CHAPTER 56

Vignettes From My Life

9.   Easter 1965

     Decisions had to be made.  Stephen was eleven on the Wednesday after Easter Sunday.  Both he and Lisa, his constant companion in dancing, had been to an audition with the Royal  Ballet School in London and both had been accepted as pupils for September.  Stephen was never going to be very tall.  Professor Gibson had estimated he would be at the most five feet seven when fully grown and that would be a most acceptable height.  At eleven, with his blond hair and his slim, trim figure, he looked very good in the local ballet school's production for the pupils of scenes from Cinderella last Christmas.  Lisa was a suitably waif-like Cinderella and Stephen was a natural Prince and both took the well-deserved applause with grace and aplomb.  Both his brothers made sure he worked hard, but not too hard at his exercises.  It was hilarious at times when James, five foot ten plus and gangly, attempted some of the movements at the barre but their friendship was very true and close.  They, of course, teased him about Lisa but he said it was purely a professional alliance.  This made them tease him even more.  He and Lisa shrugged off the banter and practised together most days.

     However, something was happening with my eldest son.  Quite suddenly during the Spring Term, much to Grunty's amazement especially, he announced he wasn't going to play rugger again and refused to play in any of the school teams.  I had a chat with his Games Master and he said it often happened and we were not to pressurize him.  We watched as quite a few transformations took place.  Grunty, Khaled and his other friends were kept rather at arm's length.  Grunty and Khaled were just about tolerated but Francis seemed to want to be cut off from more than minimal contact with the usual group he hung around with.  His school work didn't suffer, though.  He'd done exceptionally well in the end of Fifth Year exams and seemed to be working steadily at his chosen subjects of Biology, Chemistry and Physics in the First Year Sixth Form as he said he was determined to go to Medical School where Tiger was already.  He had also refused to be a Prefect and said he preferred to be on his own without harassing all the younger kids.

     From the middle of February, when he gave up rugger, he let his hair grow.  At sixteen and a half he was almost as tall as me and I felt it imprudent to suggest he got his hair cut.  By the end of the Easter holidays it was down to his shoulders and he set off for school each day with his hair in a pony tail.  After Easter he became quite bad-tempered if either of his brothers wanted anything.  I must say they humoured him as they shared their own room and were quite happy, though of disparate ages, in each other's company.

     I tried not to antagonise him and kept a low profile as it were, but on several occasions when he was asked to do something he was just like me at a similar age, surly and grudging in his responses.  I thought we could tolerate it until a real row blew up.  Mike had suggested we spend time again in Rome then go up to Tuscany to stay in a villa belonging to some Contessa who was the elder sister of Padre Domenico and had heard about me and the family and what we had done for the parish and Anne was Mike's sister, etc., etc.   We could then visit Florence.  Both James and Stephen were enthusiastic.  We'd visited Rome twice since that first time and the boys wanted to see Uncle Mike again and see his growing flock in the parish and they had collected quite a lot of kit to take out with them.  Khaled and Safar were coming with us as their father was due to be in Rome during the time we were there and he wanted to see all of us.  The idea of a villa holiday, following the visit to Rome, for the best part of a month, especially as the villa had its own swimming pool, sounded like heaven.  Heaven for James and Stephen and for Khaled and Safar.  Not for Francis.

     We had a blazing row.  I suppose I was tense and upset.  I had also had a difficult part of the year as I'd had a battle with two recalcitrant old dons on the faculty who didn't want to change part of the syllabus I was responsible for and take on board research done since they were undergraduates in the 1920's!  And only that day I had tried, for the last time, to get them to see reason.  So, I was tired and tetchy to put it mildly.  After supper that evening I told Francis in no uncertain terms that he was ungrateful, thankless, unappreciative, thoughtless, inconsiderate, impertinent, insolent, arrogant, conceited, unapproachable, and that was only a start of about fifteen minutes of shouting on my part.  He sat, stony-faced, while I ranted, then calmly stood up.

     “I'm not fucking going!” he said quietly and went upstairs to his bedroom and locked the door.

     As soon as I had started bawling at Francis the younger pair had wisely scarpered upstairs to their own room.  Anne stayed in the kitchen.  As Francis's door shut she came through to her red-faced, now quite incoherent husband.  She had in her hand a large whisky and soda which she handed to me.  I gritted my teeth and accepted it gratefully and downed about half of it in one gulp.  Anne smiled and shook her head.

     “Every father meets every son at the crossroads outside Thebes,” she said quietly, “Sometimes there is silence, sometimes there is fury, sometimes there is violence, but no one is ever let off that moment of passage.”

     I felt calmer and grinned at her.  “But dear Oedipus ended up in a compromising situation with his mother.  I hope that's not the resolution here.”

     She shook her head again.  “I heard Dad and Mike have a row like that once....”

     “I know, I know,” I said, “You don't have to tell the most ungrateful son of sixteen there ever was.”

      She laughed.  “And believe me, girls have equal problems with their mothers.  All to do with keeping your legs crossed at vital moments.”

     I leaned over and gave her a kiss.  “I thought that had to do with penis envy!  You don't have one and you can't wait until you find a suitable one.”

     We were now both laughing but we still had a problem to resolve.  Let it ride and see what happens.

                              *
     Two nights later Anne was out and I was working in my study on the same floor as the bedrooms when I heard an angry shout.

     “What the fuck are you doing in my fucking room!  Keep your thieving fucking hands off my sodding things!”

     It was Francis.  I'd heard him come upstairs but I didn't know that one of the others was in his room.  It was James.

     “Don't talk to me like that!” I heard him say, “Mum said she probably put my clean socks in  here with yours.”

     “Get your filthy fucking socks and get out!” he shouted, “And if you blast that fucking trumpet tonight I'll ram it right up your shitty arse.  Fuck off and tell that other poxy little turd if he wants the same fucking treatment just let him blow that fucking flute and the other end'll come out of his fucking mouth!”

     “Don't talk about Stephen like that!  He's done you no harm!  You've got no right to shout at us like that.....    .....Stephen, go back to our room.  I'll deal with this!”

     Stephen had emerged to see what all the row was about.  James spoke surprisingly calmly.  The tirade commenced again.

     “Yes!  Get back to your own fucking  room and keep out of my way.  I don't want you fucking around in here again touching any of my fucking things with your poxy little fingers, piss off, dogs-breath!”

     “God, Francis, shut up and leave him alone!”

     “You shut your fucking mouth, too, or I'll fucking shut it for you!”

     “Just try it!  You start anything and I'll finish it.”

     “Huh, just because you're a long streak of piss you think you're the big man around here....”

     “....You're only jealous 'cause I'm nearly as big as you,” There was a laugh.  “In fact you're jealous 'cause I'm bigger than you where it matters!”

     “Shut you're fucking mouth and get out!”

     There was the sound of a slight scuffle and a door slammed.

     I heard James go back and have a hurried conversation with Stephen and then their door was also shut.  I had the distinct impression that Francis had staged that altercation for my benefit and it hadn't gone all his own way.  I felt proud of James.  He had stuck up for himself and for young Stephen and he'd answered without using any swear words at all.  In fact, Francis's use was a bit artificial.  If he'd ever heard Johnny Prosser he would have learned a lot about the colourful use of expletives.  So, I resolved to ignore that little outburst.  It was testing Dad!  What was interesting though was the way James had bested Francis.  The mention of being bigger where it matters could only mean one thing.  There had been a comparison at some time and James, the younger brother by a year, had a bigger cock!  I'd noted that slight difference all those years ago and the difference had grown.

     Nothing more was heard that evening.  Later I noted that James went down and prepared a bedtime drink and snack for himself and Stephen, otherwise silence reigned.  I went downstairs when I heard Anne come back and said there had been developments but I would tell her about them when we were in bed.

     I gave her an expurgated version of the happenings.  She agreed it was for Dad's benefit and best played down.  She said she wasn't worried about James' reaction and she thought he would keep Stephen calm.

     “If he doesn't want to come with us he won't be staying here in the house,” she said with finality.  “He can have a room in one of Jem and Sam's houses and get a job at Scudamores touting for the punts.  They're always looking for lads in the holidays and I know his pal Cam Sullivan is working there from next week as his mother told me the other day.  That'll sort him out.  Lucius will keep an eye on him and he'll stand no nonsense.  We'll leave it a couple of days.  We're not due to go until next Friday so we've got a week.”

     Trust a medieval historian to get a grip on things and sort everything out.  Once her mind was made up the boys knew better than to cross Mum!  She wasn't finished.

     “It's Francis's and James's  last day at school tomorrow.  You go and see Ludo tomorrow afternoon - they'll feed you tomorrow evening and Francis won't provide me with a repeat.  It'll give him a chance to wind down.  As long as Stephen doesn't get too upset, but his school doesn't break up until Tuesday.”

                              *
     Next morning I was in our bathroom and I heard Francis in the one he usually used.  By the time I'd dressed and gone downstairs he was off to school - very early.   The other two got up at their normal time and I got their breakfasts ready for them.  They looked rather warily at me but I acted as if nothing had happened.  It wasn't as if I was deaf so they knew I must have heard last night's shemozzle.  Anne came down soon after and affability reigned.  They went off to school, Stephen moaning because he still had four days of school to do and the others were finishing today.

     I had plenty to do.  I was reading through a PhD thesis which I was examining in the Autumn Term for a student at another University.  I was enjoying it as she was good and had come across quite a few manuscripts I would be mentioning in my next lecture course.  One of my criteria for awarding such a degree was usefulness to others!  Or, entertainment - like  parts of mine!!  That settled the morning.  Ludo liked a good chat and other than finalising the arrangements for the boys to travel with us he also wanted to hear the latest gossip so I was readily invited over to tea and then to supper as Marion, his wife, wanted a research paper in German quickly translated.  So, I would be out of the way.

     Anne reported when I got back that evening that all was quiet on the Western Front.  Francis had eaten in stony silence and the other two didn't start to chatter until he stomped off upstairs.  She said she kept quiet and acted as if she'd heard nothing.

                              *
     On Friday Anne was presenting a paper at a conference being held at her College so she went off soon after breakfast and wouldn't be back until late as there was an evening dinner to attend.   I didn't see Francis as he never came down that morning for breakfast so I got some ready for the other two and shooed a complaining Stephen off to school.  “Only three more days,” I said.  I didn't add “And some of us will be off to Italy on Friday!”  I remembered I'd better write letters to the two dons just stating that I would be taking unilateral action on the syllabus and had the agreement of others, which I had, and if they wished to complain I suggested they raised the matter at a full Faculty Board meeting.  That meant I had to go into college to give the drafts to the secretary and hope she had time to type them up and I could sign them.

     I went off about eleven o'clock telling James to keep an eye on things and that if I wasn't back by lunch-time to look in the fridge as there was plenty in there to feed a horde of starving gannets.  He did give me a wan smile but I could see he was still wondering why nothing had been said or done.

     I had just signed the letters in the secretary's office as she had kindly typed them up during her lunch hour and was sauntering over to the Porter's Lodge when a hurrying Willy Roberts caught up with me.

     “Looked in your room but you weren't there, Jacko,” he said breathlessly, “Can you go to Addenbrooke's immediately, there's been an accident or something.  Francis 'phoned and said it was  James.  Shall I come, too?”

     I nodded, rather dazed.  The pair of us rushed out of college, up and along King's Parade and into Trumpington Street where the hospital was.  A very distraught Francis was just inside the door.

     “It's all my fault!” he wailed.

     We could get nothing further sensible out of him so Willy rushed in and cornered a nurse.  I saw her pointing to a side room.  I followed them with a whimpering Francis behind me.  In the room was a doctor and a nurse with a pale-faced James sitting at a table with his hands stretched out in front of him with one swathed in bandages and the nurse wrapping a bandage round the other.  The doctor looked up.

     “Dr Thomson?” he asked, looking from Willy in Porter's black suit and bowler hat to me in casual clothes.  I looked at James who gave me a wry smile and then winced as the nurse tied off the bandage rather tightly.  I followed the doctor into another side room.

     “Sorry about this,” he began, “Your son has burnt his hands rather badly.  He'll have to keep those bandages on until Wednesday at least and we'll take it from there.  He'll have blisters but I hope the damage is mainly superficial.”

     “Do you know how he did it?” I asked.  “I know his brother was into making fireworks a couple of years ago.”
     He shook his head and smiled.  “From what the other one said he'd left a pan on the gas stove and this one, James, isn't it?....”  I nodded.  “....He saw it was just catching on fire so carried it out into the garden.  Unfortunately the metal handle was very hot and burnt him.  Brave lad!”

     He said I could take him home and to get him to rest.  He'd already arranged for the pharmacy to supply some pain-killers in case they were needed and anyway he'd given James a jab of something to lessen any pain when he first came in.  The instructions were that he mustn't get the bandages wet or take them off as there were other dressings and creams underneath and come back on Wednesday at nine o'clock.

     I explained we were supposed to be off to Italy on Friday and he said all being well he would just have a light dressing on but he shouldn't do anything to get any infections in.

     Good old Willy.  He was sitting talking to a tearful Francis as I came out holding James's arm.  A nurse came up with a package of pills and showed me the instructions for the dosage.  Meanwhile Willy had 'phoned for a taxi.  I thanked him.  He whispered, as I put James into the cab and directed Francis to get in the other side, “Don't be too hard on the lad!”  Hard!  If James was damaged there would be hell to pay!!

     I had calmed down somewhat by the time we got back to the house.  Francis jumped out of the car and disappeared into the house.   I paid the taxi driver and led James into the kitchen.  I needed a cup of tea!  Then I saw what had happened.  The gas stove was spattered with oil and there was a wet tea towel over the hobs with black scorch and smoke marks on the wall.  In the garden was the burnt out remains of a rather prized French saucepan.

     James slumped down on a chair by the table and burst into tears.  It was his first show of emotion.

     “Don't take it out on him,” he said, looking up at me, “He just forgot!”

     Gradually I got the story out of him.  He'd been sitting in the garden after making himself a sandwich and had watched Francis pour a pint of oil into the pan and put it on the gas and then he peeled a couple of potatoes and made chips.   He'd then gone off upstairs again obviously to wait for the fat to heat up before cooking them.  Next thing James realised was that the pan was spitting fat and just as he rushed in the oil started to burn.  He'd screamed out with the pain as he grasped the handle with one hand and then the other, but had held on and ran out and threw the pan as far as he could.  His screams alerted Francis who came racing down the stairs had seen the hobs burning with the spattered fat, had wetted a tea towel and flung it over them and then seeing James clutching his hands had 'phoned for an ambulance.  James had passed out with the pain in the ambulance and that was that.

     “Please don't do anything,” he pleaded, “He didn't mean it.”

     I went over to him and put my arm round him.  “It's OK,” I said, “If that's what happened it was an accident waiting to happen.  You were very brave to stop what could have been a disastrous fire.  But Francis has got to look after you now.”

     “Thanks, Dad,” he said, “I knew you'd understand.  But I can't do anything with these bandages on....” he paused, “...I need a bath!  I'm afraid I peed myself and I think I've done something else too!”

     I hugged him.  I was aware of the combined odours now.

     “Would you mind if I helped you have a bath?  We'll have to sacrifice your shirt, I'll have to cut that off but your other things will be OK after they've been washed.  And don't worry, I've seen you plenty of times even if you have been a bit more reticent lately.”

     He looked up at me.  “I don't mind, Dad, I know you must have changed my nappies for me many times.  I'm just a bit bigger now,” he grinned and cried at the same time, “I need to be changed now!   And I'm used to you.  Stephen and I play 'Spot Dad' 'cause you wander about without anything on usually.”

     I laughed.  “As long as you don't play 'Spot the Ball'!”

     His tears vanished.  “Dad!  I don't believe you'd say things like that!”

     “You'll learn!” I said.  He was much more relaxed now.  Much more cheered up.   “Come on, Sunshine,” I said, using a name I hadn't called him for years, Oh, since he was about four or five and I use to pick him up and dunk him in the bath.  He grinned at me and tried to wipe his tears with the back of his bandaged hand.  I mopped his face with my handkerchief.

     I steadied him as I led him upstairs, past a tightly closed bigger brother's door, into the bathroom where I first cut his shirt off him with the kitchen scissors.  As he stood there I undid his shoes and took those and his socks off.  He had certainly wetted himself but the heat of his body had dried him off and there were signs of a loosening of the bowels when I slid his trousers and pants carefully down his legs.  And that was when I became aware that the combined English and French inheritance had certainly been passed down.  My nearly sixteen year old son had a very hefty young cock and a pair of very heavy-looking balls.  I'd seen similar on another sixteen-year-old twenty years previously.  Me!

     “I need to clean your legs a bit first,” I said, “As you said I must be used to it and the only difference is you can stand while I do it.  In those days you were on your back with your legs in the air!”

     We both laughed.
     “Now, stand still while I deal with you.”  I moistened a wad of loo paper and got the worst off in one go.

     While I was moistening a second wad James gave a sniff.  “I'm sorry Dad, I would never have wanted you to have to do this.   And if I ever upset you, you can smack my backside like you use to smack Jem's.”

     I laughed.  “How do you know that?  You've been listening to gossip!”

     “No, Jem said you're the best Dad anyone could have and you were just like a big brother to him and Sam.  He said if he cheeked you, you use to give him a smack when he was my age.  Then he told us how you'd rescued Mr Lascelles that time.”

     “When did he tell you all this?”

     “Christmas,” he put on a penitent look, “I'm afraid we gave him a few glasses while he was doing the cooking with Sam.”

     I'd noticed that Sam was eyeing Jem rather carefully during dinner and had deliberately passed him over when he was pouring the wine a couple of times.

     “We?”

     He nodded as I chucked the second wad into the loo.  “Francis and me.  And he says Mr Roberts has a drawing of him like that one of you.  Did Uncle Mike really draw them?”

     I laughed.  “Your friend Jem is full of gossip.  Yes, Uncle Mike did do the drawings and one day I might tell you about them, but not now.  Bath!”

     The bath was nicely full of hot water.  I added some bubble bath some well-meaning student had given Anne for Christmas.  I helped James get in, warning him about getting his bandages wet.
     “Just like old times,” I said, “My little sixteen-year-old having his bath with Daddy just like he did when he was an even smaller ten-year-old!  Where should we start?  Arms or legs?  We'll leave your botty and bits to the last!”

     “Oh, Dad, please!”  He said, but trying hard to suppress a giggle.  “I'm quite a bit bigger now.”

     “Um,” I said, soaping his back, I then moved to his front and told him to raise his arms.  He had quite a growth of new young hair in his armpits.   I dried his back and chest  then washed down his burgeoning hairy legs and then his over-large feet.  I realised he was getting a little agitated.

     “Dad,” he whispered, “I'm sorry, but something's happening.”

     I knew exactly.  I continued washing between his toes.  “I'm not surprised, it happens to everyone.”

     “Dad, I can't help it.”

     I looked him in the eye, he looked rather upset.  There was no need to be upset.  Between his legs now was an almost seven inch erection.  Not quite sixteen!

     “You wouldn't be a normal boy if you couldn't help it,” I said softly, “Don't imagine you're the first boy to have an erection in the bath!”

     He grinned at me.  “But, Dad, it happens all the time.”
     “Good for you, you're normal.  Anyway you look as if you're clean now and you don't want to sit around in that water too long, it's mucky and your backside'll be all wrinkled.”

     “But I can't stand up like this!”

     “Come on, get up, I've seen it all before, even if it hasn't been on you.” I reached down and put my hands under his arms.  “Up, James, and don't frighten the horses!”

     He stood, the water running down his legs.  I turned him to check there was no more shit on his legs or in his crack.  He was clean.  I helped him out of the bath.

     “I shall have to dry everything,” I said, “Just stand still and think of England!”

     His young pole was just like mine had been at his age, straight up his belly, leaning slightly back with the head not far below his belly-button.  I dried his lower back and draped the towel round his front.  Wow, it was certainly hard as I carefully wiped it dry.  He parted his legs as I finished off, then looked up and smiled at him.  “Not too bad,” I said.

     He wrinkled his eyes.  “Thanks, Dad.”  I put my dressing gown round his shoulders and pulled it round him and tied the belt.  “Dad, please don't be angry with Francis.  He didn't mean to do this to me.”

     “And the other night?”  I asked, “Testing Dad, eh?    Did you hit him or he hit you?”

     He shook his head.  “No, he just pushed me out and shut the door.”

     “You did very well not to be provoked,” I said, “You gave him as good as he was giving you.”  I grinned at him.  “He's got a rather limited vocabulary, hasn't he?”

     He nodded.  “I would have hit him if he'd said any more about Stephen.  He frightened him specially when he swore at him.  That wasn't like Francis.”

     I nodded.  “No, it's not like Francis, is it?  And you certainly shut him up.”  I looked him straight in the eye.  “And is it true?”

     He drew the corners of his mouth down.  “Oh, Dad, I shouldn't have said that.”

     “Is it?”

     He grinned.  Father, son, confessional time was happening.  “Yes, only a quarter of an inch but Grunty says he's still got time.”

     I think he realised then further revelations had been disclosed which were not really on the agenda.

     “So Grunty's taken over where Tiger left off?”

     He looked at me open-eyed.

     “It's all right, James, Francis told me about the charts long ago.  Francis was at the ninetieth plus percentile.”

     Barriers were down.  “Grunty won't let me join in properly until I'm in the Sixth Form.  Says us younger kids are too inquisitive but he did make an exception for me and for Khaled.  I'm at the ninety-eighth!” he said proudly, “And he says Khaled is well-blessed, too!”

     Oh, so Grunty must be handling my second son's erection to place his measuring tape alongside it!  I began to laugh.

     “What's funny?” he asked.

     “Oh,” I said, “Tiger and Grunty are only in a long line of measurers and record keepers.  I was thinking of Cleggy and Nobbo when I was at school!”

     “Dr Clegg and Dr Clarke?” he asked.  Both had visited us several times so the boys knew them and their families well.

     “Nobbo and Cleggy kept very special records which I might tell you about some day.”

     “Go on, Dad, tell me now!”

     “No, it might give Grunty ideas.”

     “Dad, please!”

     His curiosity was raised.  I wasn't prepared, at the moment to satisfy it.   I could just see the newspaper headlines - 'Cambridge don suggesting semen output of schoolboys to be measured and their sperm to be viewed'!

     “Look, you go and lie down.  Stephen will be home soon and I want to talk to him before he sees you and I must go and beard the lion!”

     James looked at me and smiled.  “Pussy cat really!  Promise you won't tear him off a strip.”

     I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.  “Your dear brother will get what's coming to him and no mistake.  You go and lie down and I'll bring you one of those pills.”

     “Dad,” he looked very apologetic, “I need to pee.  It's OK it's gone down.”

     I took him into the adjoining loo, opened the front of the dressing gown, pulled back the foreskin on my son's still rather plump cock and aimed it at the bowl.  “Be careful,” I said, “And don't follow my old school motto.”

     “What's that?” he asked not quite ready to let fly.

     “Dirige Altus,” I said, making sure he wouldn't miss, “Aim High!”
     “Dad!  Don't make me laugh!”  He let fly and not a drop missed.

     Shaken and restored to oblivion under the dressing gown I led him to his bedroom.  I hurried downstairs and got his pills and a glass of water and just at that moment Stephen arrived home.  I explained very quickly that James had had an accident.  Stephen looked almost scared.  I said he was OK other than his hands were burnt.  Stephen said he'd noticed the burnt-out pan and wanted to know where he was.  We went upstairs and as soon as he saw James with his bandaged hands he burst into tears and rushed over to the bed and tried to hug him.  James fended him off and said he had to be careful.  I gave him two painkillers and he swallowed them with a glass of water.  I said Stephen could stay and sit by the bed but not to talk too much or ask too many questions.  I left the room and shut the door.

     I walked along to Francis's room and knocked on the door.  There was no reply so I opened the door slowly and looked in.  Francis was on the bed with his head under the pillows and his shoulders were heaving.  I went over and sat on the bed and lifted the pillows away.  I could see the sheet below was soaked.  I lifted his head and shoulders and hugged him.  He was weeping so hard I didn't think he knew what was happening.

     “Francis,” I whispered, “Everything's OK.  James is in bed.  I'm not angry.  It was an accident.  He said you forgot.”  I waited a moment or two and the heavings subsided a bit.  He still had his eyes tightly shut and was gulping back his tears.  “Come on, Francis, rouse yourself.  It's over, but there's a job for you.  James can't do anything so you'll have to be with him all the time until his hands are healed.”

     He began to weep again.  “It's all my fault,” he moaned, “Please.  It's all my fault.  I never meant him to be hurt.  Why wasn't it me?  I'm going to go away.  You won't want me here.  I'll go tonight.”

     I shook him gently.  “Francis, listen to me.  You are my son.  You stay here with us and your job is to look after your brother.  You are not going to be foolish, understand?” I tried to speak more soothingly.  “Look, let's just sort it all out.  You don't want to come to Italy with us, but I'm afraid you'll have to.  James will need help and it won't be fair on Stephen or your Mum or any of us to cope with James all the time.  We will need another pair of hands.  You forgot you say.  You wish it had been you.  Look on this as a penance.”

     He looked up at me with red and tear-stained eyes and shook his head.  “I would never have wanted this to happen.  I love James.  He's my brother.  I'll do anything.  Please forgive me?”   Tears rolled down his cheeks.  I hugged him to me.  “Dad,” he whispered throatily, “I didn't mean to shout at them the other night.”  He sniffed.  “I didn't want to swear when I said I wasn't going to Italy.”  Another big sniff.  “Please, you'll forgive me, won't you?”

     I found a handkerchief in my trouser pocket and gave it to him.  “What is there to forgive.  A son is upset.  So is his father.  I should ask you to forgive me for shouting at you without trying to discuss things further with you.  In any case your Mum had an ideal plan if you weren't coming so I think we'll call it quits.  You have a duty to help James, feed him, clean him, take him to the loo.  We'll help and Stephen, I'm sure will, too.  But you're in charge and you supervise everything.  Everything,” I reiterated, “And I mean everything!”

     Oh, a boy without use of his hands and everything meant everything!  I hoped he got the message.

     “Now,” I continued, “You go and see James and Stephen and I know it's going to be difficult, but you apologise to both.  You can sleep in their room with James, and Stephen, with his poxy little fingers, can sleep in here.”

     He looked at me and shook his head.  “Dad, please, that just makes it worse saying what I said.  I would never do anything to harm Stephen or James.  They're my brothers.  I love them more than anything!”

     Father and son hugged each other.

     “Go on and remember Mum knows nothing yet.  You'd better be on your knees when she comes home!”

     He started to weep again as we hugged.  “I'm wicked!”

     “Not wicked, forgetful!” I said, “Now, go and make peace with the other two.”

     He was bowed and almost shuffled as he left the room.  I took his bottom sheet off as the top of it was wet with his tears.  Oh!  Francis wasn't a very good mopper-up.  Two substantial stains were also evident.  I bundled the sheet into the washing hamper and found a clean sheet in the airing-cupboard and remade the bed.  I couldn't have Stephen, age eleven, sleeping in a well-used wank-pit.  Time enough for him to get to that stage in his life.

     What a day!  Trouble with stubborn old dons was nothing compared with the traumata of family life.  What had happened today could not be resolved with a couple of stiff letters.  We would have to see how things panned out over the next week.

     Both Francis and Stephen fed James that evening.  I had to keep a straight face and James knew from the look I gave him that he'd better not overstep the goodwill of his brothers.  I knew he was dying to tease them but tonight was not the time.  Francis was especially tense and Stephen wanted to do his best.

     As James had to have his painkillers they all went off to bed before ten o'clock.  Stephen wanted to stay in the room with them and sleep on the bottom bunk with them in the bed.  I vetoed this.  If everything meant everything I didn't wanted Stephen to witness any joint endeavour even though I knew he was quite conversant with boyish habits as he and James slept together and I'd heard James grunting on numerous occasions as a climax was imminent.  Oh, and I'd been concerned about him being in Francis's wank-pit by himself!  I'd never enquired whether Stephen assisted James and I didn't want to know or really cared.  I knew James and Stephen were very close and Stephen was bright and inquisitive.  But whether he'd been involved with the pair I wasn't ready to provide the occasion.   So!  Anyway, I heard Francis assist James to have a pee and Stephen helped him brush his teeth.  I checked soon after.  Stephen was fast asleep in Francis's bed, while in the other room James was in bed, hands out over the covers with Francis sitting beside the bed.  They were talking quite animatedly and all seemed more or less back to normal.  A little more than normal.  Stephen had braided Francis's hair and he now sported a long, black, very handsome, pigtail.
     Anne was surprisingly calm as I explained all that had happened when she came home from a busy day.  Francis did come down and kneel beside her and say how sorry he was.  I felt sorry for him.  A proud young man having to humble himself but I think we'd all learned a lot that day.  James was so sanguine about it all.  Our chat had opened up a new relationship between us.  I wondered if he, in the next year or so, when the hormones started to flow rather too freely, would have times when Dad and family life were too much.  Family life was never dull.

                              *
     The next day being Saturday and everyone, other than Stephen, on holiday, I was the only one up bright and early.  I cleared up the mess in the garden caused by the burning pan and tipped that into the dustbin.  I surveyed the smoke-stained wall and the top of the gas stove in the kitchen.  Nothing too bad that couldn't be remedied with a bit of paint and elbow grease.

     I took Anne up her morning coffee and toast and marmalade and said there was no sign of any movement anywhere.  She said she'd have a lie in and she thought that all was over now.   I hoped so, but also felt there was more underlying the range of behaviour Francis had shown over the past few months.  Stephen came down for his breakfast just as I was trying out a solution of sugar soap on the wall.  Things were coming clean.  He stood and watched and then held the bucket as I had to reach higher.

     “I didn't like sleeping on my own,” he said rather wistfully.  “Can't I help James if he has to get up in the night?  I don't mind.  Poor Francis.”

     Encapsulated in just a few words.  Brotherly love and forgiveness.

     “Yes, why not?”  I said, more than satisfied with both the clean-up and the way my three boys were back as usual.   “It'll give Francis a rest.  But do you think you can cope?”

     He grinned up at me, a knowing grin.  “I can cope with James,” he said.  And that was final.

     Later, Stephen went round to the Wilkinsons to plan what had to be taken to Italy. Khaled and Safar, I knew, were very excited about the proposed visit.  They hadn't seen their father for nearly two years.  It was difficult for him to get away because of his position and he certainly didn't want his very Westernised sons paraded for all to see in their home country.  As it was, Khaled had talked to me at length quite recently - a wise head for a fifteen-year-old and very intelligent - about what he wanted to do in the future.  He didn't see his life being spent in the hothouse atmosphere of protocol and obedience which he remembered before he came to England.  He wanted to do something for his country, though, and I suggested that he could probably do that by training in some practical aspect, say of economics or finance as I knew he was good at Maths.  Young Safar was more contemplative and I guessed he might want to take a more academic path.   I said that, in any case, he would have to see how things worked out as we knew there was still unrest in the area, but there was always a home in Cambridge or in Dorset on the Bastable farm.


10.                         Revelations
     I was sitting in the garden a little later just ruminating when Francis came out and stood by me.  I said why didn't he sit down and I would go and get us some coffee.  He shook his head.

     “Can we talk?” he said.  He looked around.  “Not out here.”

     “In my study?”

     He nodded.  He had to wait while I poured out two mugs of coffee from the percolator then followed me upstairs to my study.  The door where James was, I assumed, still sleeping, was closed.

     Rarely did the boys come into my study.  They knew I worked there and, like their Mum's study downstairs, they were not places to enter lightly.  There were two easy chairs and I sat in one and he perched on the edge of the other.  He was uneasy.  I drank some coffee and waited.  I nearly emptied the mug and put it down.  He hadn't touched his.

     He sat for some moments longer and then put a hand out and grasped mine tightly.  “You said you'd love me whatever.”  He looked at me, I stared back, not moving.  “I've got something to confess and you did say whatever!”

     “As long as you haven't been hitting old ladies over their heads to steal their pension books or something like that.”  Oh dear, was I being too flippant?

     “No, Dad.  I like boys,” he said quietly.

     Oh, an explanation for the behaviour pattern?  “Are you sure?” I asked, “You don't know any girls.  You've never brought any home.”

     “No, I haven't, but I do know some!” he said emphatically, “That last party I went too with Grunty and Alan, there were lots of girls.  They made me dance with them.”  He looked at me shyly.  “They made me feel strange.  They always have.”

     “Strange?”     

     “Yeah!” he said and gripped my hand even tighter.  “Alan and Grunty said girls make them go all stiff.”  My hand was being squeezed even more.  “You know, down there.  They didn't me.  Never!”  He looked at me with mournful eyes.  “I only go stiff if I'm with Grunty or Alan or other boys!”

     He swivelled on the edge of his seat, leaned over and flung his arms around me, burying his head in my shirt and bursting into tears.  The waterworks were full on just like yesterday.

     “You'll hate me,” he wailed, “I know.  You and Mum won't want me.  You'll send me away.”

     I lifted my sobbing son up and held him so his head was on my shoulder.  Almost a repeat performance.  Keep calm, my big son's in great distress.
     “Don't be silly, Francis,” I said quietly, “We love you.  You are our son.  I told you before, you are who you are and I would love you whatever and so would your Mum and your brothers.”

     He sniffed.  “They won't want me,” he moaned, “They'll think I'm funny.  They'll think I'm queer.”

     I thought I'd better hit the target amidships as it were.

     “And what about Grunty and Alan?” I asked, “I bet they've been willing to do things with you?  Do they think you're queer?”

     His crying stopped.  I felt the heat rise in his face.  I shook my head against his.

     “You are no different than other boys when it come to that,” I said, “Most boys experiment.  Most boys grow up and get married.  Some boys don't.  Grunty and Alan'll accept you as you are, I'm sure.”  I knew there was something.  “Is this why you gave up rugger?”  He nodded against me.  “Fighting against it?  Best way out?  Couldn't help staring at the others in and out of the showers?”  He clung to me.  “You like boys and it scares you, eh?”  I stroked his head.  “Francis, I love you and nothing would ever stop that.  There are plenty of men who only love men and there are plenty of men who love both men and women.  You know some, too.”  He nodded.  “Your Uncle Tony, you knew that?”  I thought any family skeletons should be rattled.  He'd seen Uncle Tony with 'boyfriends' several times.

     He nodded.  “I guessed,” he said, “And Jem and Sam?”

     “Yes,” I said, “And you wouldn't guess about Uncle Matt and his friend Jamie, eh?”

     “Uncle Matt?” he breathed.

     I stroked his head again.    “I love your Uncle Tony.  I always have done and always will.  He's not strange.  He's Uncle Tony, he and I have shared our love countless times.  If you love only boys you'll learn.  Uncle Matt and I have shared our love many times, too.  You're not strange.  You're our son Francis.”  I cuddled this big, still growing boy and he relaxed in my arms.  “How long is it since you realised this?”  I asked.

     “Always have.”  He sniffed.  “When I talked to you before I think I knew then but I've been too scared to ask more.   Grunty knows a bit 'cause I did ask him when we read that book.  That Kinsey book he found in his Dad's study.  He said he didn't know if I would grow out of it.”  He shook his head.  “I haven't,” he whispered.

     “Have you found anyone yet you could love?”  I asked.

     He shook his head.  “I don't know.  I like Grunty, I suppose I love him, but I don't think it's real love.  Same as Alan.”

     “Uncle Tony is coming back to England in September, we'll talk to him.  You know him well enough to ask him things, eh?  He loves you, I know, and don't forget he played rugger for his college as well, he didn't give up.”  I laughed.  “Helped him with some of his conquests.”

     A startled son sat up and I let go.

     “There's more fish that swim in the sea, or some other possible adage,” I said, “Are you better now?”

     “Oh, Dad,” he said and flung his arms round me nearly hugging the breath out of me, “I was so scared but something told me to tell you.  I keep being told to tell you.  It's like that boy at Ulvescott.  It was as if he was here.”

     “That boy at Ulvescott, I'm sure, was just like you and I'm sure, too, that he is with you all the time,” I whispered, desperately trying to get some breath back.  He let go.  I sat back and he knelt in front of me.  “Piers and Miles were lovers,” I said, matter-of-factly, “I discovered that from a code in his diary.  When we go to Ulvescott again I'll show you.  But you must promise not to tell the others about that, at least not yet.   I think Aunt Mary knew but I haven't discussed it with her.  It is very true, you, me, and Piers are very close.  We all have the birthmark.  Daniel and his little boy have it.”  I put my hand on his shoulder.  “Daniel and I have shared our love, too.  He is very special to me, just like your Uncle Tony and Uncle Matt.”  He nodded.  He understood.

     “But you got married?  Twice?”

     “And had two lovely sons and adopted a third.  I think I have been lucky.  I have shared my love with several people and they have shared their love with me.   Your mother loved me before I knew I loved her as well as your Uncle Tony.  Your Mum loved me after I had shared my love with Uncle Mike.  Stephen is your brother and my son because I made a promise to Uncle Lachs when we were your age.”  I took his hand in mind.  “Those friendships forged in true love are the ones that last and really matter.  You understand that?”  He smiled, at last, and nodded.

     “And you are OK looking after James?”  He grinned and nodded.  “Stephen says he'll take over tonight.  Do you think it'll be all right?” I asked.  “I did say you had to take care of everything with his paws out of action.”

     “Dad!  James told me all about you having to bath him and what you said.  If Stephen doesn't want to cope with him, I will.  But he and James are very close.”

     I leaned forward and hugged him.  He flung his arms around me, too.

     “And you'll come to Italy with us with no objections, and do you think Grunty would like to come, too?”  I asked, rather mischievously.

     He let go and stared at me and smiled his lovely smile.  My old Francis was back.  “Oh, Dad, could he?  I know he'd love too and I must patch up our friendship.”  He paused.  “What will it cost?  Can I pay something?   I've got that money from Great-Grandma's Will.”

     I had already worked out that all he would need was a ticket from Cambridge to Dover and the ferry and I knew the Gibsons would cough up the cost.  We had booked two sleeping compartments on the train from Paris to Rome and it was an open ticket for up to eight passengers also for the journey back.  I would have to check to see if this covered Calais to Paris as well.  I said he could forget that as he would need all his money to pay for two gins and tonic for his Mum and me at the Quirinale Hotel where Sayed would be staying as incognito as he could!  I also said he'd better go back to school on Monday with Grunty and raid the lost property box as they would also be responsible for more bags of clobber for Mike's parish kids.

     I pointed at his cup of cold coffee.   He grinned.  “Dad, I don't know what I'd do without you.  I'm so sorry about what I said and I'm sorry I've had to tell you about me and my feelings.  James said something to me last night and that put me right.  It was what you said.  He said he loved me with a true love of friendship and trust and he knew you did as well.”  He smiled.  “Thanks, Dad, I feel so much better now.  I don't suppose it'll be the last time I have to talk to you like this but I'll try not to upset everyone beforehand.”

     “Go and get Grunty out of bed and tell him to see his passport is up to date!”

     I went to see Anne and reported the conversation.  She said she'd suspected for a long time that he really only liked boys.  I shook my head.  I thought I was the one with experience of both sides of the fence!

     I poked my head in to see how James was.  He was awake.

     “I need to pee,” he announced.  I laughed.  I remembered his brother and his demand of Travis.

     “Your slaves are on errands so Dad will have to cope, come on!  I'm getting use to the target practice.”

     As I peered down to check I was aiming straight I noted that everything had meant everything the night before.  A few dried crumbs of teenage spunk were evident.  I wondered if James had teased Francis about the slight difference in size.  I doubted it.

     That afternoon I heard Anne crying in the kitchen.  She had her arms around Francis.

     “Your beautiful hair!  Where has it gone?  You've had it cut off!”

     A bemused Francis, with a grinning Grunty standing by, was protesting that it had been rather hot and as we were going to Italy it would be even hotter there and as he wanted to swim.........

     “Francis,” came a voice from the living-room, “I'm hungry.  I  want another piece of that cake!”

                              *

     I didn't enquire if Stephen had to cope with James's horny needs that night as he slept with him and Francis was exiled to his own bed.  In fact, they alternated and Grunty volunteered his services as well but Stephen said he and Francis were OK but he could help in Italy.  I knew Grunty had  taken James for a pee a couple of times so James was getting well-handled and perhaps he would have another hand stroking that teenage pole of his while we were on holiday.

     I went with him on Wednesday morning to have his hands looked at.  He was a bit concerned in case any of his pals saw him in the enveloping very colourful Hawaiian shirt, one of a pair Uncle Tony had sent the boys for a fun Christmas present.   The same young doctor was there and said he'd arranged for the dermatologist to see him as well.  We had to hang around for about an hour as some poor child had been rushed in with a scald from a boiling kettle.

     We were alone in the small ante-room when James broke a bout of silence.

     “Dad,” he said softly, “It's OK about Francis.  Stephen and I have known he only liked boys for ages.  He never said but we knew.  He told us he's talked to you and you said he was Francis and that was all that mattered.  That's all that matters to us, too.”

     “That's good.  He was worried about you two and what you might have thought.  I guessed he'd spoken to you and I knew you'd have no trouble.  And Stephen's OK?”

     He nodded.  “We explained to Stephen a long time ago all about what boys do especially as he wants to be a dancer and some of the boys at school have said nasty things, mainly to us.  They know they'd better not say anything much to him or they'd have us and Grunty onto them.”

     “All about what boys do?”  I asked.

     He smiled.  “That book of yours in the library.  One of the boys in Tiger's class had a copy of some of it.  It's been passed down.”  He giggled.  “Will you let us read it all some time?”

     What does one do with sons who read indelicate literature.  I remembered back to the times when certain typewritten descriptions of life below stairs with butlers and housemaids and well-hung footmen, or sailors with six months of stored up randiness on leave pursuing comely young wenches, were circulated at school, or even listening to young Georgie's recital of spying on his brother and Peggy Finch.  Boys will be boys.

     “That was my doctoral thesis,” I said with as straight a face as possible, “Just because I found a certain manuscript and translated it doesn't mean it's for grubby little boys.....”

     We were interrupted by the arrival of a nurse.  I managed “....someday, perhaps!” before James was whisked off to have his bandages removed and his hands inspected.

     I was called into the treatment room where the skin specialist was looking closely at his left hand.  Both hands looked rather red and raw.

     “Not too bad,” was his judgement.  “Any blisters have gone down of their own accord and the skin's not broken.  We need to keep them covered for at least another week and then be careful after that.”
     He instructed the young doctor on the course of treatment.  I asked about swimming when the bandages came off in a week's time.  'Latex gloves' was the reply.  In fact, keep the hands dry as much as possible for at least a week or so after that.  He was told to flex his fingers as much as possible to keep the fingers from stiffening up as new skin grew.  Scarring, he thought, would be minimal but he'd see him the first week in September to check.

     As we came out, his hands still out of action but in smaller dressings, I said his slaves would still be needed and I dreaded to think what he would be made to do once his hands were fully functional again.   I said I had several jobs lined up to recompense me for 'pee duty'.

     “Don't worry, Dad,” the cheeky toad replied, “Anything happens to you and we'd get Jem and Sam to deal with you!”               

11.                    The Holiday in Italy

     The journey to Rome was uneventful.   Safar and Stephen shared a sleeper with Anne and me while the four older lads were in the next door one.   The noise from that sleeper was indescribable just before they were supposed to get settled for the night.  Luckily theirs was the end one in the carriage.  I think James had exercised their patience a bit too much at one stage and he was screaming out with laughter as the three of them must have been holding him down and tickling him as he was being undressed.  Then there was silence.  I guessed something had happened and I was right as after a few seconds the other three were roaring with laughter.  Without doubt James had shot a load and I wondered who had tickled that prominent part of him?  I think the lads in with us would much rather have been next door but they soon settled and were well asleep as we rattled down through France.

     The next morning Stephen and Safar were staring out of the window as we crossed into Italy and the scenery changed.  Safar was especially excited as he wanted to see his father.  I reminded him we wouldn't be seeing him until lunchtime tomorrow as he was in conference all day today.

     As there was no sound from next door I opened the door and looked in.  Four sleepers in a sleeping compartment and a definite odour of 'boy'.  A discarded towel was on the floor and from a quick glance I guess that after James' effort there had been a circle jerk - perhaps a better description - a 'triangular jerk'.  I shut the door as quietly as I could and left them slumbering.

     After dressing I took the two young-uns to the restaurant car where we had a good Continental breakfast.  The lad who was serving was French and I made Stephen and Safar practice asking for things.  Stephen, I noted, was quite good.  My copying of Ma's example with me was seemingly paying off.  Unfortunately, Italian was a different matter.  I had made some effort to get to grips with the vocabulary and constructions and could just about hold my own with waiters and porters.   Stephen and James on the last visit became adept, after playing basketball and football with Mike's assortment of kids, at prefacing every phrase with 'Cristo morto!' and calling their elder brother 'sega' whenever he annoyed them.  I had to call a halt, though, when I heard James say to Stephen 'vaffenculo' which Mike had said was the vernacular for 'fuck off'.  Actually, 'sega' did describe Francis precisely in one way.  He was a wanker!

     Anne came along and said she'd found a grumbling Khaled locked out of the compartment, only because he'd dripped water onto the other three to wake them and they were not pleased.  As all he was wearing was a skimpy pair of undies she said he'd better make his peace with the others and breakfast was already being served.  That did it.  Three dressed and bleary-eyed objects appeared, plus a more awake fully clad Khaled, about five minutes later.  The other eye-bashing Hawaiian shirt was much in evidence on James, and Khaled purposely sat next to me.  Grunty and Francis stared pointedly at James.  He had a silly grin on his face.  I realised why when he rather awkwardly tried to sit up on one of the bar-type stools.  To get to breakfast quickly they had put only his Scout shorts on him, which were rather short, and the head of his cock was freely on view.  He could do nothing about rearranging himself as he couldn't use his hands.  I got up and turned him on the stool to face the counter.  “It's let it all hang out day today is it?”  I whispered.

     “Dad!” he whispered back, “Just let them wait until I can use my hands!”

     We were staying in our usual little Pension.  We'd booked three rooms, two rooms with double beds and one with two double beds.  I delivered a warning to the four sharing.  No noise like that in the compartment even if James was being a little difficult.  James said it wasn't his fault if the others maltreated him.  I said I would arrange a separate room for him if he yelled as much as the previous night and I doubted if they were really maltreating him, just responding to his demands.  Francis was well aware of what I was hinting at and I'm sure Grunty was as he said I wasn't to worry as they were arranging a rota for looking after him and it was Khaled's turn first as he'd been maltreating  them waking them up like that this morning and he had such nice soft hands.  Poor Khaled blushed.  I compounded it by saying he had to make sure he had a shower in the morning as I didn't want his father thinking he wasn't a clean-living lad and to make sure he cleaned under his fingernails.  And, if he was going to spend time in the corridor early in the mornings, to wear something more seemly than this morning.

     Stephen and Safar were overjoyed they were having a room to themselves.  Their enjoyment was just being in each other's company.  I don't think any experimentation went further than mutual contemplation of assets, which I was sure they had done many times before.  They had brought an assortment of games to wile away any too boring evenings.

     We found a very nice trattoria for our evening meal and the lads were stuffed with pasta to keep them happy until the morning.  It was somewhat quieter that night.  Four very clean and tidy boys presented themselves for breakfast, with two of them ostentatiously inspecting Khaled's fingernails.  He did look very clean and tidy, though, and the others kept smirking at him.  They would get their royal comeuppance at some time, no doubt.

     As the meeting with their father was going to be rather formal we had all brought appropriate clothes.  Neither Khaled nor Safar had worn Arab clothing since being in England so had been fitted with new suits for the occasion.  My three and Grunty were in suits also and Anne and I had on our 'Sunday Best'.  A large limousine arrived at twelve o'clock and we were whisked off to the Hotel.  The boys were very impressed and carried off the rather fawning welcome by the hotel flunkeys with aplomb.  Two dark-suited members of Sayed's entourage met us at the doors to his suite.  I knew one, who was at their Embassy in London usually, as I had visited there several times to deal with legal matters over the boys residency.  Although they lived with Ludo and Marion I was Safar and Khaled's surrogate parent as far as the British and their authorities were concerned.

     Sayed was waiting for us, also in a suit, and, after his sons had been given hugs we were all given a huge welcome.  My boys knew him from visits he'd made but Grunty had only seen him at a distance.  Five feet five met five feet six and Grunty was given a real bear hug.

     “Khaled tells me you have taught him to tackle fearlessly,” Sayed said, “And that I would know when I see you that your looks show you practice what you preach.”

     Grunty grinned.  “I can assure you, Sir, Khaled will be tackled fearlessly when I next get him on the field, if not before!”

     Sayed laughed and nodded.  He'd heard about James' predicament so inspected the two bandaged paws.

     “So you have been in the wars, my friend.  Still you are slightly better off than thieves in countries like mine who tend to lose a hand when caught.  Now Khaled tells me he owes you a pair of rugger boots he borrowed from you and forgot to return.”

     I winced slightly.  When it came to family murders, or kidnappings, then losses were more drastic, if not fatal.  Justice was swift when such things happened.  Let's see how James would deal with his much more minor matter.

     “I wondered where they'd gone,” said James.  He looked at Sayed with such a serious face.  “Sir, do you think it should be his left foot or his right for starters?  He's got such big feet so he shouldn't miss one.”

     Sayed grinned back at him.  “You must deal with him as you wish.  That is my command.”

     “Father!” came an anguished throaty squeal from Khaled.

     “It's alright, Khaled,” said James, turning to him, “You were honest enough to say you'd forgotten.  You're forgiven but I do need help and you're commanded to help me.  I may have other commands as well.”

     It was Francis's turn next.  As Sayed shook him heartily by the hand Francis, not to be outdone, asked, “And what has Khaled been saying about me recently, Sir?”

     Sayed grinned up at him, five feet five to six feet one.  “Only that you're the best big brother he could ever hope to have. But you know that and you mustn't be embarrassed about it.”

     “No, Sir,  I couldn't be embarrassed because your son is one of my best friends and I am proud he thinks of me as a brother.  He probably hasn't told you I haven't been a very grateful son and not a very good friend to him for a while.”
     Sayed raised a hand.  “He said you had grown your hair but he rather liked it.  He said it made you look rather mysterious.   I see nothing mysterious about you.  You are just the same as I have always known you since you were that high.”

     “I think your son will find out how mysterious I can be when I get him alone, Sir.”

     Sayed was enjoying himself and laughed when Francis said this, much to Khaled's horror.  But, it was Stephen's turn.  While he had been waiting he and Safar had opened the two small cases they had insisted they brought with them.

     Sayed eyed him.  The real son of his very best friend and the adopted son of the friend he'd accepted as the surrogate father to his own two boys.

     “And what's this Stephen?” he asked as Stephen solemnly shook his hand.

     “Safar and I will play you a duet, Sir.  Our friend Lucius has been teaching us and has lent Safar his flute.  Even though Khaled says we sound like two twittering little birds we would like to play this for you.”

     Two twittering little birds played quite exquisitely.  Stephen played the upper, more elaborate part, but Safar was so in tune with him the whole effect was delightful.  Lucius had done a good job.  I looked at Francis.  Two tears ran unheeded down his cheeks.  He would never again make unworthy suggestions about flutes to Stephen.  He led the applause as the final note came to an end and  I think Khaled would have something else to answer for later, too.

     We were then ushered down for lunch.  As we sat I noticed Sayed saying something to one of his young assistants who disappeared off but came back later and nodded at Sayed.  Something was being arranged.  Over a lunch which seemed to go on for hours, as course after delicious course was brought in, we had plenty to chat about.  Francis and Grunty told of their plans to go to medical school and both had applied to Pembroke College for places.   James was going into the Sixth Form and was waiting anxiously for his O Level results and Khaled would be taking his exams at the end of next year.  Safar was bemoaning the fact that Stephen was off to school in London but he had made a couple of good friends.  Anne's second book on women in medieval society was coming out and I said I had ideas for another one.  Francis looked at me and I nodded.  Maybe I could squeeze more into it.  I would have to wait and see.

     I said that as soon as we got back we would be visiting Ulvescott Manor.  Safar piped up and said he hoped the boy would be there.  We all knew what he meant.  Sayed said he thought of it as a very happy place and perhaps, one day, he could visit the place again.  We adjourned to a very ornate lounge for coffee after lunch and a messenger arrived with three boxes.  Two were given to Safar and Stephen.  I was told to look after the third.  Two very intrigued lads opened the boxes and drew out identical small black cases.  Inside were new flutes.

     “That's for playing to me today,” Sayed said.  He turned to me.  “And that one is for Lucius.  He is a good teacher.”

     What three first-class flutes from Ricordi's cost I shuddered to think.  But Sayed had always been more than generous.  My boys little knew how many of the things they had, or had done, were due to Sayed.  I tried to dissuade him at times but all I ever got was that smile or a short note saying I had done more for him than anyone or anything could repay.

     At the end Sayed apologised for being so busy.  He'd said to me privately that there were some delicate negotiations going on and he would be grateful if I would pass on messages to Lachs if necessary.  He had two more days in Italy before flying to London as an observer at further talks on Arab unity.   Naturally, Lachs had kept him informed about where we were staying in Tuscany and had made arrangements for an eye to be kept on us.  Not to be surprised if Major Bastable turned up as a tourist.  These were difficult days.  He said the less his boys knew, the better.....  But.....  If anything happened to him he knew I would cope.  We hugged each other, never knowing if we would ever see each other again.  He said all was in the hands of Allah.  I said I felt all would be well.

     We declined the offer of the limousine for the return journey.  In fact, we left by a side door, five of the boys equipped with small black cases.  Francis strode along in front and said he was leading the junior branch of the Mafia equipped with miniature machine-guns in flute cases rather than full-size guns in violin cases.  We told him to shut up as he was in Italy, home of the Mafia.  He scuttled behind all of us and walked sedately with his Mum.

     It was definitely Khaled's turn to squawk that night.  He'd said to me, half-jokingly, would I come and rescue him if the others were bent on retaliation.  I said his father had said he should be a fearless tackler whatever might happen even if deprived of one or more hands or feet.  He grinned and said he'd cope.  Grunty and Francis must have started by tickling him into a quivering jelly.  His yells were muted most of the time as I guessed James was employing his mouth to silence him.  I did stand guard for a few moments and heard the unmistakable throes of a boy orgasm as his muffled, 'Oh, oh ohohohohohoh!' came with a counterpoint of other boys' giggles.  I went to the bathroom and on return heard him being dealt with for the second time.  Just suppressed moans this time.  I went to bed and wondered how many times Khaled would be tackled about his comments that night.

                              *
     As the next morning was scheduled to visit Mike's parish the boys had been told breakfast at eight.  Safar and Stephen were already down scoffing hot croissants and Danish pastries as if they'd never been fed before when Anne and I got to the breakfast room.  Two minutes before eight a grinning, genuinely bandaged James pushed the door open and, much to the amusement of the other breakfasting tourists, Francis and Grunty carried in a mildly protesting Khaled equipped with hands bandaged in white football shorts with both legs swathed with a colourful football jersey tied firmly by the sleeves.

     “We had a trial this morning after he confessed to telling tales so he's out of action,” announced Francis.                    

     “If that's so,” I said, “You two will have to look after him completely.”

     They dropped him and undid his 'bandages' with alacrity as James whispered in my ear “They have done”.

     Khaled sat next to me and Anne and ate his breakfast.  I asked him if he'd had a quiet night.  He was trying hard not to laugh.  “I was tickled, I mean, tackled most unfairly.  I'll get my own back.”

     I poked him in the side.  “Like father, like son,” I said.

     Mike's parish kids were raring to go when we arrived just after nine o'clock before it got too hot to play football or basketball.  It was Grunty's first meeting with them or with Mike and he looked from Mike to Anne realising the great likeness between brother and sister.  Three bags of clobber were taken into the church for distribution later and Grunty was introduced to soccer, Italian-style.  Fast as he was, the ball was whisked away from him as soon as he got near it.  Khaled insisted on playing with the kids and he, personally, without malice aforethought, harried Grunty with the help of three of the wirier parish kids, teasing him with near passes and making him rush for the ball as they stood back until the last moment then deftly one of them would sidestep and the ball was out of his range.  “Come on Granddad” was a phrase the Italian kids picked up easily as Grunty was out-manoeuvred at every opportunity.   I credited him with the fact he never gave up.  He was a red-faced sweating mass when the final whistle went.  James was referee and had the whistle permanently clamped between his lips.  Odd that every penalty seemed to be against Grunty's motley crew who joined in the fun.  Basketball was next and here his lack of inches didn't matter too much - most of the Italian kids were his size or shorter.  Khaled might have been only the same height as him but he made sure each move by Grunty was covered.  Of course, with lanky Francis, taller than anyone on the pitch, against him, Grunty was shattered at the end.  The sun was now pretty high and bottles of cold Cola and Orangina were produced and guzzled by all the participants.

     Khaled passed him a cold bottle.  “Better get this down.  You look a bit hot.  It must be your age.”

     If Khaled had been dealt with at least twice the night before he wasn't showing any signs of loss of stamina.  Grunty was panting with the exertion expended.  “That's been worse than a game against The Leys,” he moaned, “But at least I haven't got any bruises!”

     The boys were led off to a hut Mike had got someone to donate where there were cold showers.  Khaled hadn't finished.  There was an agonised shout from Grunty.  “Khaled, bring me back my clothes!”

     “Say please!”

     “You wait!  I'll have you!”

     “With no clothes on?”

     One of the Italian lads took pity on him and picked up the bundle and took it in to him.

     So, one down, at least one to go!

     Safar and Stephen were involved in their own kick-about with the younger kids and this was a much more gentlemanly affair.  Stephen had bought a load of sweets at a small shop and, at the end, handed them out to all and sundry.  “Would you like one, Grunty?” he asked, “You do look rather exhausted.”

     Mike insisted he took us all to a small trattoria.  I asked him who was paying.  Rather grandly he said his boss, Monsignore Archbishop Vicente.   The old boy was retiring in two years and who knows.  I thought of Aunt Della and 'Lady Lady'.  Mike could be truly 'Dr Dr' now as he had added the second in Canon Law to his first in Sacred Theology.  Where was he headed?

     We promised we'd be back the next day for the annual trip to Ostia.  Mike said he had arranged for forty of his lads to go with him and two of the student priests and we were invited.  Of course, nothing would have kept our lot away.  I said Anne and I would stay and see a few sights in Rome but we would see them off.

     After stuffing themselves at the Archbishop's expense the boys said they wanted to show Grunty the Colosseum.  I said I wondered if he was Christian enough to throw to the lions and he said he would chuck Khaled in first for a taster.  Khaled pointed out he was less Christian than Grunty.  Then said if the lions ate him they would enjoy finding more meat on Grunty.  As it was, there were no lions, but all those old stones which could tell a tale.  The guide explained how the place could be flooded and mock sea-battles were enacted and then there were gladiatorial contests a well.  This was history brought home.

     We crossed the road and explored the Forum.  Grunty excelled himself with his rendition of the whole of 'Friends, Romans, Countrymen' to the delight of a group of American tourists who, 'If it is Tuesday, this is Rome', were being hurried round by their own guide.

                              *
     We saw the party off the next morning.  The Italian lads, ranging from about eight to fifteen or so, all excited, with older brothers followed closely by younger brothers or kids with no brothers at all.  The two student priests were German and Irish and both were fluent in Italian.  The German, a lad in his early twenties spoke good English too, so our lot wouldn't be too lost for help.  Laden down with bottles of Cola and packets of sandwiches we waved them goodbye and spent the day looking at the Vatican treasures again and had a quiet lunch with a priest friend of Mike's we'd met on a previous trip.   In the afternoon, he took us to the Vatican Library where a librarian showed us many things not on normal show.  There was so much to see.

     Six happy, totally exhausted, lads turned up at the Pension right on time at half past six.  They were plied with cold drinks and related what a marvellous day they'd had.   Naturally, there were four rather sunburnt bodies and requests for lotion to reduce the sting.  Khaled and Safar, being darker, didn't complain though I realised Khaled was suffering but not admitting to it.  A bit later I passed him the bottle and said he'd better put some on before the others twigged.  He smiled, said “Thanks” and took the bottle - no way was he going to let the others outdo him.

                              *
     Whether the two days of exercise had worn them out I didn't know but bedtimes were much quieter.  During the rest of the week we spent in Rome they insisted on having each morning with the parish kids.  The numbers seemed to swell each time.  The English were proving very popular with lanky Francis being a favourite for basketball and James, with still bandaged hands, as the referee-in-chief and Grunty for everything else, he was indefatigable.  The others just joined in with anything going while Anne and I drank copious amounts of coffee at a nearby open-air café.

     I think the boys all realised what a wonderful place Rome was and, after lunch and a slight siesta in a shady place, each day we saw all manner of things from church interiors to cool courtyards to palaces to wedding-cake memorials to ancient ruins and I couldn't see any sign of boredom.  One afternoon, as the boys and Anne sat on the Spanish Steps listening to the buskers and watching the various side-shows, I went into Ricordi's nearby and browsed amongst the flute music and found several pieces for flute duet.  On our last night Safar and Stephen insisted on playing to the guests in the lounge and it was a perfect end to that hectic but most enjoyable week.
                              *
     We still had just over three weeks to go and next day, Tuesday the third of August, we were at the main station ready for the journey to Prato, not far north of Florence.  The boys were transfixed, as usual, with the changing scenery, the old villages, the hillsides dotted with small hamlets, the huge churches and monasteries.  All bathed in seemingly never-ending sunshine.  It was hot, but we bore it like any set of intrepid English with fortitude, good humour and plenty of sandwiches and cold drinks.

     Our destination was just incredible.  A very old villa, surrounded by green trees, also ancient and an incredible quietness after the rush and bustle of a busy city like Rome.  The Contessa met us in her sitting-room.  She was over eighty and had three equally elderly ladies as maids and helpers.  She was like her brother, the now elderly Padre Domenico, cheerful and most welcoming.  I knew from what Mike had told me she had five daughters, all married and living away with their own families which also seemed to consist of mainly girls.  I wondered how she would get on having six lusty young men cavorting around.  In faultless, slow English she said she had four other brothers than Domenico as well as three older sisters now sadly dead.   Nine kids in a family!  She said she was use to many children - Oh God! - the boys as children! - I hoped she realised the mayhem healthy teenagers could cause if let loose! - and that her grand-daughter Sylvie did have six sons and she thought some might be visiting at the week-end.  She also said she had heard good things from her brother about the work with the parish boys and perhaps if the boys came they could entertain each other.  She smiled, with a most enigmatic smile rather like the Mona Lisa, as she was introduced to the six lads who were politeness personified

     As soon as they had unpacked, with all six in one huge room with three massive double beds in it, they had stuffed themselves with plates of thinly cut meats and thick slices of still warm bread served on the terrace by two more elderly ladies in black, and while Anne, I, Francis and Grunty had downed two bottles of cool white wine between us, the others had jugs of cordial of some kind.    It was now late afternoon so an evening meal was promised at seven thirty.   Eyes lit up though bellies were full!  A slight rest and then the lads found the swimming-pool and that was that.

     I had a quiet word with Francis before the evening meal.  I suggested that any 'cavorting' in the bedroom should be kept to a minimum with Stephen and Safar also present.  Francis smiled and said there wouldn't be anything unseemly even with Khaled frolicking in his underpants.

     The place was idyllic.  As well as the swimming pool there were gardens, an immense rockery, paths through shrubbery and then tall pines.  The view from our bedroom window covered a range of countryside and we were determined to explore some of it.

     The boys were ravenous again by the evening meal and downed huge bowls of succulent pasta and meat in a tangy tomato sauce and poor Safar had a bout of the burps as his eyes were bigger than his belly.  I felt all would sleep soundly and quietly that night.
                              *
     Next morning all six were in the pool by seven a.m.  Khaled was James's main helper and saw he had his latex gloves on before jumping into the water.  There were several impromptu chases and I noted a tendency for the four older ones to go off in pairs at various times.  Perhaps I was imagining things but it was a bit like the 'Ark' visits at the birthday party so long ago.  Later in the morning when the sun was getting quite high I went for a stroll along one of the shady paths edged on one side by thick shrubbery.  I was looking at a very fine, glossy leaved, sweetly smelling shrub when an anxious, quiet voice came from the middle of the shrubs.

     “Dad, I need some help.”

     It was Francis.

     “I'm busy,” I said, equally quietly, “There are some rather nice plants here and I want to find out what they are and see if they would grow in the garden at Cambridge.”

     “Dad” The voice was still as quiet but had a distinct edge to it.  “Stop playing about.  I need your help.”

     “Is that you, Francis?” I asked, acting the fool, “Come on out.  I hope you aren't standing on any valuable plants in there.”

     “Dad, please,” he said, “I haven't got any trunks on.  They've been taken.”

     “Sorry, old lad,” I said, “I've only got my shorts on and I haven't got any spare trunks with me.”

     “Dad, I can't come out.  The Contessa might see me.”

     “Or one of the old ladies?  They're all widows with plenty of sons so they've seen it all before.”

     “Dad, please!”

     I saw there was a small gap between some of the shrubs and squeezed through.  There was Francis, just with his sandals on.  I held out my handkerchief.

     “I don't think this will cover your embarrassment.  Not quite big enough.”
     True.  My six foot one son had real Thomson equipment, I doubted if it was smaller than James's, but then it was a warm day and everything tends to hang lower in the heat.

     “And who were you pursuing in the shrubbery and then had your trunks stolen.  My guess, Khaled.  Getting his own back, eh?  I hope you remember his position in society before you lay hands on him.”

     “He'll be in a position he'll remember when I get hold of  him!” My son's mouth was twitching.

     “And who was seducing whom?”

     “Dad!  You get worse!”  He couldn't help it, he laughed, then put on a little boy look.  “Dad, get my trunks back for me...., please.”

     “I'll see what I can do.  But anyway while you're here you can get an all over tan.  Watch out you don't get burnt, you won't want to rub camomile lotion on that.”

     I turned as another “Dad!” emerged from his lips.  As I gained the path through the gap he called out again.  “Dad, that smelly plant you were looking at.  It's called Myrtus Communis.”

     I looked back.  “Thank you.  I didn't know you had such horticultural knowledge.”

     “Dad!  I've been looking at the blasted label for about twenty minutes.......     ...Please ....get ....my ....trunks.....!”

     I walked off, fairly slowly, laughing inwardly.  I guessed the pair had arranged to meet up and as soon as dear Francis's swim-trunks were off so was Khaled!  I sauntered round to the pool and found James being encased in a new pair of gloves by an attentive Khaled.  They were laughing quietly together.  Grunty was in the pool and Safar and Stephen were playing five stones on the other side in the shade.

     “When you have time, Khaled,” I said, “There's a nude creature sunning itself in the shrubbery.  It's desirous of your company and I should take its trunks and the bottle as it may need more lotion rubbed in.”  I looked at him straight in the eyes.  “Twenty minutes to lunch-time, so that should give time enough.”

     He dropped his eyes.  James gave him a prod in the side.  “Go on, he's been waiting long enough.  He should be hot enough now!  Pity I can't help you with the lotion.”

     Khaled's shoulders were heaving as he went off.  I sat beside James.  “You said cut the cavorting in the bedroom,” he said quietly, “But boys will be boys.”

     We looked at each other and smiled.  Not one to mince words.   I got up and fetched the pair of us a glass of cold lemonade each from the small table.  We sat side by side in silence still smiling and holding back laughter watching Grunty doing laps with such ease.

      Twenty minutes later a scuttling, laughing Khaled appeared, pursued by a laughing Francis, only just decent in a spare pair of Khaled's own much smaller trunks.

     “Took him long enough to put them on.  But it would be a tight fit anyway,” was James's laconic comment.  I just wondered which position both had assumed beforehand.

                         *
     The next day was scheduled for a trip to Florence.  I wondered if the boys would want to leave the pool but having seen Rome there was a general consensus that Florence could be OK.

     It was more than OK.  They all wanted to go up and explore the Brunelleschi dome of the Duomo and as soon as they were down from that they were up the Giotto Tower beside it.  They marvelled at the doors of the Baptistry and the vast interior of the Duomo with the paintings and the statues.  Grunty surprised us by pointing out that Uccello was one of the first to show perspective correctly and they all listened as  Anne pointed out the symbolism in the Dante fresco.  She was in her element - a medieval historian on home ground.  We wandered through the busy streets, rubbing the Boar's Nose to bring us back again and found a shady trattoria near the Loggia della Signoria.  Before we went in for lunch I saw Stephen and Safar exchanging knowing grins as they looked at the giant nude statue of Hercules and then the equally nude Bellini Perseus and thought of Dodo in the Louvre.  “He's not a Thomson,” I whispered as I came up behind James, Francis and Khaled as they contemplated a side view of the copy of Michelangelo's David.  “Dad!” was Francis's response.  James prodded Khaled and giggled.  “He's not an Al-Hamed either,” said James, “He's not circumcised!”  He looked at me and grinned.  “Whoops,” he said, “Stand in the corner, James!”  A reference to the many times a loquacious James had been reproved by a certain teacher while at Junior School when he'd made some pertinent point not to the teacher's liking.  From the look on Khaled's face I thought that perhaps James might be dealt with by means of summary justice at some point.

     Grunty and Anne were contemplating the bronze plate in the centre of the square where Savonarola was burnt.  They were deep in conversation and she was pointing then at the various statues while he listened most attentively.  “It's amazing,” I heard him say, “You couldn't have any ideas which challenged anything.”  “Still like that in the Catholic Church,” Anne said, “I don't know how Mike stands for it sometimes!  But he's made his choice and he'll stick by it.”

     After a lunch of pizza and salad we made our way down to the river and looked at the Ponte Vecchio, then sat and rested.  Not for long, however - mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun - we decided to join the queue for the Uffizi Gallery.  It wasn't long and I think all were overwhelmed by the sight of all the treasures there, especially the Birth of Spring and the da Vinci Annunciation.  Two hours later we stumbled out, replete with seeing so much and wandered across to the Piazza Santa Croce where we had the most delicious ice-creams.  Our last port of call for the day was the church in that square.  We saw the tombs of Dante, Michelangelo and Machiavelli and then Galileo.  Real on the spot history.

     On the train back to Prato Stephen asked “Can we go back again, I didn't see enough?”.  They all nodded, none more than Grunty and Francis.  Sporty, hunky, teenage boys all wanted more.  Places like Florence do that for you.

     Anne and I dined with the Contessa that evening.  She wanted to hear about our day.  Anne practised her better than average Italian and the Contessa was enchanted.  I said the boys wanted to go back to Florence and she smiled and said she missed being able to see the city again.  She also said her six great-grandsons would be arriving the next afternoon from Milan where they lived and she hoped they would not be a nuisance but her grand-daughter had been promised they could come for a week.  We found they ranged, from sixteen down to eight or so and had a very strict father who worked for one of the big motor manufacturers.  He had a high-up post and spent little time at home.  The way she spoke about them made them sound puzzling.

     Our lot were intrigued when I told them later they would have company.  Khaled said that explained why the maids were getting the room next to theirs ready.  He'd peeped in and it had three double beds in just like their room.  I said there were six of them and watch how you behave.

     “James,” I said with mock sternness, “I saw you wagging your fingers as I said that.  Any malarkey with you involved and there will be sanctions...”

     “Stand in the corner, James,” said Khaled sotto voce...  “I'll deal with him, Dad!  He was rude about me this afternoon.” he said more loudly.  Both Khaled and Safar had got into the habit of calling me Dad soon after our first encounter.

     “I'll deal with him,” said Grunty, “He deliberately dripped ice-cream on my shorts this afternoon.”  I'd noticed that and the titter when James pointed to what could have been mistaken for something else.  “He'll make a good Saint Sebastian with his thumbs tied together behind him and we could make some bows and arrows.....”

     Safar looked up at him.  Gentle Safar.  “I'll look after you, James, don't worry.”

                              *
     After a morning round the pool and an early lunch we walked the mile or so down to Prato.  All the boys were again overawed by the history and the treasures in the Cathedral and the Piazza.  Anne told them the history of the naughty monk and the nun, Fra Lippi and Lucrezia, and they marvelled at the wonderful paintings done by the father and the son.  We sauntered back about four o'clock and found a real English tea had been prepared.  The boys were scoffing sandwiches when the sound of a car drawing up in the drive at the front of the villa was heard.  I left Anne eating and followed the inquisitive six as they walked rapidly up the side of the villa.

     By the time we reached the drive the large, black limousine had disgorged its passengers and the driver had the boot open and was placing suitcases and packages on the driveway.  Six boys, in exact order of diminishing height were standing in a row by the car watching the unloading.  Six boys all dressed identically in dark blue shirts, dark blue shorts,  knee-length dark blue socks and polished black shoes.  Our six ranged themselves also in a line.  The other six hearing their approach turned almost simultaneously and stood almost at attention.  The two rows contemplated each other in silence.

     Stephen was the first to make a move.  He went up to the tallest and, presumably, eldest.  He stuck out a hand.  “Hullo, I'm Stephen and these are my brothers and friends.”
     The boy, about five feet eight, dark-haired and thin-faced, looked down at Stephen for a moment.  “What did you say, small boy?”   The voice was rather deep and the precise, correct English had a somewhat Germanic tinge to it.

     “I'm Stephen and in England we usually shake hands when we meet someone,” he said.

     The boy grudgingly, it seemed, put out a hand and gave Stephen's a perfunctory shake.  “I'm Silvio,” he announced.  The others in the row stared fixedly at Stephen.

     “Let me introduce my brothers and friends, Sylvia,” the toad said, emphasising the wrong name.

     “My name is Silvio,” said the boy, “That other is a girl's name.”

     “I'm sorry,” said Stephen pointedly looking the boy up and down, “I wondered if I had made a mistake.”

     Mistake!  Even from the distance I was at I could see Silvio had phenomenally hairy legs.  Stephen was pulling an extremely hairy leg.

     Stephen turned to the five.  He pointed at Francis.  “This is my eldest brother, Francis and that is his friend Gregory, we call him Grunty, though.  Then there is my other brother James, he's hurt his hands.  And these are like brothers to me, Khaled and Safar.”

     The boy stared stonily at Stephen and I could see his line of brothers were getting a bit anxious.

     “Well,” said Stephen, with a sign of asperity unusual for him, “Shake hands with them like an Englishman and then introduce your brothers.”

     The boy had met his match.  Each of our five went up to him in turn and shook hands.  Safar, not to be outdone also gave him a sweet smile.  The next brother down smiled slightly, too.

     “What's your name?” asked Safar of the second boy, several inches taller than him and also sporting over-abundant hairiness on his thighs.

     “That is Bruno,” interjected Silvio.  Safar and Bruno shook hands.  It then became like the receiving line at a wedding.  As Safar, then the others, moved down the line the names were barked out by Silvio.  Giovanni, Antonio, Julio and, lastly, Domenico, a small boy, unhairy, of about eight or nine.  He and Safar smiled at each other.

     “Come and have some tea,” said Safar to him.  The youngster looked warily at his eldest brother who had just been clapped on the back by an exuberant Grunty.  Without looking back at Silvio, still planted by the car, the four younger ones marched, just about in step, behind Safar and Domenico as they led the way to food with James, Stephen and Khaled following.

     I went up to Silvio.  He looked as if the world had come to an end.  Francis and Grunty stood either side of him.

     “Silvio, this is my father,” said Francis grasping his right arm and lifting his hand.

     “I'm sure you and your brothers will get on well with my little tribe,” I said, shaking the really not-offered hand.  I repeated the sentence in German and his face fell.  “My father makes me speak German and I do not it like,” he said in German with a marked Berlin accent.  “Come on,” I said in English, “Or they will eat all the food.”

     Flanked by Francis and Grunty he walked in front of me to the terrace.  The Contessa was there with the five other brothers all talking at once to her.  On seeing Silvio they fell silent.  With elegant, old-fashioned courtesy he bowed and kissed her and said something in rapid Italian.  The gist was that his father sent greetings and his mother her love.

     With the help of the three old ladies and our lot the brothers were plied with food and drink.  It was odd because all the time the five younger ones watched their eldest brother with half an eye.  They were certainly not relaxed.  My lot twigged this immediately and it was a contest to see who would break through the iron curtain first.  The Contessa also watched and had that enigmatic smile on her face.  I guessed she wanted her great-grandsons to be as free as our lot.  Safar and Stephen had cornered the two youngest and led them to the pool.  There was much gesturing and then backward glances before the four hurried off.  Silvio's spell had been broken.  He could hardly call them back but, in musical terms, he was molto agitato.

     It wasn't long before they were back.  The four now in swimming trunks and then in the water.  The Contessa looked at me and smiled.  I then realised the two young ones were wearing slightly too big trunks.  They were Safar's spare ones.
     I nodded at Khaled who took the hint.  He corralled the next two and within minutes those three were back and in the water.  Good job Khaled had spare trunks as well.  That left Bruno and hairy-legs himself.  Grunty turned to Bruno.  “Swim?”  Bruno nodded enthusiastically and without a glance at his brother followed Grunty.  That left Silvio.  Francis looked down at him.  “Care for a swim?” Any dubious authority he had over his brothers had gone.  He did smile and nodded.  He and Francis also hurried off.

     The Contessa's smile was no longer enigmatic.  She beckoned me over.

     “My grand-daughter's husband rules that home with a rod of iron.  Silvio is not a bad boy.  He thinks he has to obey his father all the time.  It will do him good to be here with your boys.”

     She smiled at James who had come across and stood by my side.

     “He will help you I am sure.  Just ask him.”

     She turned to me.  “Tomorrow morning please take them for the swimming things in Prato.”  She laughed.  “Their father said not to allow them to swim here, but I do.  Your boys, new things, too.  I will pay.”
     Twelve very relaxed boys sat round the large table on the terrace that evening.  They might not all have a common language but the giggles and friendliness was sufficient.  Silvio sat between Francis and Grunty and it was noticeable it was if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders.  Francis ostentatiously poured him a glass of wine and winked at me as he did so.

     I found out in the morning that sleeping arrangements had been re-organised.  Silvio and Bruno had been moved in with our four eldest while Stephen and Safar were in the other room with the four younger brothers.  I had no doubt that Silvio and Bruno's hairiness had been explored and from the faraway look on Silvio's face at breakfast the next morning I didn't think it was the result of one glass of wine.

     After breakfast I walked with Silvio and James down to Prato.  The Contessa had telephoned ahead and we were welcomed at the sports equipment shop.  I had the list of waist measurements from Anne's hasty measurements as each boy appeared for breakfast.  Silvio was our translator and the man in the shop was quite bemused at having twelve pairs of the best and the scantiest swimming trunks he had being purchased.  On a previous visit I noted that the larger and fatter an Italian man was, the smaller the trunks he wore on the beach at Ostia.  The twelve were certainly not fat but the coverage would be minimal.  I looked at James as he picked out the pair he wanted.  Bright orange and about enough fabric to cover bits as minimal as Perseus.  He pursed his lips and whispered “They'll stretch!”  Silvio chose the same colour and as his waist was less there was even less material.  Grunty's stocky body would be inserted into bright red trunks and a tasteful dark red was James's choice for Francis.  James chose shades of green for Khaled and Safar and Silvio an assortment of colours for his brothers.  That left Stephen.  Silvio smiled and picked out white.  “This for him.”  The golden-haired, bronzed boy would look stunning.  A perfect choice.

     I took the pair and our parcels to an open-air café and we had coffee and pastries.  Silvio was quite different today.  He was much more relaxed and James explained to him about his hands.  In fact we were going to remove all the dressings at lunch-time and as long as he was careful his hands could be used.  Silvio looked at him.  “You need.  Ask.”

     I sat and wrote a couple of postcards while the two boys talked.  Silvio's English was quite good and he spoke French as well as German and his native Italian.  I heard him say he and his brothers all went to a private school and the teachers were good.  James was now quite fluent in French and in that language asked why were they all dressed the same and was told that was his father's orders.

     They strolled back together in front of me and I couldn't catch what they were discussing but James did look back a couple of times and smile.  As we approached the villa we heard shouts of laughter coming from the pool area.  There was some sort of contest going on it seemed.  All was revealed as we went along the path and through the shrubs.  Six nude, small boys were being chased up and down the pool by four suited older lads who, on catching an eel-like creature, pulled it out of the water and threw it bodily to one of others who then dropped the child smacking its bare arse causing more squeals.  Poor Silvio was shocked.  He was supposed to be in charge of an orderly pack and here they were with his twelve-years-and-two-months-old brother, prick-hair and all, leading the three younger hairless of his tribe.  With them equally nude, were Safar and Stephen.  I noted that black pubic hair was beginning to be very apparent on Safar.  All in all, a seeming Bacchanal.  In fact, young Giovanni's three and a half inch, hair-fringed cock, was at full stretch as Grunty gathered him up, passed him to Francis who slapped him to renewed shrieks from the others, who then tried to get away from Bruno and Khaled who were pursuing them.
     Sitting on the shady terrace by the pool were the Contessa and Anne, a bottle and glasses close at hand, intently studying a large pictorial book.  They were taking no notice of the mayhem in the pool, just quietly drinking, looking at the book and talking.

     Silvio spotted them.  One word escaped his lips.  “Merda!”  He turned to James.  “My father......” he waved his arms, almost in despair.

     “........he'd go mad, eh?” said James.  As I strolled off, carrying the packages, towards Anne and the Contessa I heard James.  “.....Your young brother's big for his age, isn't he?  Like you.  And just look at Safar!”

     It took some minutes for the nude ballet to realise there were presents on hand.  With a bit of decorum the older lads had the younger ones sitting on the edge of the pool looking just like a row of putti on a Della Robbia ceramic.  James and Silvio went along the row handing out the swim-trunks.  The four older lads disappeared into the shrubbery and came out wearing their new close-fitting garments with Bruno strutting proudly, displaying a not inconsiderable bulge in his gold-coloured almost posing pouch.

     It took over ten minutes for Silvio and James to reappear from the bedroom in their matching trunks.  Lanky James had a grin on his face and Silvio, showing off even more of his abundant hair, had the Mona Lisa look himself.  James came up to me where I was sitting at the table with Anne and the Contessa sampling another of her superb home-grown wines.

     He bowed to the Contessa who had been watching the body parade with a smile on her lips.  “Dad,” he said, “Would you take the dressings off my hands now.”

     I followed him up to the bedroom.  Silvio followed us.

     James  sat on a chair while I unwrapped his hands.  Silvio gave a little gasp when the still red palms were displayed.  But, they looked so much better.  I inspected them very carefully to see if there was any broken skin as the doctor had told me to do.  All was well.

       “You'd better put some of that lotion on them and make sure you don't let them dry out,” I said, reiterating the doctor's advice.  “And, you'd better keep out of the pool for the next couple of days unless you have gloves on just to make sure.”

     “I will look after him and see he is not naughty,” said Silvio carefully.  He looked at me.  “I think my father will be very angry with me.  He said make the boys behave and now they swim with nothing.”  He shook his head.  “And grandmama laughs.”

     “Your father will not know.  Your brothers are very happy and no one worries.  They won't tell him anything.  Your grandmama wants you to be happy, too.”

     “Silvio would like to go to Florence,” said James.  “He's never been.  His father told him he couldn't go as he has to look after his brothers.”

     Silvio had such an imploring look on his face I said I would discuss it with the Contessa.  No problem.  It was arranged I would take him and his brother Bruno with James on Tuesday as most museums were closed on Mondays.  The other boys would be under the watchful eyes of Francis, Grunty and Khaled with the Contessa and Anne there as well.  Then Anne would take the three older ones and Stephen on Wednesday and I and Silvio would be in charge.  Safar was much more interested in horsing around in and out of the pool with the younger ones than going visiting.

     All went swimmingly.  No more than the pool.  It was agreed all the younger ones could swim naked but they had to appear at mealtimes and in the villa clad in their swim-trunks.  The visits were a great success and from the particular camaraderie of the six older ones I think bedtimes gave them opportunities to cement friendships.  Silvio and James were especially close.  I guessed there was much rubbing in of lotion and one particular remark I heard on our visit to Florence confirmed that mutual inspections and comparisons had been made.  I heard James whisper to Silvio, “Italian boys are bigger now!” as they contemplated the umpteenth nude representation of youthful bodies with the standard miniature equipment.  There was also much nudging between the three of  them in front of the statue of the two nude wrestlers where one was holding on to the other's foreskinned meaty cock for dear life.  I guessed there might be a demonstration of that particular hold for the benefit of the others in the privacy of their bedroom that night.

     The Contessa remarked several times on the good effect our lot were having on her great-grandsons.  There was a reciprocal effect by them on ours as well, at least everyone helped each other even though there were language problems.  Whether all the interactions were good in the Contessa's interpretation was another matter.  For example, I overheard Stephen telling James that Giovanni was even worse than he was as he never stopped doing it.  As Giovanni seemed to have a permanent erection in the pool I guessed from Stephen's comment what his permanent bedtime occupation was and James was no match for him.  At twelve-and-a-bit Giovanni was well ahead of Safar who would be thirteen in a few month's time.  Also, he was a real harum-scarum and teased and tickled Safar all the time.  I did see Safar get his own back once as he swam past Giovanni, putting his hand between his legs from behind and gripping his young nuts.  Giovanni squawked and gave chase but Safar was too speedy for him and their friendly rivalry soon recommenced.

     The six great-grandsons didn't want to go home at the end of their week.  The Contessa announced they could stay until the next Wednesday and she would tell their father to send the car then.  By that time Silvio couldn't have cared less what his father might say.  He'd grown a lot in just ten days.  Not only had he chosen those seductive white trunks for Stephen but had apologised for being rude to him on the first meeting and gave him and the rest of my lot very nice souvenir pens of Florence.  He and Francis were now also on the best of terms and spent increasing amounts of time together when lazing round the pool where Bruno and Khaled harried poor James at every opportunity over not damaging his hands.  So the time came for their departure.  Our lot had carried all the brothers' bags down and were helping them put a mountain of luggage into the boot of the car.  All were neatly attired again in their dark blue ensembles which hadn't seen the light of day for the rest of the time except for their obligatory excursions to early Mass on the two Sundays.  I looked around.  Five of the brothers were there but no Silvio and no Francis.  I went into the villa to see if any parcels had been left in the hall.  I peered into the dining-room and there were Francis and Silvio in a real clinch, kissing passionately lip on lip.  I withdrew discreetly backwards and bumped into James who had followed me, no doubt knowing where they were and not wanting me to discover them and cause a scene.

     “It's OK, Dad,” he whispered as we retreated down the steps, “They're only practising!”

     When the pair emerged the bulges in their shorts told all.  I went up to Francis and said he and Silvio had better check the bedrooms and the bathroom, especially, to see nothing was left behind and they had five minutes.  Two boys disappeared speedily and appeared about seven minutes later with Silvio brandishing a toothbrush and both with well-satisfied grins on their faces.   Francis, was then hugged by all five others in turn and Bruno's hug was also more than brotherly.  Grunty, as the universal big brother, was besieged by all wanting to shake his hand or hug him as he'd been particularly popular.  Safar and Giovanni were in tears and I saw Safar give Giovanni a small model of the Florence Boar.  Stephen, as usual, practical, was handing out packets of sweets for the journey to go with the packets prepared by the elderly cook and got kissed on both cheeks by little Domenico who chattered away incomprehensibly and looked both happy at getting sweets and sad at going home.

     After they went it all seemed rather quiet.  Francis said that Silvio was going to tell his father what a good time they all had had and that he didn't want to have to rule the others so, Bruno was going to back him up, and could they come to stay?  I said of course they could and looked at James, who assumed an air of innocence which he couldn't hold as his face creased up in a grin.  I wondered if Silvio shared Francis's orientation or whether that passionate kiss and whatever happened in the bathroom in those last few minutes were just  thank-yous for helping him to shed himself of the domination of an over-strict father.  Later, Francis told me that Silvio envied the easy way in which all my boys got on with me.  He said his father would have ranted and raved and would have seen signs of disobedience or misbehaviour in almost anything his sons might have done but even when the boys got very noisy I just had to raise a finger and there was quiet.  He also said he liked Silvio a lot now but had been very wary and apprehensive at the first meeting.  

     The Contessa was so pleased at the way her great-grandsons' holiday had gone and she must have sensed the quiet, almost sadness, on their departure.  To cheer everyone up she arranged a really sumptuous dinner that night which certainly did something to cheer them all up.  Grunty and Francis had several glasses of wine and Khaled and James were told to see they got to bed OK.

     Things must have been OK as all six were down raring to go before eight o'clock the next morning and even Francis, looking slightly hungover, was in the pool with the younger ones.  I said I was walking down to Prato to post some cards and letters and Grunty, hangover free, said he would come with me as he had to buy and send cards to elderly relatives.  As we walked down he said how much he had enjoyed himself and he was so lucky to have such good friends.  I guessed there was more to posting cards and after dealing with the post office and sticking the addressed cards in the post box I suggested we sat and have some coffee.

     “Dr Thomson,” he began, rather formally, as we were sitting there contemplating the populace going about their business, “I know Francis has told you about his feelings.  He's my best friend and I want you to know he will always be my best friend and I'll try to see he doesn't get into any trouble.”  He smiled his lop-side smile.  “He won't come to any harm with me and this holiday has taught us a lot about each other.  I'm glad I know your family.  My life wouldn't be the same without them.”

     I said I was very grateful that he could accept Francis who was my so much loved son.  Whatever Francis wanted to do, or what he was, made no difference to that love.  I said he would need support as people had very odd ideas about men who liked other men but I knew a number and they seemed no different from anyone else.

     Grunty said there was a boy in James' class below them who was teased and he and Francis were going to take him under their wing.  He was a quiet lad but very good at Maths so they thought with James there as well he'd be all right.  He said James had asked him about the boy and he knew James was concerned about him.  I said James was very kind and considerate and I was also glad they'd also made it clear they didn't want to hear any comments about Stephen.  Grunty laughed and said he thought Stephen could give as good as he got and was very self-confident.

     As we walked across the square to start to make our way back I saw a figure sitting alone at a table at another open-air café.  He was reading a copy of La Stampa.  I recognised Titty Temple-Tempest.  He made no effort to indicate he'd seen us and I, ever aware, thought it best not to acknowledge his presence.  I was wary because I had been told before we came by Lachs and again by  Sayed that we might be visited by Miles Bastable.  OK, Titty was still in the Army, but!  A big but in my mind.  If he was our minder, or whatever, I would and should  have been told.  I said nothing to Grunty but manoeuvred him down a side-street to a small furniture retailers.  I said to Grunty I wanted to look at a stool for the Contessa which Anne had mentioned.   The owner, Signor Tommaso, greeted me and took me into his office where he left me and went out and, ostentatiously, picked out stools from his assembled merchandise.  I used his telephone and called the operator and asked for a London number, 636 4728.  Immediately, a voice answered, I said 'Tuscany' and within moments Lachs answered.  I said I'd spotted Titty instead of Miles, was it OK?  He then said I should have received a message.  Miles had been sent on an urgent trip elsewhere and Titty was assigned instead.  There would be hell to pay if the message had gone astray and not been delivered.  I assured him all was well.  He wanted to know how our lot had got on with the Amati boys.  I said very well.  Puzzled, I said he was well-informed.  He laughed and said Signor Amati was OK.  It was just coincidence he was related by marriage to the Contessa.  'See you in Cambridge' were his last words as the line clicked off.

     I arranged with my contact, Signor Tommaso, for a rather nice footstool to be delivered.  It was expensive but, at least, I was relieved that Titty was on the right side.  I'd had no doubts, but!!   I think Grunty eyed me rather suspiciously as I emerged from the office but he said nothing.  I didn't, and couldn't, enlighten him.  Perhaps one day.

     The day before our holiday finished I was sitting on the terrace in the heat of the  afternoon when Khaled came up and sat beside me.  He said how happy he'd been here on holiday, then he fell silent.

     “It's OK about Francis,” he blurted out after a moment's hesitation.  “He's told me and he's my brother as far as I'm concerned.”  He smiled.  “My father said he trusted you because you and Uncle Lachs and Uncle Flea were his very close friends.  So am I with Francis and James.  There's nothing we wouldn't do for each other.  You know that, don't you.  You mustn't worry about us.  Father told me two years ago why we might be in danger so I know Safar and I could be in trouble any time but we feel safe with you and Uncle Ludo.”  He smiled.  “I haven't told you before but when you carried me that day to speak to my father on the telephone I knew I was safe even before he told me you were my father when he wasn't there to be with us.  Thank you.”
     I put a hand out and we clasped hands.  “You've been a fine son to me as well, Khaled, and my sons think of you as their brother.  I'm sorry that Stephen and Safar won't be seeing much of each other except in the holidays but they are such friends, too.”

     He nodded.  “James said we should make sure he wasn't left out and we promise you he won't be.  He'll be OK.  Don't worry.”  He laughed.  “Grunty has promised to give him some extra coaching on tackling and kicking the ball so I hope he'll be able to defend me against the others....”  He laughed.  “I'm so happy your family have accepted me and Safar.”

     I thought I'd better ask the obvious question having observed Safar's recent development.

     “And talking about Safar.  I assume....” I started and he smiled, he knew what was coming next, “....you and James have acquainted him with certain facts.”  He nodded and squeezed my hand.  “Do you think I'd better talk to him as well?”

     He smiled again.  “If you didn't talk to him he'd think he'd been missed out.  We told him you would ask him if there was anything he wanted to know...” He giggled.  “...He's been fascinated by that Giovanni who's younger than him.  We got Grunty to tell him boys grow up differently but I think he's not quite certain.   He's very fond of Francis but we haven't told him much.  So there's those things he might ask.”

     I looked at Khaled.  This most level-headed, forthright adolescent.  I squeezed his hand back.  “I'll talk to him a bit now.”

     There was little more to say.   We sat and contemplated the scene.  As usual, Stephen and Safar were playing some game at the poolside, Grunty was doing his leisurely lengths in the pool and James and Francis were lying side by side soaking up the last remaining Italian day's sunshine, with their minuscule swimsuits pushed down and covering the minimum amount of dark tanned middle.  The Contessa and Anne were contemplating another large book.  The obligatory tea trolley was then pushed out near them by two attendant ladies.  The signal for tea-time was upon us.

     “Come on, Khaled,” I said, standing, “We'll get some food and you prod Safar in my direction and keep Stephen occupied.”

     “Yes, Sir,” he said, laughing and giving me a mock-military salute.  I slapped his dark-green clad backside and he jumped away still laughing.

     I grabbed his arm and whispered.  “I smacked your father's backside like that several times when I first knew him and we were playing around and we're still friends.  I threatened to put him in the dustbin one day when he was tormenting me, too.”

     Khaled giggled.  “Funny, Francis does the same to me - and he did put me in the dustbin!”

     “Come on then, food!”

     An orderly queue assembled.  A dripping Grunty was told by Khaled to go off and towel himself and not shake himself dry like a dog.  Grunty turned, barked 'woof woof', picked up Khaled bodily and hurried to the pool side and threatened the squirming, tightly held boy with being dropped into the water to cool him down a bit.

     “I'm all wet now,” Khaled complained, wriggling, to try to get out of Grunty's powerful grip.  “Come on, Grunty, I'll do anything if you let me go!”

     Wrong thing to say, especially when suspended over water.  Grunty didn't let go but jumped in the deep end still holding a squawking Khaled.  An almighty splash ensued with hoots of laughter from all the watchers.  Grunty gave an almighty bellow.  I assumed a hand had clutched a rather vital part of his anatomy.  Khaled was free but was pursued at a great rate up the pool by a seemingly disgruntled Grunty.  Actually, Grunty was laughing as he reached the end of the pool and grabbed a writhing Khaled once more.  Khaled just flung his arms round Grunty's neck and his legs round his waist.

     “You'll have to carry me out of the pool now, doggy!”  He put his head on Grunty's shoulder.

     Grunty might have been small, but he was compact and strong as an ox.  He swam on his back over to the pool steps and just clambered up out of the pool still with Khaled clinging to him.  He then stood well away from the queue and the tea trolley and whirled around - just like a dog - with Khaled fastened to him like a limpet.  He finished up by dropping onto his knees and then rolling onto a towel on the ground, squashing Khaled, by now breathless with yelling and laughing.  Grunty bent his head over Khaled's face and his long pink tongue licked him just as dear old Bran had done to us boys so long ago.  Grunty let go of Khaled, raised his head, leaned back and did a pretty good imitation of a dog's howl.  They staggered up, a bit dizzy from the exertion and the rapid turning and clutched each other.

     “Come on, Khaled,” Grunty said, as if nothing had happened, “It's tea-time!”

     As it happened Safar and I were at the head of the queue so I took the silver tray for the Contessa and Anne with their cups and saucers and other accoutrements and Safar carried their cakestand with its layers of finely cut sandwiches and small home-made cakes.  This meant we had to get back to the trolley for our own sustenance.  More robust sandwiches and larger home-made delicacies.  So we were last to be served and I led Safar over to where I had been sitting with Khaled earlier.  

     We munched through our helpings and watched as James went back for a second helping.

     “Growing boy,” I murmured and Safar laughed.  “You've enjoyed this holiday, haven't you?” I went on.  He looked so pleased and nodded vigorously.  “You liked being with the brothers didn't you?”
     “Yes,” he said enthusiastically, “Only thing we couldn't say much as they knew little English and I don't know any Italian.”

     “You got on well with Giovanni, though.  You were always together.”
     “Oh yes, he could speak a little English, and he was great fun.”

     “Well you are the same age and you looked very alike especially when you were in the pool.”  I paused.  “Well, he did make himself rather conspicuous most of the time. You could tie a Jolly Roger to that masthead when you were playing pirates.”  Safar giggled.  “Not so bad yourself.”

     “He's younger than me.  Grunty said boys aren't all the same.  Is that true?”  He looked at me closely.

     “Yes, quite true.  Your brother was ahead of James and I expect Grunty will show you some of his and Tiger's charts.”

     He nodded.  “And James said I was ahead for my age, too.  But that Giovanni doesn't stop doing things....” He looked at me.  “.....James said you'd tell me 'cause I haven't yet.”

     “You mean he makes sperm?”

     He nodded.  “But only the first time he does it.  And it's not much.  His brothers just laugh at him and says he's not like Bruno.  When will I make it?”

     “I would guess very soon,” I said, not adding 'you'd better practice every day to see'.  I was forestalled.

     “I try it every day,” he went on, quite nonchalantly, “It's nice, but nothing happens.  Khaled told me to stop and leave it alone for a while but I don't want to miss the first time.”

     “But whenever it happens that'll be the first time.”

     He smiled up at me.  “That's right.  I'll see what happens in a fortnight's time.”

     Oh, my God!  A pragmatic young wanker.

     “Is there anything else you want to know?”

     He was on the same track.  “Um,” he said, “When I can do it, should I do it every day?”

     “Safar,” I said, trying to suppress a laugh, ending up with a smile.  “When you start you'll know when you want to do it.”                                   

     He nodded.  “That's what James and Khaled said.”  He continued almost ruminatively, “Khaled must want it a lot and so does James.  Poor James with his hands.  They've all been kind to him when he wanted it.”

     I thought I'd better move the topic on before he divulged any more of the helping hands regime.  “Do you want to ask anything else?”

     “Um!” he was cogitating, lots of questions I expected.  “Will I be as big as Khaled?”

     “You mean as tall as, or other?”

     “Both.  Grunty said he thought I'd be as tall as Khaled but we wouldn't be very tall 'cause our father isn't.  Is that true?”

     “Look at me and Francis,” I said, “I'm tall and he's almost my size and he'll soon stop growing.  James is a bit shorter but I guess he's still growing.  And I expect you'll be as big as Khaled elsewhere.”

     “I asked Grunty if I could be measured like the others and he said later.  I want to know so Stephen measures me and I know I'm growing.”  He changed track.  “I'll miss Stephen, he's my best friend, but James says I'm one of the family so he and Francis will be my best friends as well as Khaled.”

     So measurements were a things just accepted by all.  Curiosity runs deep.

     “They don't tell me everything, though,” he continued.  “Last night Khaled and Grunty were in bed after Stephen went to sleep and the light was out and they were giggling and laughing and Grunty said 'Gosh, Cally, you're hung like the proverbial Arab!' and they all started laughing.  I said they weren't to make so much noise or they would wake Stephen and what did Grunty mean, and James was in the bed next to ours and he said 'You'll learn, Midge, go to sleep' and they all started laughing again.  Khaled is an Arab so what did he mean?”

     I knew they called Safar Midge, short for Midget and I'd told James to see he didn't get upset.  Very little upset Safar and, although being rather quiet and thoughtful, he was tough and resilient as I'd seen him several times launch forthright tackles on Grunty or James when they were practising on the field behind the house.  Now I had to explain an allusion now knowing Grunty and Khaled were at the time indulging in a bit of foreplay.

     “You know how boys always look to see if others have got more or less than they have down there,” I began and Safar nodded.  It starts younger in the showers at school I thought!  “Well, boys say 'he's hung like a horse' if someone is particularly big...”

     “Oh, I see,” said Safar, interrupting and grinning, “I forgot, an arab is a horse as well.  So it's a joke.”  He looked at me and grinned even more.  “Khaled is rather big, that's why I wanted to know about me!  James says it's a good job it's not bosoms or he'd be top-heavy and fall flat on his face!”
     He looked at me his smile disappearing.  He'd said a word, perhaps not always used in polite company.  Would I be shocked?  Would I say anything?  Experience had taught me to ignore those slips of the tongue.  Like the time in the garden when James, aged about twelve, had received a low slung shot from a tennis ball and clutched himself and shouted out, “Ouch, my bollocks!” to Francis's consternation as Professor Gibson and I were at the time discussing the best cure for rose mildew.  James's aches which would soon go, whereas rose mildew was a perennial problem, so neither of us took any notice.  This time I just ignored 'bosoms' as a slip equated with that earlier 'bollocks'.

     “So Grunty and James are keeping you informed, eh?  And Khaled is the big brother to keep you in line....”

     He nodded.  “I always do as Khaled says.  Father said I had to obey him....” He looked at me and smiled, “...and you.”

     “Are you contented?” I asked.  “It must be difficult not seeing your father very often and not going home to your country.”  I didn't mention his mother who, to all of us, was a shadowy person and never alluded to.

     That smile again.  “I'm happy here.  I've got you and Mummy Anne and Uncle Ludo and Mummy Marion and Uncle Giles, and Uncle Lachs.....- he paused, .”....And Lucius and Jem and Sam....   There's lots more....and I've forgotten that place I came from.  Khaled doesn't want to go back.”  He shook his head.  “I don't, either.”

     There was still a memory of the kidnap and the beatings.  I remembered two frightened small boys and now saw the two, growing, fine young lads who wanted to put all that behind them.  I knew there was still danger.  They still had to be protected.

     We sat silently side by side, I realised he was crying.

     “What is it?” I asked.

     “I can't believe I'm so happy?” he sniffed, “I'm feeling a bit sad because Stephen is going away to ballet school but I've promised to write to him every week and to keep playing the flute.  We're going to play again tonight and then we're going back home tomorrow and Uncle Ludo and Mummy Marion are going to take us down to Uncle Giles' farm before school starts again and I'm doing all the things I like doing and I'm growing up......”

     I put an arm round his shoulder.  It was all a bit much for a young lad.

     “And don't forget, if you want anything, or want to know anything come and ask,” I said, giving his shoulder a squeeze.  “And I think it would be a good idea to drop Grunty in the water, eh?  I'll lift him up and you hold his legs.”   A now-grinning Safar looked up at me and nodded.

     I stood up and took off my tee-shirt, dropped my shorts and kicked off my flip-flops.  I had my swimming-trunks on underneath as usual.  We rushed along the terrace where Grunty was sprawled looking half asleep.  I grabbed him under the arm-pits and lifted him before he could squirm away.  Safar caught hold of his legs and the three of us landed in the water making an even bigger splash.  There was a cheer from the bank and four others leapt into the water and joined in.  There was much splashing and dunking and diving.  At one point I had Francis in a head-lock and Khaled trying to pull my legs from under me.  Stephen was holding onto Grunty and fending off James who had Safar on his shoulders urging all on.  The Contessa and Anne had resumed their perusal of thick tomes and the ladies had wheeled away the tea-trolley and seven males just cavorted.  Allegiances changed rapidly until in a final melee a laughing Grunty held up two pairs of skimpy trunks, dark green and bright orange, as Khaled and James howled revenge and bobbed up and down showing off goodly lengths of adolescent boy prick each.  Truly, both my son and his friend were hung.......  Ouch!  I was dunked by a concerted trio of Francis, Safar and Stephen.     ....just like Arab Thomsons!

     That evening we had a farewell dinner.   The Contessa entered, escorted by two flute players, on the arm of my eldest son.  I smiled as the strains of 'Here the conquering hero comes' accompanied her very stately entrance.  What a meal!  Antipasto, soup, a fish dish, a sorbet, a meat and pasta dish, cheese and an aromatic fresh fruit salad.  There were several wines and I saw appreciative looks on Stephen and Safar's faces as they sipped on their glasses.  I knew that Khaled and Safar were not supposed to touch alcohol but... when in Rome..., or Tuscany...   Between two of the courses Safar and Stephen played again, a slow Pavane and then a Gavotte, their silver flutes glinting in the candle-light and moonlight on this perfect summer's evening.

     At the end of the meal James proposed a toast, to the Contessa, to the memory of a happy holiday and to all present.

     In the morning a telegram arrived, courtesy of the Italian postal service about ten days late, “Distance reorganised.  TT race in place.  L.”   As the taxi I was in trundled through the square in Prato on the way to the station that afternoon I spotted Titty who, nonchalantly, drew a large spotted handkerchief from the top pocket of the linen jacket he was wearing and flapped it in our direction before applying it to his nose.