the main books for study this term.  On return I passed the old Rolls Royce I recognised from last year with Jem and Sam busily unloading a multitude of cases and packages.  

     I found Charley in the Porters' Lodge chatting to Willy.  He wheeled round and grabbed me, dropping his stick in the process.

     “Congratulations,” he shouted, “Got a boy have you!  Knew you'd got it in you!”  He let go and clapped his hand to his mouth.  Willy, behind him had a silly grin on his face.  “Meant to say.... “Oh, Christ!” he muttered, “Here's come the Pater!”

     Lord Harford came bustling in, eyes twinkling.  He grasped my hand.  “Good lad!” he intoned, “Your father's pleased as Punch.  Saw him last week at the Ministry.  He's doing a grand job.  Boy, isn't it?”  I nodded.  “Got his name down for Eton, yet?  Fat lot of good it did that last one of mine.  Scallywag!  He says it's only thanks to you he didn't get the push last year as well!”  He winked.  “Thanks for getting his things for him.”

     “Pater!” came the aggrieved tones from Charley, “Who told you?”

     Lord Harford put his finger against his nose.  “Little bird.  My secret.”   He turned to Willy who was standing at attention now, bowler hat on his head.  “This is for the boy.”  He handed over a new white five pound note.  “That's off your allowance this term, you rascal,” he said, addressing his almost cowering son.  “Come and check all your clobber's off.”  He looked at me.  “Lunch at one, Blue Boar, bring that Antipodean with you and the King's lad!”

     He stumped off followed by a rather subdued Charley.  I looked at Willy.  He closed his eyes slightly and pursed his lips.

     “Little bird, eh?  You told him?” I said.

     Willy nodded.  “My family have always looked after them.  Grandad was Porter when his Lordship was here.  Had to get him out of a scrape or two...., or three.”

     “And how does he know about Bruce Lockhart?”

     “Oh, the Harfords are related to the Lockharts, Mr Mason explained yesterday.  He knows them all off by heart.  Lad's uncle was here in the 20's sometime as well.”  Willy removed his bowler hat.  “And what is your impression of Mr Lockhart?”

     “Very large, foul-mouthed, but basically good-natured, I would say,” I replied.

     “Needs a steady hand,” said Willy philosophically, “Otherwise he'll come a cropper.  Can you do it?”
     “Little bird again, eh?”  I said, “And what did Dr Blake say?”

     Willy smiled.  “Got to keep an eye on you both.”

     “And the spy in the camp?”

     Willy nodded.  “Young Wambo!”

     Lunch was hilarious.  Bruce was evidently on his best behaviour but even Lord Harford was taken somewhat aback by his size and the outlandishness of his clothing.  Luckily the gown was much in evidence.  He was now clearly attached to it and I wondered if he might even go on his morning runs in it!  Old Bert was commanded to bring triple helpings for the boy by his Lordship.  Cottage pie by the dollop, no thatch though!  I had fish and so did Tony who chatted to Bruce and then was eloquent about his trip to Yorkshire where Lord Harford had walked many times and, seemingly, shot half the wild life.  Charley kept silent and just munched away.  Not a word out of place to jeopardise his allowance.  The injunction as we walked out, replete, was that I had not availed myself of the calling-card enough and he expected to hear I had done so this year.

     I sent Jem for more crumpets for tea, a dozen this time, and Charley and Tony came and we discussed various things and managed two each before the vast figure of Bruce loomed in the doorway.

     “Good man, your father,” he said to Charley as soon as he entered the room.  “Knows the best way to a boy's heart is through his belly!”

     I was astounded.  “Bruce, how did you manage that sentence without swearing?”

     “I'm at Cambridge now.  Young Wambo told me off while I was having a bath.”  He laughed.  “Told him I'd give him a job as a jackaroo on the old ranch anytime if he could rub down a horse as well as he scrubbed my back.”

     Young Wambo would be questioned in the morning.

     We then heard that the swearing and bluster was all put on.  He'd started it when he went to the school in Sydney as it kept him from being ragged by the older boys.  Anyway, he was the biggest lad in the school in the end and that was saying something as he said half the Sixth Form were awesome rugby players and expected to be chosen for trials for the Australian side.  He said, with all modesty, he wasn't too bad himself.  Looking at him, I would think he'd flatten any opposition.  Actually, at dinner that evening in Hall, there was a special tray of boiled potatoes which were pushed in his direction by Sam who could barely conceal the laughter I could see was bubbling underneath.  Young Wambo's wank-buddy would have to be spoken to as well.  Still, a kind thought - it did mean the rest of us didn't starve, especially as the Hall this evening was filled with returning students.

                              *
     I was already awake when Jem came into the outer room in the morning.  I heard the busy rattle of poker and the scratch of a match being lit.  I sat up in bed waiting for the usual entry with a mug of tea.  I wasn't disappointed.

     “Good morning, Mr Thomson,” he said, most cheerily as he handed me the steaming mug, “Mr Lockhart is out running already with Mr Stewart.  Most friendly.  Mr Stewart has high hopes for the Boat this year.”

     I knew this meant he was a possible for the Cambridge versus Oxford Boat Race which Cambridge had won this last year.  I also knew, from Jem's gossip, he was a particular friend of Pongo Parkinson with whom he'd been at school.  How particular I wasn't sure, but Jem said they often drank together and, if under the weather - meaning, pissed as newts - slept in whichever room they landed.

     “I hear you are likely to leave us for a post at London Zoo,” I said, taking a sip of the reviving beverage, “Hosing down the elephants, eh?”

     I was reminded of young Georgie's withering look, it must be an East Anglian trait.  I was on the receiving end of the equivalent from young Jem.

     “That is most uncharacteristic of you, Mr Thomson,” he said, reprovingly - I noted the put down, no 'Jacko' - “I was merely offering a helping hand to a student in need far from home.”

     “A large student with a young scout in a bathroom,” I said, “Sounds very fishy.”

     He was not going to be outdone.

     “If you do not require my services this morning, I will be going, Mr Thomson.”

     “Jem,” I said rather contritely, “I'm just teasing you.  You know that, don't you?”

     “Of course I do,” he said, his face creasing in a smile, “He is big, isn't he?  Slopped the water all over the floor when he got in that bath.”  He grinned conspiratorially.  “He can't reach his back.  Too much muscle.  Wow, shouldn't like to be playing opposite him.  Tell you what, though......”

     I held up a hand.  “If you are going to divulge something you have seen and shouldn't repeat I'd better not hear it.”

     The little monkey just grinned.  “.....Just that you've got nothing to worry about, cobber!”

     Cobber?  Some Australian term?   Cheeky little toad, he would have to be dealt with in some way!  And, I had a good idea about something else!  At that moment there was a thump on my outer door.  I knew who was there.

     “Come in, Bruce, I'm still in bed,” I winked at Jem, “Jem'll make you some tea.”

     I slid out of bed and stood up.  My usual morning hardon had gone during the conversation and the tea-drinking, but my cock was still plump as it sagged down.  I followed Jem into my study room.  A steaming giant clad in his skimpy running gear stood and stared at me.  I saw his eyes rove down my torso and stop somewhere below my navel.

     “Want to know if Jem'll do my back for me again, eh?”  He looked at Jem.  “That OK?”

     Jem said if he liked to run the bath and get in he would come along in about ten minutes as he had to wake three of his other gentlemen, but he was not able to stay long as it was the first day of term....  Bruce waved a meaty paw, smiled at me, turned and lumbered out.  No, not lumbered out.  He was surprisingly light on his feet for such a huge lad.

     Jem followed him to the door.

     “Get hosing, Wambo!” I said and gave his backside a slight smack.

     He turned and grinned.  “Cobber,” he mouthed.

     I met the other new member of my mentor group that morning.  I had left a note saying I would see him at nine o'clock.  Nigel Fawcett turned out to be a cheerful lad with a mass of blond hair.  His grandmother was French so that had set him on his chosen course.  He spoke French quite fluently and we exchanged all sorts of information about each other.  He was astounded I was married.  I think rather over-awed.  He confessed he'd been to an all-boys school, just like me, and didn't know any girls.  I said he'd have a hard job finding any in Cambridge unless he cycled over to Girton and got past the dragons at the gate, 'les gardiens du vertu', even though there were stories that Bertrand Russell was reputed to have had his evil way with one, or even more, of the eager young ladies in residence there!   Actually, there had been two very nice girls from that College at a set of lectures I had gone to last year, but they seemed to have been snapped up by two rather handsome young guys who cycled off with them after each lecture.  I rather fancied one of the guys.  He had a mop of red-brown hair and a gorgeous smile, eminently bed-able, I thought.  But, I wasn't going to tell Nigel that.  Or Kats!

     I had arranged for Bruce to see me at ten o'clock and I was still chatting to Nigel when he arrived.  I think Nigel was rather over-awed by him as well.  He virtually cowered when Bruce entered and gave him a hearty handshake.  He fled quite soon after that.  I'd found out he liked running so perhaps he would be another partner for Bruce's morning jaunts.

     I spoke to Bruce in French for almost the next hour.  At least, I started sentences and, as soon as he looked as if he was floundering, I stopped and went slower, or gave him clues in English.  Actually he wasn't as bad as his great-uncle had feared.  He made the usual errors but I knew with practice we could iron them out.

     “Do you know Mrs Vandetramp?” I asked at one point.

     He looked at me with great puzzlement.  He shook his head.  “I had a Mr Vanpool at that school,” he said, with some wonderment.  “He taught Maths.”
     I shook my head.  “No,” I said, “Mrs Vandetramp is very useful.”  Just as useful as Widow Palm for you, my boy, I thought!  My boy?  He's six months older than me!  “Look, let's write the name down and I'll show you.”

     I put the letters down vertically, one to each line on the foolscap pad he'd been making notes on.

     “Mrs Vandetramp is useful because she tells us some common verbs that take 'etre' rather than 'avoir'.”  I wrote each as I said it.   “M for Monter, R for Retourner and S for Sortir.  They're all verbs to do with movement, or becoming.  Any more you can tell me?”

     His face lit up.  “E for Entrer.  That's right isn't it?  Il est entre.”

     I nodded.  “What about V?”

     He cogitated.  “Il est....   venu.  That's 'Venir', isn't it?”

     I said he should try to complete the listing and practice sentences using the words.  Also to think of some not carried by the mnemonic like 'couper', or 'circoncire', I said with a grin.  'Castrate' and 'circumcise' - I didn't translate.  As he assimilated this he must have done, at least with the second.  He blushed, delicately.  I was taking to my young man mountain.  I said that Nigel Fawcett was a runner, perhaps they should hook up later in the day.  Nigel was about five feet seven and had a runner's slight build.  I tried to imagine a conjugation of the pair but had nothing to go on.  Oh God!  I was getting randy again!  Still I had to report to Dr Blake as I was having a tutorial with him at five minutes past eleven.  Bruce was most effusive with his thanks.  I said we would be meeting on Friday with the others and I expected him to have attended the two lectures tomorrow morning and take some notes and read the chapters in the set book.  He winced.

     “Got a game tomorrow afternoon.  Mustn't get crocked, eh?”

     From his size I expect he'd 'crock' someone else.  I winced as I imagined a full-tilt clash of bodies like his and Prosser's.  “Take care,” I said as he went off.

     I reported to Dr Blake that his great-nephew was certainly not a 'great dumb beast' or words to that effect.  I said I hoped we could draw him out a bit.  I didn't think he'd had too much opportunity to show what he was capable of - except, perhaps on the rugby field.  He was certainly enthusiastic.  Dr Blake looked more relaxed after that.

     “I have to report to his grandmother every week.”  He smiled.  “Perhaps I should ask you to write.”
                              *
     So began a very hectic term.  I decided I was going to work hard so attended as many lectures as I could, spent hours reading the books and the commentaries and really worked at my German, especially, as I found that harder.  My mentor group was great.  Just Bruce, Nigel and the chap who'd been in the French Resistance.  He also took Bruce under his wing as he was an avid rugger fan and Nigel was enthralled by his tales of how they outwitted the Germans.  Nigel joined Bruce and Philip Vane-Stewart on their morning runs and Jem said he'd been told they would be able to deal with Bruce in the bath most days!

     Jem couldn't contain himself and blurted out, around the sixth week of term, that Mr Lockhart  was always scratching himself, just like that Mr Townsend last year who went with that boy at the Champion in King Street and caught something and had to be shaved and paint himself with blue stuff, and he also had a very small thing.  He had said this all in one breath when he'd appeared in the middle of one morning with the excuse of attending to my fire.  I stood up from my desk and grabbed him as he poked the fire.  I lifted him up and stood him on a wooden chair.

     “Are you telling me you think Bruce has been off the straight and narrow, you imp?”

     He stared down at me, quite unfazed.  “May I get down, please.  I didn't mean to say that last bit.  You know, about his....”

     “Oh, come on down,” I said, “I know you've been itching to tell me that bit of news since that first day.”  He hopped down and I motioned for him to sit.  I sat at my desk but faced him.  “Now, what's this about Bruce's itch now we've got over yours?”

     I'd heard the rumour about Jeb Townsend who had been in his final year.  A supposedly staunch member of the church,  but not reading Divinity luckily, he had, allegedly, got involved with a 'bit of rough' who was always around a pub frequented by rugger types and boaties.  A dark, rather dingy, pub, I knew from experience, as I'd been there with Tony's cronies on several occasions.  I'd been smiled at by a ginger-haired lad of about seventeen - too young to be admitted to the bars, but who seemed to haunt the outside and was often having a pee, or appearing to have a pee, in the rather rank-smelling piss-house at the back.  The story went that Jeb had succumbed to this lad's charms and had caught the crabs from contact and had to see the College doctor.

     “Mr Townsend's scout told me that he was for ever scratching until he went to Dr Powell.  He said the doctor told him to shave himself and he had this bottle of blue stuff to paint all around his....”  

     “Penis, not 'thing',” I said, “Though knowing Bobby -,” a wizened little man who'd been a College scout from time immemorial, “- I expect he said cock or prick, eh?”

     Jem looked askance.  Then he grinned.  “Tool, actually.”

     “But what has this got to do with Bruce.  I know he's been to that pub.  We all went the week before last.  I was with him all evening....”  I looked at Jem.  “No, he wasn't in the bogs long enough.  He's probably got sweat rash or something.”  I snickered.  “Next time you wash his delicate bits have a look!”

     “I do not wash his delicate bits,” said Jem emphatically, then giggled.  “I only scrub his back now on Tuesdays and Fridays and he stays in the bath until I've gone.  I only saw him that first time.”  He giggled again.  “I think he saw me looking at him.”
     “And I suppose you've discussed this with Sam and he suggested you talked to me?”

     He nodded.

     “OK,” I said, “I'm seeing him later this morning.  If I see him scratching I'll ask him what's the matter.  Rely on me.”

     He smiled at me.  “Thank you.  I knew you would.”

     Oh, Jem.  You have all our interests at heart!  Just as I have yours.

     As he went to the door I said, very quietly, “I shall be at King's all afternoon.  Piano lesson at two, an hour's practice, then tea with Tony and our friend Mr Wilkinson will be joining us.  Back at five.”

     A quiet signal that Jem and Sam would appreciate.

     Spot on eleven Bruce appeared, looking pink and well-washed, but....,  he had no sooner entered the room than he scratched his groin briskly.

     “Caught the crabs?” I asked, knowing full-well he hadn't.  Or had he?  I wondered if he was the so innocent lad he appeared to be.

     “Fuckin' hell no!” he grunted, giving the other side an equally forceful rub.  “Got a bloody rash!”

     “Have you seen the doctor?” I queried, “How long have you had it?”  I realised he must be in some discomfort as he rarely, if ever, swore now and certainly not in Jem's presence.

     “No I ain't!” he said, his lapse of good English emphasised.  “I don't want any bastard quack feeling round my parts!  Had enough of that when my dick didn't grow!”

     He lapsed into silence.  He'd let out some personal little secret.

     “Oh, come on, Bruce,” I said, “Plenty of people must have seen you.  You can't play rugger and have showers or a bath afterwards without everyone seeing what you've got.  And I bet you haven't got less than a lot more, especially on a cold day.”

     He wasn't too mollified by this.  “Bastards at school used'ta call me dingo-dick,” he said quietly...  “But I used'ta say it still spurted good cream when I wanted it which was more than Reggy Mackay could and his was like a fuckin' hosepipe!”

     “But you ought to get whatever it is seen to.  Is it bad?”

     “Hurts like fuck!” was the pained reply.  “I'm fuckin' red raw!”

     With that his large buckled belt was unsnapped.  His ample brown corduroys were unbuttoned and dropped heavily down his tree-trunk legs.  A pair of voluminous white underpants were slid down and all was revealed.  Not much of a dark hairy bush, about as much, I thought, as I had soon after my cock began to grow.  Not much of a cock, either.   About three inches of very thin gristle.  But what made it seem longer was the foreskin which sheathed his knob end.  This had about an inch of skin ending in a pinched rosette.  His balls were tight up below it in a small red sac.  However, what was most evident were the two huge red welts either side of his groin and stretching onto his white legs.  I shook my head.

     “You must see the doc with that.  He'll only be interested in curing you, nothing else.  Do you want me to make the appointment?  I'll ask Willy Roberts to book you in first thing tomorrow.”

     He nodded abjectly.

     “Thanks, Jacko,” he said, bending to draw up his pants and trousers.  He looked at me and smiled wanly.  “And thanks for not calling me dingo-dick.”

     “Gosh, Bruce, with a body like yours what does it matter.  You said it works.  It does doesn't it?”

     He clipped his belt and sat down.  “Not too often,” he said slowly.  “I just grew huge as I said when I was fourteen but nothing else followed.”  He looked and saw I wasn't amused, but was concerned for him.  “Found out all about it when I was thirteen.  Perfectly OK then,” he pursed his lips.  “Then I grew fast and everything else stopped.  I tried it a lot till I was fifteen or so than gave it up.  Nothing much since.”

     “Bruce,” I said, “It's important you tell Dr Powell that as well.  Have you seen any other doctor?”

     He shook his head.  “No.  Saw a local quack when I was fifteen and I wasn't getting bigger down there and he said it'd grow all right later.”  He shook his head.  “It hasn't though.”

     “I'm certain Dr Powell will be able to do something, but you must tell him.  If you can't, write it down and give him a note.  I'm certain he'll understand.  He's been coping with us youngsters for years.”

     He seemed happier and managed to get through the next fifty minutes with just a few tentative rubs.  At twelve I went to the Porter's Lodge with him.  Willy was there by himself and noted that Dr Powell had a free slot at eight forty-five in the morning.  So all was arranged.

     I had a most pleasant afternoon.  The lad at King's, already diploma-laden at nineteen, was a superb teacher and I felt I was really improving in my interpretation of the pieces I was playing.  He suggested I might try for my LRAM next year and would ask the Director of Music to give his opinion if I would play for him.  Wilkie was full of tales about the goings-on in his college and had news of both Lachs and Flea..  Both were determined to visit Kerslake at Christmas time.  He also said he'd heard that Titty and Bastable were joining the Royal Marines next September.
     On my return I found my rooms had been especially tidied and cleaned.  Jem and Sam must have been extra pleased today, even though my bedroom was used at least once a week for their assignations.

     When I saw Bruce next he said Dr Powell had made an appointment for him to see an endocrinologist at Addenbrooke's Hospital the next week, but more importantly for the present, had prescribed some soothing cream!

     So the end of term and Christmas approached.  Pa and Ma wanted everyone to spend Christmas in London.  Tim and his brother would be going home and had said we could use their bedrooms.  So, that would be Kats, me and Francis in one room, Tony in another and Mr and Mrs Marcham in a third.  Still one bedroom over!  I wanted to see this flat.

     Charley had invited Bruce to spend Christmas with his family up in Westmorland.  At least there would be sheep up there.  I still didn't know if it was true but a couple of the rugger-buggers had twitted Bruce with being a 'sheep-shagger' as they knew Australians were addicted to their woolly friends for comforts of an unspecified, but hinted at, kind.

     Bruce had been to see the specialist at Addenbrookes and been thoroughly examined, blood tests and various other most personal things as Bruce shyly said when telling me.  He had been told he had a rare condition of 'Delayed Pubertal Development' where one system, that of body growth, had become emphasized and another system, that of external genital and secondary sexual characteristics, such as hair growth had been minimised.  If he was willing, the doctor would start a course of injections for him after Christmas.  He had agreed but had been warned there might be side-effects.

     First though, Tony and I set out for Kerslake.  I had a whole lot of presents for Francis as various fellow students pressed small parcels on me sent by Mums who had been told my news.  Charley presented me with a Christening mug for him engraved with his name and date of birth.  I had told him Mrs Marcham had insisted he be Christened and this was happening in their local church on Sunday December the nineteenth.  

     I was overjoyed when I saw my son for the first time after eight weeks absence.  Here he was now, three months old and smiling.  Smiling or the wind, what did it matter.  He was mine.  I fussed round him until sternly told to let him be, there would be plenty of time in due course to discuss rugger or the third person present subjunctive of 'avoir'.

     We had plenty of visitors.  Nobbo and Cleggy came round to the Marchams to see us one morning.  Their news was that if Charley wanted his foot looked at, it could be examined and a decision made by the Professor of Orthopaedics.  Apparently, Cleggy's brother Geoff had made such a good impression while on the old boy's firm that he had immediately agreed.  Interesting case anyway.  Perhaps I should set up as a medical troubleshooter!

     Another visitor was Tom Buchanan, a full Sergeant now but still his old self.  I was alone with Francis that morning as Kats and her mother had gone out shopping.  Tom had plenty of tales to tell including the time he was Orderly Sergeant one Sunday.  His duties included checking the cookhouse.  I laughed and said most of his stories involved cooks.  He grinned and said they were the randiest set of buggers as he'd told me before.  This day he knew something was going on.  Sunday lunch was over but the cooks were nowhere near cleared up and kept going into one of the store rooms off the main kitchen.  A couple of them tried to head him off but, pulling rank, he insisted on knowing what was going on.  He'd noticed that there were still pans of semi-congealed mutton fat on the warm range and he saw one of the cooks come out and pick one up and disappear into the storeroom with it while he was looking at them.  When he got to the door all was revealed.  One of the cooks was tied down, on his back, over a table in the middle of the room.  His cook's whites were pulled down his legs and his shirt was open.  Two of the cooks were steadily dripping rapidly congealing and hardening mutton fat over the lad's groin.  There were about half a dozen others all milling around and laughing.  It transpired the lad was always boasting how big his cock was and now there was a fast growing thick, long, soon to be moulded, representation of a prick, sticking straight up in the air, with his own erection held fast within it.  He was grunting and swearing mightily as the eighteen inch high edifice was shaped and moulded by one of the cooks who, Tom knew, made fantastic ice or butter sculptures for the Officers' Mess.  As Tom watched, the artist produced a masterpiece, so he said, complete with a modelled rolled back foreskin.  Two of the cooks had cameras and took photos but Tom said he hadn't seen the results.

     Tom was also a happy lad as he said he was taking Betty Briggs, home from Teacher Training College, out to lunch at Lyons.  I grinned at him and looked at Francis.  Tom made a slightly wry face and shook his head.  Tom wasn't getting his end away, yet!

     Of course, I was!  I'd visited a barber's in Chesterton to get my hair cut a couple of days before leaving Cambridge for Kerslake.  My ulterior motive was quite simple - a supply of contraceptives!  Luckily, I was the only customer at that moment when the barber, a large middle-aged man, asked the age-old question “Anything for the week-end, sir?”.  I bought six packets of three.  He had a slight smile on his face and I had a slight blush as I paid.  But, what the hell, thousands of blokes, every week must buy their supplies - probably the six packets was not so usual - he probably thought I was extra randy or just boastful.  I'd heard tales of lads buying Frenchies just to wank in.  Rather a waste!

     The Christening was a lovely ceremony.  Tony, Matt and Bella stood as godparents.  Although I knew I had no beliefs the age-old Christian, Anglican ceremony was so beautiful.  Tony had sung in the choir of the church from the age of seven and Dr Baines had made sure all the choir were on top form for the occasion.  Francis was as good as gold.  He didn't even whimper when the sign of the Cross was made on his forehead or when the Holy Water was poured over his head. Matt insisted on holding him as we walked out of the church and I knew that although Matt would never have a son he was one person I would trust to love and cherish my own son.  Odd, two of the godparents were good friends who would never, I knew, make that supreme step of producing a child.

     Anyway, Kats and I, to begin with, didn't intend to produce another, yet!   We were both ready and able for encounters, neither of us could get enough, so it seems.  Kats, quite independently of me asking, experimentally sucked my cock that first night home.  She was good, but left off just before I felt myself coming.  She certainly wasn't as good at that as her brother!  I remembered the numerous times he'd taken as much of my shaft into this mouth as he could and had sucked and savoured my cum and shared it with me.  That first night I came as she held my prick and urged me to a climax where my first load squirted fully over my chest and coated my neck as well.  My second lot was buried deep in her but shed into the constricting confines of that latex covering.  So, that pattern continued.  I was still experiencing my two orgasms each day but not now by use of my trusty right hand.  In fact, a couple of afternoons when ma-in-law was out we fucked ourselves to a delirium of delight, as well.

       On Christmas Eve we all got packed up and it took two cars, Mr Marcham's big Rover and my little Austin Seven, to get ourselves and all our clobber to London and Kensington Gore.  My, the flat was huge!  It stretched on and on, windows overlooking the Royal Albert Hall.  Ma was overjoyed with seeing us all and had produced quite a sumptuous meal for that Friday evening.  She and Pa insisted on looking after Francis while Mr Marcham drove the rest of into town to see the festive lights and decorations.  I felt, even after three years since the end of the War, that London still looked drab and there was still so much bomb damage to be repaired and rebuilt.  I shook my head when I saw St Pauls and imagined Dresden, completely flattened by Allied bombing.  Even St Pauls had had a direct hit but even so with all the damage still evident it didn't compare with the pictures I had seen of German and other cities so ravaged by seeming hate.  I had come to love the German language and its literature so much over the past year.  I loved Beethoven and Brahms and Bach  - why, oh why, did such things happen?  I knew I had to visit Germany as soon as I could.

     Still, we had a packed Christmas Day.  It was bright and clear and we walked across to see Albert in his faded, gilt glory and strolled in the park while the Christmas lunch was cooking.  Replete and content we played parlour games in the afternoon and, tired and happy went to bed quite early.  Not too tired.  Francis might have been.  He slept soundly in his cot.  With good food and a couple, nay, three or four, glasses of good wine, Jacko was extra randy.  Kats was soon on her back being caressed and stroked and felt and fingered.  She was moaning most contentedly, my finger touching that button which would soon, I hoped, bring her to her own climax.  I felt for the familiar packet.  Oh shit!  Oh holy buggeration!  We must have fucked eighteen times already.  The packet was empty.  I was too far gone and Kats was urging me to complete the act I had started.  I sank deep, unencumbered, and fucked her twice in quick succession and a third time much more slowly, letting loose in her those countless millions and millions of my sperm all vying for the supreme prize.

     That did it.  For the rest of the holiday we didn't bother.  Without the impediment of that bothersome covering we fucked at least three times each night.  I had read a few trashy novels but I could honestly say, in the words from one purple passage which stuck in my mind, our passion was white-hot.  Each first time it was if as soon as I sank deep then my innermost being was sucked out of me.  Each second and third time I felt as if my heart and mind were on fire.  I felt in those moments just as I had when Lachs and Flea and I had sealed our covenant with each other.  I loved Kats and I knew I loved those friends of mine as well.  Lachs and Flea were preeminent but Tony, Tom, Roo, Matt and Mike especially, were there as well.  My friends and I had loved each other with that supreme passion of two males coupling and giving each other all their trust and strength.  Now, my trust and strength with Kats had produced that other supreme consequence, my son, my beloved Francis.

                    New Year   - 1949

     Mr and Mrs Marcham went back to Kerslake the day after Boxing Day and we four stayed on to greet the New Year.  Both Lachs and Flea joined us as they had been to Cheshire for Christmas.  Lachs was hoping to be promoted soon as he had passed all the Regimental hurdles.   His Company had managed to come second in the annual review and for a rookie Second-Lieutenant this was quite an achievement.  He said being five feet five was a bonus as lots of the Jocks were quite small as well.  I said Billy Clarke had said this as well.  He said it helped as he was eye to eye with his lads and they didn't feel they were being looked down on.

     Flea was a Pilot Officer now with his wings proudly displayed on his chest.  He had passed his course with flying colours and no exaggeration.  He was destined for further training in the New Year and was so looking forward to it.  He was entranced with Francis and sat nursing him for ages saying the sooner he grew up he could marry his sister Julia.  I pointed out this was unwise as they would be quite close cousins and I didn't want grandchildren with fair hair, two heads and three left feet, which I was certain would come from his side of the family.  Big and as old as he was Jacko was dealt with by two incensed Officers of the King.   Tickled and squawking I had to retreat.  What annoyed me was that Francis smiled while this was happening!  No, it must have been wind!!

     Tony and I explored all sorts of parts of London while Ma and Kats explored Harrods and similar emporia.  Tony and I found second-hand bookshops in the Charing Cross Road and came back with bundles of books, English, French and German.  Pa said the main use for several of the old tomes might be to hold up a rickety bed-leg.  We found he was very busy sorting out the post-war scientific scene as far as our defence was concerned.  He was off to America early in January to discuss some sort of collaboration.  Ma was going too and would be seeing her sister in Boston for the first time for many years.  Her only regret was that she would be missing concerts next door in the Royal Albert Hall.  He was in her seventh heaven - she had been to several of the Promenade Concerts in the late summer and was highly complimentary about Dr Sargent, the new conductor in charge of the Proms.  

     I had also gone to see Mr Blane the publisher in Bloomsbury and he said the translation was more than acceptable.  He showed me the proof copies of the book.  My name was, admittedly, in small print under the author's name, but......  He said Ma's fourth book was in press ready for Easter.  He asked Tony if he was thinking of becoming a writer.  Tony smiled an enigmatic smile and said 'Perhaps'.

     Two days before we returned to Kerslake, Tim and John Parker came back to claim their rooms.  We went with them to the Royal College across the way to hear them rehearse Schubert's Trout Quintet with three other students.  Tim was standing in for their pianist as he was still on holiday.  John said he liked playing in small groups but he was having two auditions at Easter for orchestral positions.  Tim was now in his second year BMus course as well as taking piano and conducting.  How time moves on.

     Time moved on very quickly.  It was Charley's last term before his final exams.   Bruce was having his injections, running and annihilating any opposing forwards in a slew of wins for the College team and Jacko was reading and writing essays.
     In January on a particularly cold day I was writing out my weekly essay for Dr Blake when there was a rap on the door.  From the code, rap tap-tap, I knew it was Willy Roberts.  I got up and opened the door.  There stood Willy, bowler-hatted and great-coated, with two swaddled figures behind him.

     “Mr Beckett and Mr Collins to see Mr Thomson, sir,” he said most importantly, then winked surreptitiously.

     Well, well, well.  It was Red-bum Beckett and young Collins, my rugger fiends!  Red-bum!  What was his real name?  I thought hard.  Oh, yes!  Peter - like the farting canary!

     It dawned.  They must be up for interview somewhere.

     “Come in, come in!”  I said, beckoning all three in.  Quick think.  “What time are your interviews?” I asked.

     Young Collins, Mark, spoke up.  “Two o'clock.”

     I looked at Willy.  Now was the time to use Lord Harford's card.  “Mr Roberts, lunch at the Blue Boar for half-twelve.  Four, if Mr Marcham can be contacted.”

     Willy, who had removed his bowler on entry, inclined his head.  “Certainly, sir, I will see if young Jem is available for checking with Mr Marcham.”  He turned, smartly and exited replacing his bowler hat as he closed the outer door.

     “Sorry, that was all a bit sudden,” I said, “Take your overcoats first then find a seat.”

     They looked suitably cowed by all the attention.  After a bit of a flurry Peter Beckett spoke.

     “Gosh, who is he?”

     “That” I said, “Is the most important person in a college.  There might be a Provost, or Master as head of college, but you get the wrong side of a Porter....”  I drew a line across my throat.

     Young Collins giggled.  “Worse than Old Harry?”

     “Much worse,” I said.  “Now tell me about yourselves.”

     Over the next ten minutes or so I heard they'd both got interviews, one at Pembroke and the other at Sidney Sussex, for Natural Science.  This was a catch all for Physics, Chemistry and associated subjects and students usually came in for a lot of ribbing from the self-important Philosophy and Classics students.  'What's the last thing which goes through a Nat-Sci's brain when he hits a car windscreen at fifty miles per hour?'  'His arse-hole!'  'A Nat-Sci went to the doctor and said,  Doctor, doctor, I'm not feeling myself today.  Good, it's a nasty habit!'  Plenty of these, but the Nat-Scis survive and even managed to split atoms in the Cavendish Laboratories.
     They wanted to know what to say and I said, they should just be themselves.  Make sure, if they got a hint, to say they played for the school and not to flannel.  If they didn't know an answer, just say so.  We were well into how college life went when there was another rap at the door.  They were even more flabbergasted when a neatly dressed Sam carried in a tray with a pot of tea, milk, sugar, cups and a plate of chef-cooked biscuits.  Willy was really putting on a show for me!  I would definitely have to make sure I vacated my room at least two afternoons this week, too!!  Sam bowed and left.  And left a good impression.  I wondered what on earth would be conveyed back to school.

     They were even more impressed when Tony met us at the Blue Boar and we, gowned and with our squares, were escorted to our table by old Bert.  The lads had steak pie - steak of unknown beast but smothered in rich brown gravy.  They looked, goggle-eyed, when I produced Lord Harford's visiting-card at the end of the meal and old Bert just glanced at it and wished us a happy afternoon.  The lads were too polite to ask how all this happened and neither Tony nor I were going to enlighten them.  Of course, as we got back to Clare who should we meet but Charley.  He let the cat out of the bag and demanded to know why he hadn't been included on the jaunt.  I promised that he could be entertained later in the week.  He grunted, as I was still keeper of his allowance!

     That reminded me.  I had never enquired of Willy how Charley got to be known as the Abominable Arseholes - I realised the alliteration with Lascelles but Charley was the mildest of creatures ninety per cent of the time.  A couple of drinks and he did go rather berserk, but...  abominable, no!

     I was in the Porter's Lodge a couple of days later when Willy was in sole command.  I asked him about the nickname.  He smiled and looked to see that no one else was about to enter his sanctum.

     “Goes back a long time,” he said, confidentially.  “Family nickname.  Two of his older brothers were here, Gussie and Bertie, both called AA in turn.  Apparently, according to Dad, their father and uncle were called that as well, that was when my Granddad was Porter.”

     The mind boggled.  I couldn't imagine Lord Harford being worthy, or unworthy, of that name.

     “Goes back further than that, though,” continued Willy, “Bit of college history.  His Lordship's uncle got the name when he was here.”  Willy leaned over the desk.  “Found in bed by his scout with a kitchen-lad.  Nearly got sent down but said the boy had got locked out of the kitchen where he slept and he'd taken pity on him.  They had to believe him and kitchen-boys got proper beds after that.”

     I had a glimpse.  “And the kitchen-boy?”

     “Granddad,” said Willy, quietly.

     Inquisitiveness satisfied I said that was a good story and not one to be repeated to all and sundry.  Willy nodded.
     A fortnight later there was a letter from the interviewed pair - accepted for October on condition...   I wrote back congratulating them and said I would be in Kerslake over Easter if they wanted to know anything, call round at the Marchams.

     Then even more momentous news.  Again, in March, came a letter.  Kats was pregnant again.  From her reckoning it was that Christmas Day fuck which did it!  Oh God!  We were both very fertile, according to a grinning Tony the next day.  His sister had written to him as well.  He advanced on me when I opened the door to him and said he thought I ought to be neutered like their old tom cat if I was going to produce a sprog every time I was home with his sister.

     I pointed out we were married.  He laughed and said he liked being an uncle.  What would it be this time?

     He told his rugger-bugger crowd, of course, and I was treated to a regular hazing when I went for a drink with them.  I was made to stand on a table in the Champion, trousers round my ankles, leading the assembled throng in seventeen verses of the Good Ship Venus.  Luckily I remembered most of the words, but it wouldn't have mattered as everyone else joined it.

     I did have one outing.  Tony, Charley and I decided to take Bruce to see the Boat Race.  On the spur of the moment I suggested we could take young Jem and Sam as well.  Both getting on for eighteen and never been to London.  Well, for that matter, neither had Bruce.  Actually we never saw the Boat Race.  We left Cambridge by an early train but spent the day exploring all the tourist spots of London.   Of course, the boys and Bruce had never been on the Underground and were quite taken with the way it rattled along and Bruce managed to run all the way up one of the down escalators as he said he hadn't had his usual run that day.  We ended up for high tea at the flat in Kensington Gore.  We twitted the boys that the Albert Hall was really a gasholder, just that much bigger than the ones beside the river at Cambridge.  Sam remarked that he knew someone so full of hot air he could fill it with a couple of breaths.  I was deflated!  Tim and John came in and joined us for food then played to us.   Luckily Cambridge won!  A great day!

     The final year students had their exams towards the end of term and Charley really worked hard.  He did get a good degree and said it was mainly due to me and a couple more of his friends who had helped him.  He was also going up to London at the beginning of the vacation for his appointment about his foot.  We all wished him luck and so the vacation began.


                         Easter 1949

     Kats was getting quite plump by now.  I wasn't sure how pleased her parents would be.  I had told Pa on the 'phone as soon as I heard the news - luckily he had answered as I think Ma would have let me have an earful about being inconsiderate while I was still at college.  He said he understood I liked sailing and hadn't Flea and the others taught me to tie knots.  I got the drift and said I considered that too painful and, unfortunately, the Thomson exuberance had been let loose once again.  I heard him giggle and there was a hurried conversation which I couldn't hear.  “Your mother sends her congratulations, but wait until she sees you!”

     Mrs Marcham was actually quite complacent.  She adored young Francis and was eager to have a second grandchild.  All was well, then.  As a break I drove Kats and Francis, with Tony in tow, to Ulvescott and we spent the whole week before Easter there.  We visited Lady Bing who was still as upright and as acerbic as ever.  She said she was glad my mother and father were enjoying the London flat and she had heard good things about young Timothy.  I played a couple of duets with the Duchess and we came away with two very old Christening spoons which the Duchess said had come from her late husband's family.

     Back in Cambridge the Summer term just disappeared in a haze of essays, parties, farewell dinners and all sorts of post-juvenile frolics.  Jem and Sam were dismayed.  Both were now almost eighteen and, as National Service had been brought in completely, had been for their medicals and were both deemed to be A1.  Would they be there next term?  Jem's younger brother, David, or Davy, now sixteen, was eager to get a college job so I think was all lined up, in case!

     One changed character was Bruce.  He had been having his treatment for some months by the end of term.  A couple of days before we were to go down he came all jovial to see me.

     “Got something to show you,” he said as he closed the door behind him and slipped the latch.  “Saw Professor Tillotson yesterday and he's very pleased with me!”

     If anything he was larger than when he had joined the college and I watched as he undid and dropped his trousers.  As he lowered his pants and pulled his shirt up I saw the change.  Four inches of thick, now hardening,  young cock rose up against a much increased bush of pubic hair above a larger, swelling ballsack.

     “God, Jacko, I'm so pleased with myself as well,” he enthused, he grinned. “Bastard is up like this most of the time now.  Needs fuckin'  taming!”

     Oh, Bruce.  Now twenty, enjoying and experiencing that sense of achievement and pleasure I and almost every other boy had savoured and revelled in before we were fourteen.

     “He's going to give me more next term.  Gotta see how it fuckin' goes until then.  Fair dinkum now, eh?”

     “No longer dingo-dick, eh?”  I said, “Congratulations.  But see you don't wear it out.”

     He was no longer embarrassed at all.  He just laughed.  He was obviously delighted with his new toy, as it were.

     “Thanks to you, mate,” he said, “Wouldn't have been like this!  Gotta see what happens next!”


     Tony was off  toYorkshire with Percy and his pals again for a short stay and I left for Kerslake at the end of term.  I had plenty of work to do as my final year would be upon me in October.  I worked steadily through July and August, reading, making notes, practising the piano, as well as playing with and looking after Francis.  He was quite a precocious child as I helped him to stand and stagger when he was just over eleven months old.   Kats was looking forward to the birth as she was so big.  Tony and I twitted her and suggested it might be twins.  But no, on Friday, September the Second, 1949, my second son, James Antony Thomson was born.  Eight pounds exactly, mother and child (and father) doing well.