CHAPTER 57

Vignettes From My Life

12.  Autumn Term 1965

Our arrival back at the end of August meant there was plenty to do before the boys started school again.  There was also plenty of news.  Amongst a stack of post was the dreaded envelope for James' School Certificate results.  He had decreed that no news was to be sent to Italy.  He would enjoy his holiday without knowing.  His entry to the Sixth Form depended on them and if they were awful at least he wouldn't know until he got home.   I knew he had nothing to worry about but there was the rush upstairs, clutching the envelope, having dumped his bags in the kitchen, with the desire to open it, personally, alone, behind closed doors, keep out of the way everyone else!  We waited, expectantly, all with silly grins on our faces with Anne putting on the inevitable kettle to make a pot of tea.  Stephen had crept up the stairs and was waiting outside their bedroom door when the expected scream came.  A scream of utter joy.  The door opened and Stephen was hugged tight.

     “I've got them!” he shouted.  “I'm OK!”

     He and Stephen came bundling down the stairs.  He thrust the letter into Anne's hands.

     “Oh,” she said, nonchalantly, “Eleven As.  What else did you expect?”

     “Mum!” he shouted and hugged her.  He rushed round all of us dispensing and receiving hugs.

     “You beat me, bro,” said Francis, giving him a real bone-crusher, “I only got ten.  But then I only did ten.  Brainbox had to do the extra one, eh?”  The hug was one of real brotherly comradeship.

     “Must 'phone around,” said James, extricating himself.
     “Mind my 'phone-bill!” I shouted as he raced off into the hall.

     “Dad!  It's important!”

     We didn't see him again for about half-an-hour as all his intimate classmates had to be contacted.  He was beaming when he retuned.  He'd heard all were OK.  The First Year Sixth would be packed with his mates; what else could one desire.

     There were postcards.  One from Julia, from Sardinia, spending a holiday there with her boy friend Roger.  Roger the lodger, or Roger the dodger, as my boys called him.  The pair were made for each other.  After being asked to leave her second boarding school for some minor misdemeanour or other she had done A levels at the local Sixth Form College and had met Roger there.  He was one of those lads you couldn't help liking,  medium height with a mop of fair curly hair and always cheerful.  He was sports-mad, playing every sort of game with more vigour than expertise according to Julia.   He was as happy-go-lucky as her, but both were bright.  When they had visited us at Easter - separate bedrooms at Aunt Della's insistence - the boys had teased Roger asking what a nice boy like him was doing with their old Aunt, although, of course she wasn't all that much older than they were.  She always managed to get her own back and regularly traumatised poor Francis and James as on every visit, especially this one with Roger there, as she would ask them  if their bottoms were clean these days as she had helped to change their nappies so often when they were babies.   Still, they always seemed to get their own back as she was always finding strange creatures such as frogs in her bed or her suitcase.   Both had been accepted for Oxford, much to Uncle Edward's pseudo-protestations that he wanted her to go to Cambridge.  They were now to start their final year as Law students and both were determined to be barristers.  Gift of the gab runs in the family was Anne's laconic comment.

     Another card  was from Jem and Sam, having had a package tour to Greece.  The cryptic note said they found the Greek boys, 'most accommodating'.  As the picture was of some Greek 'kouros' with a reasonable set of tackle, we guessed they'd had a good time!

     A short note from Tony said he was back from America and at Ulvescott.  Unfortunately, Miss Pike was not well and was in hospital.  Finally, there was the very sad news that Dr Blake, my tutor, my mentor and my friend had died.  I scarcely had time to unpack before driving off down to Suffolk for his funeral on the twenty-eighth.  I took Harvey with me and he said Dr Blake had just finished the draft of his final third volume on French literature of the fourteenth century and he would be seeing it through the press.  I was asked to give the eulogy on behalf of the College and I think it was the first time a packed fifteenth century village church, like a young cathedral, had heard how a dog's anal emissions got a place in College for a callow eighteen-year-old.  How a tutor had guided so many young scholars, 'scratching the surface', over so many years.  How the continuing life of a college depended on the wisdom and scholarship of such men as William Blake.

     Three people came up to me immediately afterwards.  The large, imposing figure of Bruce Lockhart leading a very elderly Lord Harford with his 'rascal' son, Charley Lascelles behind.  Bruce was very effusive in his thanks for my eulogy for his Great-Uncle.  There were other members of the family also present in the church and a large, smiling lady ushered two boys, of about nine and seven towards our group.  I smiled too, it was Bruce's wife Janet and their two boys, Charles and Peter.  I wondered if Bruce would ever have been able to produce them if I hadn't arranged for him to see Dr Powell?  Charley had also at long last got married.  A very nice divorced lady, unencumbered by children, who tended to wear large hats with her twin sets and pearls and was a spirited member of all sorts of countryside committees and was just the ticket, according to his Lordship.

     A few weeks later a parcel arrived from Dr Blake's solicitors.  It was the painting by Thomas Couture he'd shown me that first day in College.  What a wonderful bequest.  It would hang beside Mike's drawing of me in my room in College.  A letter with the painting said that Dr Blake had assigned all his books and other paintings to the college and that Harvey and I could have ten books each for ourselves as recompense for helping the librarian catalogue the rest.

     But, on my return from Suffolk there was much to do.  Stephen and Lisa had to go to London to be kitted out before being taken to the ballet school.  There was much amusement at the breakfast table from James and  Francis looking at the list of 'Clothing Requirements' for Stephen as three of the items of kit were 'dance belts' - junior jockstraps so they told him, to keep his possessions in order when he was doing his pirouettes so that when the music stopped so did he.  He pointed out that dear James had still to possess a jockstrap and relied on his underpants to keep things in order on the rugger field or in PE lessons.  At least he was going to require the real thing and perhaps James could have an old one of his when it was worn out.  Stephen was not going to let a bigger brother get away with it.  I heard Francis say, under his breath 'It wouldn't even be a tight squeeze' which set the pair of them off in giggles much to James' consternation.  Anyway, Anne and Lisa's mum would be taking the pair off to London.  I was not needed he informed me, they would be OK.   I think he realised that I had a rather important task to do with Francis at Ulvescott.  James was also coming with us and I got the impression that there had been careful discussion between them, other than about vital equipment to keep boys' parts in place.

     Anne said she was more than happy to take Stephen alone to London.  They, with Lisa and Ina McIntyre,  would stay at the flat and Anne's sister, Maureen, would be there with Tim.  They had been in Canada for three years where Tim had revived a rather moribund orchestra to critical acclaim and he had just been appointed as associate conductor to one of the London orchestras as well as being asked to work at the Opera House on the permanent music staff.  Maureen was sculpting and painting and was also making a name for herself.  John Parker and his wife also had a base at the flat as they taught part-time at the Royal College.  Their two children, a boy and a girl, though still small, were following in their parents' musical footsteps also as string players.

     So, on Bank Holiday Monday we three said cheerio to Stephen and Lisa who would be away the whole term.  There were no tears.  Just hugs and a great deal of loving goodwill.  I knew Stephen was excited.  He knew what he wanted to do and he had told me the night before how determined he was to do well.  That Sunday night we had had a dinner for the 'Italian mob', as Francis so delicately called us all, with Ludo and Marion, Lucius, the Gibsons, with Tiger included.  Jem and Sam came up trumps providing plenty of Italian delicacies.  The lovely thing was that Stephen, representing the six lads, presented Anne and me with a copy of a Lippi portrait of a young adolescent which they had bought, in secret, in Prato.  Safar said it was just like Silvio and, strangely, the more we looked at the picture the more we saw Silvio's questing look.  I smiled at Francis who was gazing at the portrait quite avidly.  I knew then that he and Silvio had shared their love with each other in some way.  James saw my smile when I turned.  He smiled and nodded.  He knew, too.

     The other presentation was the new flute for Lucius.  The look of joy and wonderment on his face was so genuine and unforced we all felt so happy for him.  He protested that he was unworthy of such a gift but when he had put the parts together and had blown a few hesitant notes he launched into the haunting strains of Debussy's Syrinx and we all knew it was the perfect gift.  Safar hugged him at the end and made him promise to teach him to play that piece.  The three then played the Gavotte we had heard at our final dinner in Italy.

                              *
     Bank Holiday Monday afternoon I drove Francis and James to Ulvescott.  In a few days time Francis would be seventeen and James would be sixteen.  They were the ages when most of my true friendships were sealed.  On the drive I thought of those days and nights with sadly missed Roo, with my now brother-in-law Tony, with faithful Matt and Tom of the second sight, and those wonderful golden boys, Lachs and Andrew.  I thought of kindly Piers watching over all of us and how his influence had come down another generation to be experienced by my sons, Lachs' son, and their friends.  I thought of the weird ramifications of the entwined families and how Daniel had also experienced that calm feeling of the house and how we shared, with Piers and our sons, that mark which stamped us as of one being.  It was strange that Piers and Francis shared another factor of the inheritance completely, but that all the cousins, including Johann, had shown that young males can love each other fully and without holding anything back.

     I wondered if Francis had taken that irrevocable step of losing his virginity.  Perhaps with Silvio?  There was a certain passion in that final farewell embrace which tokened a meeting of two souls.  I thought of Grunty.  Bluff, honest, most masculine Grunty.  Had they shared themselves fully?   And what about James?  Two brothers, a year apart.  They had shared a bed many times and I was fully aware they had helped each other with nightly pleasures.  But further?  James, of course, had as his great friend, Khaled and there was no doubt two lengthy young rods had been handled and compared many times.  Khaled and Francis were close, too.  Khaled had indicated that in our talk together.  Francis had other friends.  Alan Barton had slept over in the same bed with him several times.  He had been a faithful friend since they had started secondary school.  No doubt they had shared experiences.  Two boys in the same bed so many times were hardly likely to fall asleep without participating in some activity.  Cam Sullivan had been on a couple of summer camps with him, too.  I doubted if he and Francis had not partaken of pleasures between them.  Of course, there were others.  Francis had been in the Junior XV which, when he was fifteen, had done a week's tour of schools in Cornwall.  He had returned, bruised and battered, but happy, with sundry bits of other's sports kit so there were visits from Charlie Desmond and Dan Stewart on several occasions, allegedly to claim socks or the odd boot, but with long periods closeted in Francis's room behind a closed door.  Boys will be boys.

     So, they were all worldly-wise.  From what James had said he, Francis and many others were fully conversant with things boys could do with each other as they had all read parts, at least, of my translation.  Had those descriptions spurred them to try other things than helping each other manually to spill their seed?  I wondered what the next few days might reveal.  James had been torn between going with Stephen and coming to Ulvescott.  I had the distinct impression that Stephen had insisted that James came with us.

     On arrival we found Tony, looking slim and trim even after all the excesses of an All-American diet.  He said he had been 'working-out' which was all the craze.  I left the boys talking to their grand-parents as Tony and I went off to visit Miss Pike in the local hospital.  She was not well.  She said she knew she didn't have long but that she was at peace.  She had been such a mainstay at Ulvescott for all those years and it was then I found as she squeezed my hand in farewell that, although she and Piers were within a few years of each other and it was thought they were destined for each other, she whispered to me that Piers had found true happiness only with Miles, but, she said, I knew that!  She smiled and closed her eyes.  That was the last time I saw her.  She slipped into a coma that night and passed away two days after we left for Cambridge.

     The two boys shared Piers' room and Tony and I slept together in the Horsebox.  We sat and talked for a long time sitting on the window seat before we were ready for bed.  I told Tony all the happenings with Francis and his revelations to us and the way in which the boys had all accepted him.  Tony said he would willingly talk to him.  He was now back in England for good but had found no one with whom he wished to share his life.  Big Jim Chater had moved out of his life.  He still lived in the village but had as a euphemistic 'lodger' a very handsome, somewhat younger than him, veterinary assistant as his uncle had retired.

     Tony admitted he was more than passably rich.  His first three books had assured his reputation and fortune and the work he had done in Hollywood had been very lucrative especially as he had taken a leaf out of my mother's book and demanded a very small percentage of the profits from two of the screen plays he'd written and I hesitated to think what profits he took from the films of his first two books.  There were plans to film the third at some time, too.  The craze for homely War stories was beginning to be kindled.  He said his  next book was already at the publishers and he asked if I would mind if he wrote a book, without naming names, but charting the growing-up of a group of friends, a 'bildungsroman', based on his own life and experiences.  He said he had already sketched parts of it out and it would be fairly explicit.  I was in it.  He smiled.  A minor hero!  I said as long as he didn't embarrass my mother all would be well.  He laughed and said he thought my mother was beyond that having just read the draft of her latest book for Kanga, The Seal of the Serpent, which was about a serial killer and contained some rather steamy scenes - and what about Aunt Della?  Wow, her last bodice-ripper had caused a few letters in the Telegraph from various Disgusted of Bognor Regis, Tunbridge Wells and Cheltenham after a rather enthusiastic review in the Arts columns.  'Bugger Bognor' was Tony's comment, echoing the old King.

     He said he'd met Antony Milverton several times as he was filming in Hollywood quite consistently.  He'd landed several good parts where they needed the perfect Englishman and Tony said he was a very good friend.  He said that rumours about Audrey and Courtney and their life-style were rife and the poor child, Penny, had been stuck in some expensive boarding school out there and was paraded as the next teenage star when her time came.

     I told Tony that we had still never heard a word from Audrey about Stephen.  As soon as he was adopted by us it was as if he was completely out of her world.  When five, we had explained to him about his mother.  He knew Lachs was his father but after that never enquired about Audrey or his sister again.   He adored contact with Lachs but, as I told Tony, only this last week he'd told Anne she was a wonderful mother and he would miss her so much while away at ballet school.  As I went in to say goodnight to him the night before we came to Ulvescott he'd whispered that I mustn't worry about him, he was going to make us all proud and happy for all we'd done for him.  James was sitting on the bed getting ready to join him.  “We're proud of you already, little bro!”

                              *
     Next day at Ulvescott, James and I inspected the wood-working and craft enterprises which had proliferated in the barns and out-houses.  There was a thriving community of working units and they seemed to supply an unceasing demand for well-crafted items of furniture and other objects.  There was even a potter and we watched as he skilfully threw jug after jug before consigning them to a kiln for first firing.

     We had gone on our tour because Francis wanted to talk to his Uncle Tony by himself.  They were sitting either side of a table in the library when we went off before nine in the morning and were still there three hours later.  We left them alone again and said we would meet them at lunch at one o'clock.  There, Mr and Mrs Marcham wanted to hear even more about our visit to Italy and James chattered on.  Mrs Crossley was getting very deaf and she was older than Miss Pike and I could see that the news we had that morning about Miss P was most upsetting to her.  The Duchess was a great helpmeet but looked frail and I wondered how much longer those three ladies could go on.  I still thought of them as I had known them first twenty years previously.  Mr and Mrs Marcham were still their old selves though even she was slowing down.

     As we left the table Mrs Crossley said my sons reminded her so much of me at their age and even more of her own dear son.  It was the first time she had said anything in detail about him.  We went and sat in the big drawing-room and I asked if I should play to her.  She said she would like that very much so I played all those pieces I associated with being here.  Beethoven, Brahms, Haydn, Mozart, Faure and finally, Bach's 'Jesu Joy of Man's Desiring', as I had copied that from the head of Piers' list of pieces he loved to play.  As I played that last piece on that warm day with the windows open I was aware of a single dove cooing just as the last ripple of triplets and the underlying chords sounded.  It was peace, perfect peace.

     Tony knew I wanted to talk to the boys alone also so, after I had played to Mrs Crossley with them listening, I took them up to Piers' room.  I asked if they had slept well the night before.  They looked at each other and smiled.  “Just like the brothers we are,” said Francis.  I went over to the cupboard and got out the three diaries.  I gave the first one to Francis and the second to James.  I said they should read parts to themselves and then we would look at the third.  They read attentively and I saw small smiles play on their lips as they got further into each.  In fact, each of them turned back several pages and I knew they were counting.

     In the end Francis looked up and looked across at James whose lips were moving silently.  “He's a bit transparent, isn't he?” said Francis.  He giggled.  “He was certainly a busy boy!”

     “Nineteen the second week in June,' said James, without looking up, “...And eighteen the next week.”  He looked up.  “You've met your match there, Frankie, no wonder you've both got the same birth mark.”  He realised what he'd said.  Dad had the same mark.  His face fell.  “Oh, God, stand in the corner, James!”

     Without a word I drew out from my pocket my own diary for 1944.  I passed it to James after flicking through to the second full week in June.  He looked at me questioningly then looked at the entries.  It was the week of Dunc's departure.  I'd noted ten for self and three for others.  Not up to Piers' standards by any means.  James looked at me with a look of new understanding.  Silently he passed the diary to Francis who looked at that page and the next.

     “Thirteen and twelve,” he murmured.  He smiled and handed me back the book.  “About the same as me.  Only kept count for about three weeks last year.”  He laughed.  “One of Grunty's charts.”
     James looked from his brother to me.  “I keep count, too.  My code's a tick.  Khaled laughs at me.....  Oh dear, done it again!”  He smiled a wan smile.  “It's all in the open now and whatever Francis says, I have slowed down.  About the same.”

     What could one say.  A wank's a wank.  A code's a code.  A boy's a boy, whether in 1915, 1944, or 1965.

     “OK,” I said, “You can deal with everyone's totals at leisure.  In any case there are some on a piece of paper in Piers' last diary.”

     “Dad!” they said in unison, then roared with laughter.

     I then went on to say I and several others had read the diaries when we were their age and also guessed Piers' code.  Self and others, I said and they both nodded.  I didn't tell them about Tom and his two strange pieces of behaviour - perhaps another time.  I asked if they knew different ways boys experienced things together.  They both nodded.  Francis said they'd both read what someone had copied from my thesis and, without blushing or any prevarication, said they knew boys sucked and fucked as well.  He said it so matter-of-factly I knew there was no prurience, just an acceptance of such acts.  James butted in and said he'd brought a copy with him and would I look at it to see if it was genuine and he was always being asked if he'd read it all.  Francis smiled and said, 'Same here'.  Little did they know I had brought a complete copy with me in my suitcase.

     I then said that whatever I told them was between us.  They were brothers so each must be aware of the other.  Francis had said he only liked other boys.  It was up to James to make his own decisions but understanding someone else was very important.  James reached out and took Francis's hand in his.

     “Francis is my brother.  Whatever he feels and wants is up to him.  I love him but I know I'm not the same as him.  At least, I don't think I am.”  He grinned.  “I've still got to find out though, haven't I?  Give me time!”

     “...And opportunity,” added Francis, giving his hand a squeeze.  “I'll be there, bro, whenever you get in a tangle!  Just ask Superman and he'll come flying!”

     “You, Superman?” exclaimed James in mock surprise, “I can just see you with your little red trunks on outside your trousers!  Come to think of it, you and Grunty would be much better as Batman and Robin!  And I know who would be Robin!”

     Francis undid the hand clasp and gave his brother a friendly cuff round the side of his head.  “Shut your row, young'un, before you get too personal.  I don't suppose Jimmie-the-Pooh and Cally-Tigger aren't bosom pals as well from what you just said?”

     James laughed.  “I'll tell him that, he'll like it.  Cally-Tigger, eh?  Bosom pals!  Wow!”

     I said when they had finished I would continue.  I held up the third diary.  I explained this included his last year at school from the September in 1917.  I suggested they each should read the entries for the end of December.  I purposely didn't say anything about the continued entries for the beginning of January 1918.  I handed the book first to Francis while James continued his weekly totting up in the second book now.

     Francis reached the end of December and turned the page.  He read on.  He looked puzzled at one point but continued to the last entry.  He turned back and re-read.  His lips moved silently and he smiled.  He read a bit more and smiled again.  The two entries had been decoded.  He handed me the book in silence.  James looked up expectantly, his finger half way down a page.

     “My turn?” he queried.

     I nodded and we exchanged books.  I counted silently for that week as he read.  Gosh, he was busy.  Second week of the April term, twelve times self and seven times with another, once each day except Sunday and twice on Wednesday.  Sunday was almost a day of abstinence - only once for self!  I looked at my own diary for the second and third weeks of May.  Things were hotting up, fifteen and eighteen including six with others that second week  Better not draw attention, they might think I was boasting!

     After a while James gave a little gasp.  He'd also spotted an entry.  Francis was getting impatient.  He leaned over him and put his finger below the second sentence.

     “I know,” said James quietly, “I just saw it.”  He began to weep.  He turned to Francis and put his arms round him.  “It's so sad.  They loved each other.  I knew that last night when we held each other so close and tight.  They were both with us.  But they died, loving each other.  You'll find someone to love, Francis, I know.  And I know you'll be happy.  I know.  Piers said so.”

     He turned to me, leaving go of Francis who sat transfixed.  He hugged me, the tears streaming down his face.  “He will be happy, Dad, you mustn't worry about him.  And this place is very special to all of us and all our friends.  Safar says it's the kindest place he knows and I love it here.  I wish I had that birthmark but I'm still your son and I want to make you happy, too.”

     I hugged him, too, and Francis came and knelt by us.  He held James and smiled up at me.

     “I hope I can find someone to love just as Piers found Miles.  I know I will.”

     Little did I know that quest was all but settled.

     After we had composed ourselves and they had discussed the two entries in detail James grubbed down into his, as usual, untidy holdall beneath spare shorts, tee-shirts and other bits and pieces and came up with a well-worn looking school exercise book.  Under the school crest someone had neatly crossed out 'Rough Book' and equally neatly penned 'The Book'.  Underneath that someone had scribbled in pencil, which another hand had failed to rub out, 'To be returned unstained'.  The cover showed evidence of much handling and I wondered that if the book was unstained how much bedding or handy towels or tissues had been the recipient of teenage fluids.

     Tears had gone, he was grinning now.  “This is the latest copy.  Got it last term but I shan't tell you who from.”

     “From whom!” intoned Francis.

     “Shut up, bro, Dad knows what I mean!”  He thrust the book at me.  “Would you check it and say if it's genuine.  Pat Lundle says he doesn't believe it.  Whoops, James, shouldn't have told you his name!”

     I flicked the pages.  There were twelve or so fairly neatly, for some adolescent penman, written sides.  The content was familiar.  One day's encounters between the nine.

     “Shall I mark it in red ink?” I asked, “Writing's about beta minus but it's the content that's important, eh?”

     “Dad!”

     “I'll read through it after dinner.  I suppose you want it back for night-time reading.  Like Swiss Family Robinson with more action?”

     “Dad!” from both of them that time.

     Dinner was enlivened by James and Francis's chat.  They relished being at Ulvescott and I wondered with all the costs how it could be kept running.  I'd heard Mr Marcham mention the National Trust but Tony had been adamant nothing should be done especially with Mrs Crossley still in residence.  The place was a perfect gem and whatever repairs and renovations the POWs had done nearly twenty years ago were standing up well to the depredations of the weather and climate.  However, curtains and some of the furniture were showing signs of wear and Helen Marcham said to me that Gerald had forked out over three thousand pounds for curtains for one bedroom alone.  As Gerald Marcham owned what seemed like half of Kerslake three thousand pounds was chickenfeed.

     Tony and the boys played Monopoly while the other four settled to their nightly game of Bridge.  I went into the Library and settled down with the exercise book and my memory.  Whoever had copied it had no truck with the philosophical interludes.  There were series of three or four dots, reminiscent of Piers' wanking code, where the 'uninteresting' bits had been left out.

     '....So began another day having woken and broken their fast with young Neptune calling out to his fellows not to fill their bellies too greatly or they would truly sink for today they would be helping him provide the fish from the lake for their evening repast.....    .....So, set with his nets Neptune strode ahead of the merry band with Robin and Allan close behind bearing his rods and the basket for the catch.  These two cast looks between and held their hands entwined along the rush braided handle such as their bodies had entwined the night before, not once, not twice, but thrice, enjoying that game of love played with the zeal of ones so grown in young years.  That night, they had lain together hip to hip touching each other with faint caress watching by the candles' flickering light their boyhoods rise and stand full length.  They smiled and, turning, placed them side by side and found young Robin had the vantage by one broad thumb.....'   I noted that some student annotator had helpfully written in the margin 'three-quarters of an inch?'.    '......Slim Allan laughed soft at his lusty friend.  You have had four months more life than I and we have both grown in this past year for when I came I was your equal and I shall be your equal once again.  But you are blessed with lengthy limbs said Robin and can pluck the sweetest apple from the highest bough while I can only bend and toil.  With stronger limbs than I his boon companion said.  But when we are side by side those differences are but naught for we together and with our friends, all made by our dear God for but one cause, can use our bodies with equal fervour slaking those desires which rise as do our weapons strong.....'

     '......With no more word he bent and touched the full red lips of his companion with his own and gently placed his tongue against that gap until with a sigh young Robin took this signal and with open mouth felt for the intruder with his own.  They parried with these simple weapons then sucked on them and pouted out their lips teasing them with teeth and tongue until those lips were reddened more and had a soreness which foretold much greater hurts which quickened their desire.   Hands sought the other's shaft and with a quietness  the enfolding skins were drawn aside and that slow strong pulse began which would only cease when two pure streams surged and united as on many whiles before.  As on those myriad times now past they marvelled that each occasion engendered but more desire as when the pent-up juices were released a violence like no other known battered them almost senseless from below.  With open mouths they breathed as one their thanks conveyed by touching tongues and warm red lips.  They rested  and with supple fingers merged the creamy liquor and laved each other's now swollen lips and flicked their tongues and tasted afresh their youthful essence......'

     '......Soon, new stirrings provoked young Allan to trace his tongue from Robin's lips to his unrough cheek, then downwards past his neck and well-muscled chest following the downy line where lay copious droplets of their joint yield which, lapping eagerly, he savoured full then passed on to tongue the twin globes in their warm sack which had provided such a heavenly feast.  Young Robin's lance, now soft, he probed with questing tongue while Robin not to be outdone stopped him while he turned and repeated that journey in like manner, murmuring as he, too, relished that remnant still remaining on Allan's golden skin.  Two mouths then sought two hardening shafts and with a practised ease two rods of velvet covered iron were taken full within.  In concert, tongues played against the under lengths until reaching that delicate edge two bodies together shivered and searching hands stroked backs and buttocks urging further exploration of those youth-hard bolts.  Hands sought heads and urged a quickening of their thrusts.   Then, such was their knowledge of the ways of hale young striplings they took to drawing away their breath while touching round those swelling ends with probing tongues until with throaty gasps two further streams of heaven's seed filled over-full those loving mouths.  Quickly they moved and plied their tongues within to mingle once more those twin Venus gifts and cheek to cheek rested and murmured......'

          Another youthful annotator had asked, “Anything missing here?”

     '.....watching as they lay, Castor and Pollux who in paired accord had coupled fully with  the fair James and the dark-hued Mars so burnt by sun, urged on by this pair now such firm and closest fiends wanting each to have the finest and the best.  The twins in their most robust way had given those friends such pleasure for each.... (there was a blank here and some one had pencilled in 'had had such a good fucking') ...that with joyous shouts the four announced their abundant success and roused their fellows to further efforts.  Our lusty pair revived once more looked and smiled and Robin knew he desired that delight which would make them one.  My need is you my golden friend he whispered low.  That sturdy pipe to plunge within and fill me with its valiant thrust until we cry aloud as those friends of ours.  I beg you play your pipe with heart and soul and make me tuned so that our song in blessed unison will be....'

     '.....My eyes will look in yours the golden youth replied as we in full accord make a full duet so full of bliss.  Robin smiled and placed his strong arms around pulling him to lie full upon himself.  His sturdy legs he raised full high as that whip-like pipe sought the most precious place.  A drop of sweetness moistened that rosebud portal which allowed slow entry with smiles then slight grimace until near two handsbreadth were full within.'   The helpful annotator had inscribed 'Must be over six inches!' in the margin.   'My goodly friend, stout Robin cried, give me your power and do not cease.   Two friends gazed and two souls met and soon that vital essence both corporeal and of their spirit locked the pair in single devotion.  A true friendship made....'

     '...So, on this morn the pair revived from such close embrace were as one desiring to further that true companionship.  Allan smiled, methinks that steely rapier will be mine ere this morn be out.  I'll set en garde and receive his unerring thrust full deep.  Robin his entwined fingers flexing against the hand of his fair-haired friend wished likewise to delve and seek fulfilling pleasure for them both.  Young Neptune striding on ahead had sensed that silence between the pair and turned noting the playful hands and sweet smiles with which they looked on one another and knew as he had witnessed their acts the night before that their thoughts were not for wading in the lake too long.

     He waited until abreast of him they came now upon the shore of the watery goal.  My friend he said to tall young Allan, cast off your coney-skins and you dear Robin wet not those pantaloons  but help me cast the nets but once then with those rods sit on the shore in some quiet place and with those tasty morsels in the pouch entice your own catch of fine fish.  Casting off their garb they gazed at those most prized and desired parts and with the long-haired merboy flung the nets into the deeper places.  The fisherboy waved them away and said to be quiet so as not to fright their prey.  Along the strand they walked and found a grassy bank where lodging the rods in handy boughs they set to their wanton joys already primed.  Allan beckoned the strapping youth to lie on him and held him close with lithe young limbs.  With single thrust Robin gained his prize and rocking slow his dark-hued serpent found its well-known home and lodged there full content.

     Allan and he lay still not caring if morsels had tempted any unwary fin.  The serpent stirred and with great slowness explored the full depths of its enclosing walls making both youths tremble and shake with ardent bliss.  So settled they cared not for their appointed task nor for their fellows who had followed on and now with heavy quoits played back beyond the shore and with muted cries urged on their friends to greater feats of skill.  That muscled giant, young John the farrier's boy, thinking to amuse them more took up a quoit and, as if on Mount Olympus, tossed it far, landing the metal ring close by the rutting pair.  Look, look, he called as he ran forward, see our friends have fixed their rods.  Aye, said young James with merry laugh spying the pair, and Robin's fixed his, too.  They crowded round and laughing, watched the unheeding pair, until with no other word breeches were cast away and new pairs lay on the knoll enjoying their favoured youthful pleasures to the full.

     Young Neptune trudged along the shore, his basket full, looking for further trophies from the pair.  He stared and shook his head as four pairs now in varied acts took pleasure under the arching boughs.  A pair complete seeing him standing there pulled him to the ground and said you are our catch, let us put your basket in the lake to keep it safe and we will teach you how to tickle for a fine large trout.  This done one said lie still and feel the pursuing hand which with a sudden dart holds tight the wriggling prize.  Young Neptune squealed as his fine trout was clasped and held and jerked until it breathed its last.  The other pairs were taught the game and by the time the midday sun shone full upon the band young Neptune's trout had yielded up three times and sundry questing eels had found their homes in his dark caverns leaving fine gifts to mark their stay.....'

     '.....Thus did the cheerful band tramp back all singing and  helping a well-loved Neptune carry the laden basket.  Young Allan piped the merry tune and he and sturdy Robin thought of the joys now had and now to come.....'

     I put the exercise book down.   I suppose whoever had made the first copy must not have had long to do it.  I wondered when it had been copied?  Because of the wear and tear on the originals a librarian had told me they couldn't afford to have the copies rebound so anyone wanting to read it now had to sign and declare that if damaged they would have to pay for repairs.  So, did an undergraduate do the first copy or some youngster from one of the schools?  I though the first.  I assumed it was an elder brother who had passed it down.  As far as I could remember it was a fair copy and the missing phrase was something like 'such mighty thrusts' or it may have been a Latin tag I had left in.  I picked up my copy of the whole translation which I'd brought down without the boys knowing and found the passage.  Gosh, the pages were fairly near the end and, yes, I had left the Latin quote with a footnoted translation below.  '...hic erit in lecto fortissimus..'  'coupled on the bed with forcefulness [Juvenal, Satire 6]'.

     I could see why that particular passage had been chosen.  It covered wanking, sucking and fucking.  Re-reading it after so many years I realised how stilted and archaic the language was.  I laughed to myself over the 'Methinks'.  This was due to Tony who said it was the sort of thing my Shakespearian plagiarist would have written for 'Il me semble que...'.  I wondered how many lads had wanked over it, let alone learned about and perhaps tried the other delights?  I wondered how much James and Francis would tell me and what I should tell them about my youth?

     I had spent so much time just sitting and thinking that the others had gone up to bed, including Francis and James.  Only Tony was left, reading as usual.  He poured me a substantial tot of brandy to match his own and I told him about the copy.  He looked at it and laughed and lit another Gauloise we'd bought for him at the Gare du Nord in Paris.

     “What with that and Lady Chat boys these days don't know they're born!  God.  D'you remember Prosser and that screed about Dumbledown House with the randy butler and the footman with the ten inch cock?  I remember the bit about the parlourmaid whose nightly joy was having the footman and the butler in both orifices.  And then those long discussions between Prosser and Johnny Wills whether anyone ever had one ten inches long.  Poor old Prosser he was always measuring his and nearly went mad the day he found he'd reached six inches.  Still, he's got five kids now so it's been well-used.  Not that the Thomson weapon hasn't been well-used either over the years.”
     He smiled at me.  Although we'd slept together again there had been no activity the night before.  We both took sips at our glasses.

     “I've talked to Francis,” he said, looking at me intently.  “There's no doubt in his mind about his preferences and from what he's told me I would agree.  He's an honest lad.  Don't fear, I'll help him sort things out.  I told him quite a bit about my life and he says he wants to talk to me more tomorrow.  He said the most wonderful thing is how you and Anne and his brothers have all accepted him.  He said his friend Gregory, it's Grunty isn't it?...”  I nodded.  “....Well, he's accepted him, too.  He knows Khaled and Safar have as well but he wants you to talk to Lachs and Andrew.  I said you would.”  He took another sip.  “I didn't go into detail about love and friendship but I did say, as we've said, certain things should not be done lightly.”  He smiled at me.  “I think your son is a virgin, still.  But I'm sure it won't be for long.  Don't ask me who.  I don't know, but I can have a good guess.  But don't worry, it won't be done lightly and it won't be just an experiment.”

     I said whatever Francis would do would not be for just the experience.  I told Tony about the liaisons in the shrubbery between the boys in Italy and finding Francis and Silvio lip-locked on that last day.  Tony smiled and said Francis had confided in him about a number of things but he wouldn't break his confidence, but he had said he and Silvio genuinely loved each other like brothers, they'd done some things together but that was all.  Francis had said they both wanted to meet again but Silvio was sure he wanted to get married some time.

     I said my only wish was that Francis could find someone who would truly love him, just like Jem and Sam, or Matt and James.  But, he was a schoolboy still and had a career to contemplate.  Tony laughed and said I wasn't much more than a schoolboy when I made a decision.  True.  My Francis was born when I was still only eighteen.

     We finished our brandy and made our way upstairs to the Horsebox.  The house was in silence and after embracing Tony in bed and thanking him for talking to Francis I fell into a deep and tranquil sleep.  I remember waking up about three o'clock or so and seeing in the dim moonlight two tall, slim, nude figures, arms round each other's shoulders, smiling across the bed at me.  I smiled back, knowing that my sons had taken that final step of absolute love, and fell asleep again.

                              *
     After breakfast the next morning I said I wanted to see if Bran and Finbar's trees had grown.  Francis and James exchanged glances and said they'd come with me.  The four mounds were there and the young saplings were growing fast.  As we stood looking Francis reached down and took my hand.

     “Dad, we want you to know we sealed our love and devotion as brothers last night.  There's no other way to say it than that.”  He squeezed my hand.

     I turned and kissed his cheek, then did the same to his smiling brother.

     “I know you did,” I said, “That was a lovely gesture to come in and tell me with your smiles.”

     James's head jerked back.  His brow furrowed and he looked across me to his brother.  I turned to Francis.  He looked equally puzzled.

     “Dad,” he said quietly, “We never came into your room last night.  We couldn't.  James wouldn't let go of me and we still had our arms round each other when we woke up this morning.”

     “No, Dad, we didn't leave our room.  It's true,” James said quietly.  “I wanted my brother and I wanted it to last forever.”

     I knew, and they knew, without saying, who those two figures were.  The blessings of the house and its occupants were poured out fully on me and  my sons.  They were not figments of my imagination.  Those two smiling boys were with us all the time.  I had experienced the shadows in the past, now the substance.

     Without saying more we walked to the churchyard and, putting the wild flowers we'd plucked from the wayside on the memorial stone, said our thanks.

     As we walked back I asked about the copy and where it came from.  Francis said as far as he knew a copy like that had gone round the Fifth Form when he was in it and one boy was always the guardian of the copy.  He said that Grunty had told him that Tiger was sure there had been a copy of some more in the past before his time but the story was that the lad who had it was scared his mother would find it and had burned it in a bit of a panic much to everyone's annoyance.

     We had reached the back terrace and sat in the warm sunshine on the bench there.  When settled I said the copy was exact.  There was a lot missing but it was padding to make the whole seem more respectable.  I said the lad who'd provided the insert was more or less exact - the Latin was slightly more circumspect.

     “Are you going to let us read the rest?...” James started.

     “...Don't be so impatient,” Francis interjected, “You're a right little Newark at times.  We agreed I would ask.” He turned to me.  “We realise you could be in trouble letting us read it because if it's anything like that bit it's allowing kids to read something really rude...”

     “...It's pornographic, Kit Wilson said, and his dad's the Methodist minister, so he should know,” said James.  He giggled.  “Done it again, haven't I?  Dad, you know Mr Wilson.  You won't tell him about Kit?”

     I laughed.  “Not if you tell me why your brother called you a right little Newark.”

     My younger son actually blushed.  “Oh, Dad!”  The blush receded.  He giggled.  “Can't you guess?”

     “James, I haven't been doing the Times crossword each day since I was a student without being able to do anagrams.  So, if the cap fits....”

     “Dad!”
     “Got you Donk!”  Francis said triumphantly, “Truth will out!  You're favourite hobby!”                    

     “Shut up!  And stop calling me that.  You're the one to talk.  Those kids in Italy didn't call you 'Grande Cazz' for nothing!  Granddad and Grande Cazz.  You made a fine pair, you and Grunty!”

     “Will you two stop bickering,” I said, “Usually it's about who's got the biggest plate of food.  Just because you feel unrestrained by propriety this morning doesn't mean you have to bicker about who's got the biggest....”

     “Dad!!”  From both.

     We agreed that I would leave the typescript in the Library and that Francis should read as much of it as he wanted first.  I explained the story was in three parts, the discovery of the nine, their recruitment and the interactions.  I said there were discussions of various philosophical points and these had been left out of their extract.  I said that bit was fairly near the end as the lads had been at the castle for over a year then.  James was about to make some comment but Francis gave him a look.

     “We promise we won't copy any more and we promise we won't say we've read it,” he said with a serious look on his face.  Then he smiled.  “That article you wrote said there's a book called 'Therese' something.  Wouldn't that be more suitable for him?  And I've read that translation at the end.  The Bijou thing.”

     “So you've been reading learned articles, eh?” I laughed.  James was looking at the ground.  “I don't suppose you'd confess to having read it, too?”

     He gave a wry smile and nodded.  “I'm a little Newark,” he whispered, then looked at me and his face wreathed in his wonderful smile.  “Dad, you couldn't be angry with us.  There's not many boys with such a clever father.”  He laughed.  “All my friends are envious and you scare the pants off Kit and Paul, especially when you ask them questions in French.  And there aren't many Dads who can do Maths homework, too!”

     Paul Curtois was another friend of James.  He had a mischievous gamin smile and I guessed he and James were not averse to a little self-help.  I knew his father was French and the lad was pretty good at the language himself so I could never resist trying him out.

     I told James, especially, that flattery would get them nowhere but then told them a bit more about my authors and especially about our ancestor.  They knew about him but until that moment didn't know he'd written the 'secret' book.  They were both staring at me as I finished with that piece of news.

     “So, you little seekers after the truth, it was your six times great-grandfather who produced that masterpiece you've been scrabbling over with your mucky little paws....”

     “....but pure minds,” said Francis softly, with the understatement of the year.


     I then went on to tell them about the discoveries at Garthorpe Hall and Lord Harford's gift to me.

     “Those old books on the top shelf of your study?” Francis asked, “I always thought you'd picked them up off that old bookstall in the market with the rest of those other dilapidated old things you keep buying.  Never looked at them.”  He laughed.  “Who'd want to read about Hezekiah?  I noticed that one 'cause we'd been doing the prophets in RI and I thought he was one and they were boring as hell!”  He giggled.  “What's in it?”

     “As you should know, he was not a prophet, he was a King of Judah.”  They both groaned.  Dad was in his didactic mode.  “As far I can remember I think those covers contain a rather salacious account of ecclesiastical cavorting which had nothing to do with the virgin daughters of Zion and Jerusalem used as metaphors in that particular chapter of Kings.”  I smiled.  “Whoever chose the spurious titles had quite a sense of humour.  Hezekiah was renowned for his reinstatement of temple worship and this other book had more interest in statements about the temple of Hymen.”  Both lads looked puzzled.  “It's another metaphor.  Don't they teach you anything these days?  Hymen was the god of marriage, a comely youth carrying a torch and a veil.  I suppose the veil was to cover any embarrassments.”  I looked at Francis.  “Like my hanky in the shrubbery.”  He sneered.  “And the torch to lighten the darkness.”  I thought of one of Prosser's asides in one of Campion's RI lessons.  “A light to lighten the genitals, to coin a phrase.”

     “Dad!”  A giggling but fascinated James blurted, “Must remember that!”

     “And they're all in French?” queried Francis.  “Have you translated them?”

     “Only bits.  They're all variations on a theme.  The one that is different is the one I found in manuscript because that's about boys.”  I put my foot in it then.  “But they are illustrated.”  Both boys sat up attentively.  “Sorry,” I said to Francis, “Not that one.  You'll have to use your imagination.”

     A rather strangled “Dad” emerged from his giggles.

     “May I peruse the others?” James asked, much too politely.

     “No you may not.  You'll have to use your imagination until you're of a suitable age.”

     “But you've seen them?” he pleaded.  “I wouldn't tell.”  He paused.  “I'll tell Mum you've told us all about them.”

     “You do that little bro,” said Francis with quite an edge to his voice, “And you certainly wouldn't need one of Stephen's cast-offs.  There'd be nothing to tuck away.”

     “I'm sorry, Dad,” a contrite James responded.  “I'm sorry, I got carried away.”

     “You certainly would be.  In bits!” grunted his brother.  “Don't take any notice of him, Dad.  You've told us plenty and I'll see he behaves himself.”

     James nodded looking a bit downcast.  “I promise.”  He looked up at me.  “It's nice having a Dad you can talk to.”  That was said with a voice of quiet sincerity.  “I've thought a lot about yesterday.  Thanks!”

     “Is there anything else you want to know while we're here?”

     Francis looked at James before he spoke.  “Dad, you and Uncle Tony are as close as me and James....”  He hesitated.

     “What you mean is, have we done what you did last night?” I said quietly.  “Yes.  We are very close.”

     “And others?”  Francis asked softly.

     I nodded.  I would say no more.  He would have to deduce who.

     I turned to James.  “You'll get married someday and I hope you'll be able to talk to your children like today and yesterday.  It's important.  Grandad asked me one day if I wanted to know anything and I said I didn't at the time, but I knew I could ask him if I needed to.  Anything you want to ask, please don't hesitate.”

     Francis reached out and touched my hand.  “If you say that you'll never get a moment's peace.”  He grinned at his brother.  “You'll have two people to quiz so if you don't believe me you can ask Dad.  And don't forget Grunty says he's fed up with you asking about girls.”

     “Well, I had to ask someone and you're not much good.  I knew you weren't interested so I asked him.  At least he knows what to do!”  He looked at me.  That grin.  “Whoops, James!”

     I patted him on the head.  An action I knew he didn't like.  He shook his head.  “I'll always be the same.  Mum says my mouth opens before my brain is in gear.”  He looked at his brother.  “At least I've got a brain.  Eleven As!”

     “But about as much nous as a cold Christmas pudding....”

     “...But stuffed with good things...” was the immediate riposte.

     Both boys hooted with laughter.  I smiled.  Dear James had certainly been stuffed with good things the night before.  We all knew that.

     I asked James to show me his hands.  He held them out.  We had an appointment to see the skin man next week and I wanted to check there hadn't been any damage since our return.  There was still redness but the skin was intact.  Francis looked at them and sniffed.

     “Sorry, old mate.  I didn't mean you having to suffer like that,” he said, “But you made the most of it.”

     James looked up at me his eyes twinkling.  “Best thing you did, Dad, telling him everything meant everything!”

     “Huh, and you made the most of it, too.  You even made Bruno wipe your backside and Safar cut your toenails,” said Francis tartly.

     “Don't change the subject, bro.  Dad told you what to do and you carried out your duties faithfully.”   He leaned back as Francis aimed a good-natured punch to his upper arm.  “Ouch!  That is until you delegated your duties to the others.”  He looked at me.  “Oh God, James has done it again!”

     I was more than used to 'foot in mouth' disease as Tiger had called it after numerous occasions where James had inadvertently come out with some choice tidbit of gossip or some mix-up.  Tiger was there when James, aged twelve, announced at the tea table that his class had had their BCG injections that day and the nurse was coming in next week to inspect their pricks to see if they were red and swollen.  I thought Tiger was going to choke on the doughnut he was scoffing at the moment and the looks on Francis's and Grunty's faces were a picture.

     “Why don't you take all your little helpers to the Berni bar for steak and chips?  Spend a bit of that money you've been hoarding for all those years,” I said, playing on the fact that dear James hated spending any of his pocket-money.

     “He'd better wait until Bruno and Silvio come at Easter,” laughed Francis.

     “Shut up, you!” said James, almost petulantly, “Just because...., Ouch!”

     Francis had caught hold of James' ear and twisted it.  “Let's call it quits, shall we?”

     Both then dissolved into giggles.

     The bound copy of the 'secret' book was taken up to their bedroom directly after supper.  I heard Francis telling Tony that they had things to discuss.  As he was carrying the book at the time Tony knew exactly what they were about to discuss.  Tony and I sat and imbibed brandy with Tony smoking his interminable Gauloises.  We kept looking at each other and grinning as we chatted.  Even though Tony was telling me more about the film studios and their odd inhabitants the two boys were on our minds.

                              *
     At breakfast next morning they kept grinning at each other.  James disappeared upstairs again immediately afterwards and Francis, Tony and I strolled out to the terrace.

     He looked round but Tony had discreetly walked off after lighting another cigarette.  “Dad,” he began speaking softly, “We had to take the book upstairs.  It does things.”  Another understatement of the year.  He enlightened me.  “We read it in bits until well after two.”  We sat on the bench and he turned to me, confidentially.  “Dad, it's odd, there's no rude words, but....  You, know...., You can't help it can you?  And you translated it...., Um, did it?”     
     “Oh, come off it, Francis,” I said laughing, “If you think a lad of twenty-two as I was at the time could read that and not do what you and that brother of yours were engaging in last night then you must be daft!  I know it had the same effect on Daniel and Johann and I guess it's fuelled the imagination of several generations of lads from your school even with that short extract.”

     “Daniel and Johann, as well?

     “Of course, you don't think that it's only English boys who....  Oh, I forgot..  You do know about Italian boys!  Silvio and Bruno at least!”

     He had to laugh.  “Dad, I realised a long time ago that all boys are the same.  It's just interesting finding out...  .  Oh, I'm sounding like James now.”

     “Yeah, when Granddad read it he said boys will be boys - and he did mention willing boys in the bushes!”

     “Grandad's read it too?”   Francis sounded both astounded and a little shocked.

     “Yes.  Grandma found out about the 'secret' book as we called it when Charley Lascelles had a bit too much to drink up at Garthorpe.  Granddad was instructed to find out more and it was when we lived at Kerslake and I was finishing off the translation ready for my thesis.”  I paused.  “No, don't ask me.  He must have skipped through it 'cause it didn't take him long before he was down again and informing Grandma.  It wasn't mentioned again.  I've often wondered what he told her.  I don't think she'd be too shocked though given some of the things she's written in her books.”

     He laughed.  “Her books are popular at school.  I daren't tell anyone it's my Grandma.”  We both laughed.  He became serious again.  “I wondered about that book about Chelsea 'cause there was a boy in that murdered and Cam Sullivan said he was definitely one who....  You know...  Waits in the lavs....”

     I looked at him.  He'd stopped and his lower lip was held under his teeth.  “You haven't?”

     He shook his head violently.  “No, Dad, I haven't, but I know about them.  I promise you I wouldn't.”  He shook his head again.   “You've got to believe me.  There's boys in school who go, but I wouldn't, I wouldn't, I wouldn't....”  He had shaken his head on each repetition.  I knew I could trust him.

     I reached out and took hold of his hand.  “Francis, one day you'll find someone.  It's not worth the hassle of the other.  I had to stand as a good character reference for one of our students only last year who was caught.  He said he was only curious.  I believed him.  I had to.   There's lots of lads like that.  They're not sure.”  I laughed slightly.  “The ones I've known about have all been to boys' schools.  Like you.”

     “..And bloody James....., and it doesn't affect him!”  He looked contrite.  “I'm sorry Dad but before he knew properly about me he used to tease me.  Said I didn't know anything about girls 'cause I was too busy.....”  He began to sniff.  “Dad, it's awful.   I can't help it.  James has promised not to tease me anymore.  I know he won't and Grunty has promised he'll be with me all the time.  Khaled's promised, too.   I wish I could be with Uncle Tony.....”

     I squeezed his hand.  “Francis, there's no harm in looking.  All boys do.  But, be careful.  There's a difference between curiosity and the real thing.  But, I'll guess between them Grunty and Khaled'll keep you on the straight and narrow.”  I giggled.  “I don't know about the straight.”

     He squeezed my hand back.  “Oh, Dad.  Thanks!”

     James gave me back the book before supper that night.  He'd been an absent figure most of the day.  He had his usual James' grin on his face as he handed me the book.  His only comment was “Wow!”.


13.                      September - December 1965

     Tony had further long talks with Francis during that stay at Ulvescott and Francis had told me when we got back home that he was far happier now.  But he had to plan his immediate future.  As he and Grunty wanted to read medicine and to do at least their pre-clinical work at Cambridge they had applied to the same college.  They also wanted to improve their CVs so decided to take up rowing with one of the school's eights as they had Friday afternoons free from lessons and could chose to help either with Junior Games, or pursue some other activity.  As colleges were always looking for boat crews they thought it would be a good idea.

     Of course, it caused much hilarity in the household.  James had to remind Francis at every meal that boaties had the reputation of being thick.    James would set Francis off with “How do you get a boatie to climb a ladder?”  “Tell him the drinks are on the house”, or “How do you keep a boatie busy for hours?”  “Give him a card with Please Turn Over written on both sides.”

     At least he didn't ask the ones I remembered from times as an undergraduate.   “Why is a boatie like Minnie Mouse?”  “Because it's almost certain they're both fucking Goofy”, or, “Why is a boatie like snow in November?”  “Because you're not likely to get six inches and it won't last long anyway”, or, “What's a boatie's idea of foreplay?  “Half the crew wanking each other while the other half watch”.

     James did get his comeuppance somewhat one day right at the beginning of term when Grunty was there as well at tea-time.  They had both sneered at “What's a boatie's favourite holiday?”, “Visiting the next pub”, as weak and beneath their contempt.  They endured “Confucius he say three kinds of boaties.  Those who can count and those who can't!” with a look of disdain but when later he'd asked “Why is a boatie like a bottle of beer?” and they both knew the answer, “'Cause there's nothing from the neck up”, there was a concerted rush at James who scampered up the stairs into his bedroom at a mighty rate of knots.  Too late.  There were anguished squeals with Grunty bellowing out “What's black and blue with hairy legs and found floating in the Cam?”.  Francis's chanted answer, “Little boys who tell stupid boatie jokes”, was accompanied by cries for help which I studiously ignored.  Two embryonic boaties came back downstairs rubbing their hands, smirking.  We finished off eating to muted cries of “Help!”.

     I waved them out, still grinning, as they were off to some meeting or other.  Anne was out, too, so I wandered up to my study a few minutes later to read through a proof of another article.  James heard me come up the stairs.  “Dad, I need you!” he called.

     “You can go to the lav yourself now.  There's nothing wrong with your hands.”

     “Dad, please?”  He sounded rather peeved.

     I went along to his bedroom  The one he normally shared with Stephen.  He was lying sideways on the bed.  He was nude.  They had stripped him and then tied his hands and arms together behind his back and lashed them to his legs and feet, which were drawn up behind him.  Grunty's time in the Scouts had paid off as far as knots were concerned even though they were in socks, pants and other items of wear.  James was fixed, but the piece de resistance was the bow of purple satin ribbon tied round his rather shrivelled limp cock.  One of Stephen's artistic creations for his puppet theatre had been raided.

     I looked him over.  “Oh, I'll come back later,” I said, “I see you're tied up at the moment.”

     He had to grin.  “Dad, please, no corny jokes and I promise I won't say anything else to those two.”

     I grinned too.  “You won't have to say much if you end up like this.  I like the ribbon, though.  What's that for?  Awarded your twelfth A - for annoyance?”

     “Please, Dad,” he was trying hard not to giggle.  “I'm cold.  Please untie me.”

     “I can see you're a bit cold.  Not like a warm bath in here.”

     “Dad, please.   Mum'll be home soon and I don't want her to see me like this.”

     I went in and he wriggled on the bed.  “I'll get those two,” he said.

     “And you'll end up again like this.  Or in the Cam!  In fact I think they've gone to fetch the rest of the crew.”

     He thought I was serious.  He wriggled more violently.  “Keep still,” I said, delivering a sharp slap to his rather pert bum, “Whoever did these knots was very good.”  He started to try to kick himself free so I slapped him again.  “Keep still!  Are you wriggling so you get your backside smacked?” I asked, undoing a rather tight knot in a pair of  football socks.  “I should have smacked it a bit more when you were younger to teach you good manners towards your elders.”

     He was laughing now.  “There you are,” I said as I freed his legs from his arms and he flung off those bonds.  “I'll leave you to remove the ribbon.”

     “Thanks Dad,” he smiled at me.  “I'm sorry I'm such a pickle.  Can't help it.  But I can still tease Francis, can't I?”

     “No doubt you will,” I said, “But don't think I'll always be here to rescue you.  Your Mum might have to remove your next adornment.  At least they didn't paint your bits with ink or tie you with your shorts down to a hole in a tree like they did to a boy at school with me.”

     He sat up on the side of the bed, forgetting to start dressing himself and still with the bow tied round his floppy dick.  He was all ears.  “Tell me more, please?  You tell us bits and that school you went to sounds interesting.  Nothing ever happens at ours.”

     “Come on then, get yourself presentable and dressed and you can come down and finish your tea.  I might tell you something of the saga of Bernie Foster.”

     I went down and made a fresh pot of tea and as he munched through a second stack of bread and jam I gave him a version of poor Bernard.  I said the last I'd heard of him he was having a very successful career in the Merchant Navy so blue ink and ant bites were no real deterrent.

     When I finished he smiled.  “Thanks, Dad.  You don't imagine your Dad's ever been a boy.” He looked at me and grinned.  “Will you tell us about Uncle Mike and those pictures he drew sometime?”

     That was a bit more personal.  “Sometime!”  I said.

     With a bit of encouragement from Grunty, especially, James joined in trying out rowing.  As a First Year Sixth Former he joined in the group training on Wednesdays.  We heard no more boatie jokes!

     But, towards the end of term there was a happening reminiscent of something previous.  On this particular Friday Francis and James had gone off to school, Anne was giving a lecture and then had supervisions after lunch.  I had two supervisions in the morning and a committee meeting for some arcane bit of College business in the afternoon.  I'd cycled into college but on the way got a puncture.  Willy said, in his helpful but circuitous way, that he would get Davy to pump the tyre up and take the bike to the bike shop in Chesterton Road at lunch-time as that was near De Freville Avenue where Jem and Sam had just bought another house for letting to students and Davy could check if the carpet had been laid properly on the stairs.  All rather complicated, but I would get my bike back in the afternoon.

     As it happened I had a note from the Bursar saying the meeting had been cancelled so as soon as I finished seeing the second student off in the morning I said to Willy I would walk home as I had a pile of essays to mark and I'd pick up the bike on Monday.

     On arriving home, not needing to go round the back where I usually parked my bike, leaving it in everybody's way against the side of the garage, I used my front-door key to get in.  At about half past twelve, having marked quite a number of the essays I found some grub in the fridge for my lunch, ate it, washed up and went back upstairs to my study.  About half past one I heard someone unlock the backdoor and realised it was Francis with Grunty.  Obviously come to collect some bit of forgotten rowing kit as they were due on the river at two thirty.  I heard them chatting as they came upstairs.  They, of course, seeing no bike, finding a locked backdoor, a cleared kitchen, had no idea I was there.  I wasn't expected to be there.  As far as Francis knew I was in college getting ready for the committee meeting I'd bitterly complained about at breakfast that morning.

     My study door was slightly open and I could hear talk, then silence, then some rather interesting noises.  I could hear Francis repeatedly saying at a gradually increasing volume, “Come on Grunt, that's it, I want it, I need it, come on....”  I also noted Grunty was living up to his nickname - not applied for what I could hear, though.  This was a slow but insistent, “Nuh..... Nuh..... Nuh....” egged on by Francis's pleas.  Of course, nosey me had to find out what was going on.  Luckily hinges had been well-oiled and no floorboards squeaked under the corridor carpet.  I crept along and found the door to Francis's bedroom half open.

     On the bed, the end of which was clearly visible through the open door, was a recumbent Francis, on his back, eyes tight shut, his legs round Grunty's broad back, being soundly and enthusiastically fucked by his best friend.  From the angle I was at I could see very clearly that Francis had a real Thomson seven inch hardon which he was gripping tight and slowly pushing his foreskin back and forth over the head.  Grunty, on the other hand, as had been divulged much earlier, was perhaps just on the fortieth percentile for his age, five inches at the most, but what he lacked in length he made up for in girth.  Wow!  If Francis was taking that in without complaint they must have practised opening him up for some time.

     Grunty's grunts were timed exactly to the full insertion of that short, thick cock.  Each time on the upstroke he withdrew it so that his fat, round knob end came almost fully out.  Then with a great shove of his powerful, muscly buttocks the stubby monster disappeared until his plum-sized balls slapped against Francis's undercarriage.  And so the accompanying, “Nuh...”

     By this time Francis was getting more frantic and I saw Grunty's balls rise so I knew he was near completion.  I crept back to my room just in time to hear a succession of even louder grunts with a final drawn-out “Unnnnnnnnnh”.   This was accompanied by a rapid repetition of   “Oh, Grunt...,  Oh, Grunt..., Oh, Grunt...,” ending with an almost agonising “OhhhhhhhhHHHHHH” as Francis must have climaxed almost simultaneously.  There was a moment's silence, then Francis started up a litany of   “Oh, Grunt..., Oh, Grunt.., Oh Grunt...,” again, against Grunty's heavy breathing after that effort.  Francis ended his repetitions with, “Oh Grunt, I wanted that so bad, I wanted it so bad.  Oh, I want it again, soon!”  Solid, dependable, pragmatic Grunty panted, “You'll have to wait until tomorrow night!  You'll get it then!  And then it's my turn, too!”

     Tomorrow night?  Saturday.  Yes!  Professor and Mrs Gibson were away for the weekend.  Grunty was destined for house-sitting and Francis had offered to accompany him.  I had heard plans for homework completion and further reading discussed earlier in the week.  Nothing about fucking!  Well as long as the first came first and the pair came second, no problem.  I'd seen my best friend being fucked by a cock inches longer than Grunty's at Ulvescott years ago but I doubted if Tony had had any more pleasure than Francis had had this afternoon.  I knew I'd had some of the most intense and the most exhilarating experiences of my life on my back like Francis, or in the position of Grunty.  Who was I to have any reasons to condemn my son and his best friend?  Who was I  to marvel at the stamina of two seventeen-year-olds who soon after left the house and were ready to spend the next two hours rowing?  Then, I thought, I generally, at that age, did the exercise first then came afterwards.  Ah well, chacun a son gout!
     I was outside the back-door at about four o'clock, putting some rubbish in the dustbin, when Francis and Grunty returned from the river.  I heard Grunty clatter up his drive and through the gate at the side of their house.  Francis did the same on our side leaving his bike where I normally parked mine.  He looked at me.

     “You're home early.  I thought you had a committee meeting,” he said briskly, following me into the kitchen.  The aroma of hot, sweaty adolescent was very apparent.  He'd got a thick top on and baggy shorts covering his rower's leotard.

     “Oh, it was cancelled,” I said.  “D'you want a mug of tea before you shower?”

     “Oh, please, it's thirsty work.  Coach kept us at it 'cause Cam kept catching crabs.”

     I knew his pal Cam Sullivan was not suffering from itchy balls but dipping his oar at the wrong angle.  I poured a mug of tea for him.  A thought must have struck him.

     “Where's your bike?” he asked, “I didn't see it out there.”

     I still had my drop-handled racer - that present from so many years ago.  Well I suppose it was the same bike.  Over the years I'd had several new tires, a new front wheel after Francis had tried a wheelie and came down rather too heavily, a new saddle, chain, pedals, name it!  Like Pa's favourite shovel which had had a new handle and a new blade, it was the same well-loved possession.

     “Oh, I had a puncture on the way in this morning so Davy is taking it to the bike shop and I'll get it back on Monday.  I walked home at lunch-time.”

     Ouch!  Like James my mouth opened inadvertently.  You could almost hear the cogs turning in my boatie son's well-tuned brain.

     “Dad?”  He looked at me questioningly.

     “Yes,” I nodded

     “And you were here?”

     “Of course.”  I shrugged my shoulders.  “I don't know where you lads get your stamina from.  That, and then an hour and a half rowing.”

     He didn't know whether to laugh or cry.  I went up to him and hugged him.  Gosh, he had worked up a sweat!

     “Francis,” I whispered into his ear, “Whatever you do is up to you.  I'd rather it was you and Grunty and not some furtive anonymous liaison.”  He hugged me tight.  “But don't let him get too involved, I don't think he's destined to be your lifetime boyfriend.”

     “No, Dad.  It's just us.  He's my friend,” he murmured in my ear.  “And you're not shocked 'cause we're boys?”

     “No more than if I found James in bed with some girl from St Faith's.  Except I'd want to check they weren't taking risks.”

     He relaxed and giggled.

     “But you be careful with Grunty.  Remember you're much bigger than he is....”

     “Dad!.....,” he interrupted me, sounding rather startled or astounded.

     “......remember you're six foot two and he's only five feet seven....”

     He let go of me and I released him.  We stood eye to eye.  We smiled at each other.  “Oh, Dad!”  He shook his head, “We can never get anything past you, can we?  It's best to be honest and in the open.”  He looked at me and smiled.  I nodded.   “It's OK, Dad, Grunty and I have made a pact.  We're boys I know but it's..... Oh!  Grunty's keen on this girl in the other Sixth Form but they haven't..., she won't and Grunty respects that.  But....”  He chewed his lower lip.  “...We don't force ourselves on each other.....”

     “..But you both felt like it this afternoon?”  I said

     He grinned and nodded.  “Unfortunately, I feel like it most of the time....” he countered.

     “Oh, to be seventeen,” I whispered.

     One of the major points in a chapter in Professor Gibson's last book was on the heightened hormonal levels and sexual drive and capacities of sixteen to twenty-five year olds.  True, too true!

     “You'd better go and shower.  You're tea's cold.  I'll make some more and bring it up.”

     He smiled at me.  “Thanks, Dad.”  A very smelly boy leaned forward and kissed my cheek.

     “And put all that stuff you're wearing in the washing-machine before you go upstairs.  You stink!”

     “Yes, sir!” he said trying a less-than-military salute.

     He stripped off and took the pile of clothes into the utility room.  I noted his overall tan had faded somewhat.  He came out smiling.  “I am bigger than Grunty, though, aren't I?”  He made a dive for the door as I flicked the tea-towel I was holding at his retreating bum.

     I took the fresh mug of tea up to him with a couple of tea-cakes I had found in the pantry and buttered.  He was still in the bathroom so I tapped on the door.  He called out 'Come in' and he was just drying his hair.

     “Bring the things down when you've finished,” I said.

     He smiled his thanks.  “Dad,” he said quietly as I turned to go out.  “Thanks again for understanding me.  I'll be OK.   I'd better not tell Grunty though about today.”

     “Probably not at the moment.  You'll have to tell him sometime. But remember to call out another time to see if anybody's home, unless your passions are running too high.  Judging from today....”

     “Dad,” he snickered, “it's wonderful, though, isn't it?”

     “Well, you'll find out again tomorrow night, won't you?”

     “Dad!!”

                              *
     From other snippets of conversation I'd overheard and observations made  it was fairly clear that Khaled was also another firm friend.  I didn't get the impression that any activity had escalated, if that was the right word, to such a level as with Grunty.  Khaled had slept over a number of times during the term and was in with Francis on most of the occasions but with James on the others if Safar wasn't accompanying him.  I'd almost bumped into him a couple of  mornings as he made his way to their bathroom and I was going to my study.  Like all the males in the household he also preferred to sleep in the raw and was used to wandering to and fro in that condition.  On both occasions I noted his almost sixteen-year-old well-toned body completed by a good-sized, dark-hued, pink-ended circumcised cock.  The second time his morning hardon was still somewhat evident and I could see he was much more equipped in length than Grunty.  Oh yes, I had been told that Khaled was 'well-blessed'.   Whatever he and Francis, or he and James, sampled together there was no doubt, from the evidence when only partially hard,  that Khaled would be a very good firm friend!

                              *
     I wondered what Grunty wanted the next Thursday when he asked if he could talk to me.  I thought, perhaps, that Francis had told him of my observing them, but no, it was for quite a different reason.

     “Dr Thomson,” he began, as formal as ever, “It's something I've noticed.  I've seen this car.   It's been parked by the school a few days when we've come out and the last two days it's been in Barton Road by the pub and I think it's the same one that was just along the road here on Tuesday.”  

     “What sort of car?” I asked.

     “It's a dark Hillman,” he said, “And I've got the number.”  He pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket.  “It's LUR 671.”

     Thank God!  “It's OK, Grunty,” I said feeling relieved.  “I know the number.”

     It was one of the minders' cars.  I wondered why it was so conspicuous.

     “It's about Khaled and Safar, isn't it?” he asked.  “Like in Italy?”

     I smiled.  “You might as well know, it is.  And thanks for telling me.  It is very important.  And thanks for not saying anything about Italy.”

     “I haven't even said anything to Francis and I won't....,” he hesitated.  “Is Khaled really a prince?  Francis did tell me that some time ago.”

     “And Safar,” I said.  “The fewer people who know the better.  The boys know and your Head knows.  But that doesn't mean you have to treat them any different, they're boys, just like you and the others.”

     His lopsided grin.  “They'll be treated just the same by me.  I told their Dad that.  I liked him.  He's very important, though, isn't he?”  I nodded.  He became serious again.  “Do you want me to keep an eye on them.”

     “Grunty, you're enrolled,” I said, “No pay.  Sticky buns from Fitzbillies every fortnight, perhaps.”  I looked at him seriously, too.  “Please don't make it obvious.  There's always someone around.  I guess the conspicuous car was a warning to someone.  I don't think they're in any danger but I'll report what you noticed.  Something did go awry in Italy.  I wasn't told about a change of plan and I saw someone I didn't expect.  So I had to check.”  I smiled at him.  He nodded.  I hope he didn't think it was too much like James Bond.

     “Khaled told me in Italy you were his guardian.  So you're responsible for him?”

     “Yes and Safar, too.  It's a bit difficult at times.  Please say nothing to them as they don't know but they are being watched all the time.  I'm only telling you because you saw what happened in Prato and I had to act quickly.  I trust you.  You know that, don't you?”

     He nodded.  “Dr Thomson,” he started again, “There's something else.  It's about last Friday.  Francis told me....”   He smiled.  “...We're just boys!”

     I laughed.  “Oh, Grunty, I know you are.  I'm glad Francis told you.  I hope the weekend was successful, too!  Don't worry, I'm happy for Francis...  And you!””

     Poor Grunty.  He blushed, but he smiled that lopsided smile.

                              *
     Term for the boys ended and there was also the welcome home for Stephen.  Over the term we'd had several short letters from him extolling his training and the friends he was making.  There had been two complimentary letters from two of his tutors saying he was progressing well, both in his school subjects as well as in his ballet training.  Anne and Ina were going to London to collect Stephen and Lisa - who was doing equally well - and James insisted he wanted to go, too.  There was a reception committee waiting for them outside the houses as they got out of the taxi from Cambridge station.  As well as Mr McIntyre and Caroline waiting for Lisa there was a row of Francis, Grunty, Khaled, Safar, as well as Lucius, with me in the background.

     It was incredible.  A very self-possessed eleven-and a half-year-old had left in September.  An even more self-possessed eleven-years and ten-month-old young man stepped from the cab.  His back was straighter, he walked differently, he had a posture which showed even in that short time what excellent training he was having.  He held the door for Lisa and she, too, had changed.  She looked every inch the superb young ballerina she would become.  Then things went wild.  Both were kissed, hugged, kissed and hugged again.  A grinning James and the cabbie unloaded the luggage.  We all went indoors and had tea.  Poor Stephen and Lisa were somewhat overwhelmed by the welcome home they got.  Tea over and the McIntyres departed.  Stephen recovered a bit except everyone was still asking questions.  I suggested he, Safar and James took his bags up to the bedroom and get him unpacked in a bit of peace and quiet.  The others complained until I said there was more food.  Sam had been earlier in the day and had prepared a casserole which had been cooking all afternoon.  Stephen was forgotten as they set to and devoured the steaming nosh.

     Anne had already gone upstairs to see all was well.  The smell of the food brought them all down and two large casserole dishes soon emptied.  Stephen had to tell them how his days had been spent.  School study, exercises at the barre, exercises in the dance studio, more study.  His was a new world.  An ordered, organised, an exacting world.  It was one he would have to live with if he was to become the professional he had set his heart on.  From his way of speaking about his new life I knew he would succeed.

     A bit later that evening I was in my study when he tapped on the door.  As he came in he smiled.

     “Oh, Dad, I haven't had a chance to talk to you.”  He rushed forward and put his arms round me as I leaned forward.  “Thanks for everything,” he whispered, “I miss being home but I think it'll be worth it.  I told Mum that on the train.”

     A second figure tapped on the door and looked in.  It was James.

     “Oh Dad, isn't it lovely having him home.  I've missed him and so has Safar.  He looks a bit different but he's still my brother.”  He came up behind him, all six feet of him, and picked a laughing just under five foot Stephen up.  “Crumbs you've lost weight but you feel all muscly,” he said admiringly, “You must tell me what you do.”

     “I think he'd better come back with you next term,” I said to Stephen.  “Thinking about it he'd make a good Ugly Sister in Cinderella.”

     “Dad!  I can be graceful when I want.”

     “What, with two left feet, arms that never know where they are and knuckles that drag on the ground!”

     “Oh, Dad, I never meant to break that vase.  Mrs Pring must have moved it from where it usually was!”

     The vase was only the last in the long line of items brushed into, tripped over, accidentally pushed, or merely blundered into, which any household has to put up with when it contains two gangling six-footers, with one, especially, slightly more prone to sudden lurches and waving of arms.  Mrs Pring, our admirable cleaning lady, had two large sons of her own and she and Anne commiserated together almost weekly over objects destroyed by over-large-boy action.
     James put Stephen down without dropping him, or crushing an arm or leg in the process.  He changed the subject.

     “Cor, Dad, I wouldn't mind going to that school.  You should see some of those girls.  Actually, all of them,” he grinned, truly lasciviously.  “I've asked Stephen for some names but the toad says they're all too good for me.”  He made a mock grab at Stephen.  “How much is it worth not to twist one of your legs off tonight?  Three names?”

     A third figure appeared at the door.  It was Safar.  My study was getting a little crowded.  Safar at thirteen was the same height as Stephen.  He looked up at James a good foot higher.

     “I heard what you said.  You will do no such thing,” he said, his voice now changing a bit with his onset of puberty, “You'll have me to answer for if you lay a finger on him!”  He laughed.  “He's going to tell me the names first, aren't you, Stephen?”

     “No, you're much too young....  Ouch, Stephen, why did you do that?”  Stephen had nipped the flesh just above James's hip-bone.

     “Gosh, you're fat, none of the girls would look at you.  Anyway you've got spots and who'd want....”

     He wasn't allowed to finish.  “That's not fat, that's muscle and I can't help the spots.  You wait till you get them!”

     Stephen was in a real teasing mood.  He wrinkled his face up.  “Ugh, spotty gob...., ...who'd want to kiss that?”

     “Come here, I'll get you!  I'll give you spots!”

     The pair rushed off along the corridor.  Safar was left.  I shook my head at the retreating figures.  He came and stood by me.

     “I've got to tell you.  You know, what we talked about in Italy.”  I nodded.  “I can.  I tried it again on Thursday night after school broke up and it happened and I told Khaled and James and they said 'Good show, I was growing up'.”  He smiled at me.  “I thought I'd better tell you in case you were worried about me as I hadn't said anything.”

     What could I say.  Another generation growing up.  That scrap of a child not so long ago.  “Congratulations,” I said, “I'm not worried.  I knew it would happen before long.   But, is there anything else you want to know?”

     “Khaled and James have told me things.  I suppose they're right.  If I think of anything else I'll ask you.”   Very straightforward.  “Oh, yes,” he went on, “Can you do Italian?”

     I said my Italian was very scanty.  What did he want to know?

     “I want to send a Christmas card to Giovanni to tell him and I don't know how to write it.”
     Supreme innocence!  But straightforward, too.  I was reminded of the slight code Alun and I had used - emphasizing 'come'.  But, I didn't know if there was an euphemism in Italian.  Anne's Italian was quite fluent but whether it stretched to boys' habits I didn't know.  She would be amused when I told her.   I had an idea.

     “I know, why don't you write 'Si, certo' and put a ring round it.  He's an intelligent boy, he'll guess.  It means, 'yes, certainly'.”

     I wrote the two words down for him.   “You could add 'di tutti di giorni' - that's 'every day' but you hadn't better.....”

     He smiled at me.  Pure innocence.  “... It's true.   But, he'll guess from the other.  His Mum might ask him what I meant if I put the rest.  Thanks.”  He folded the paper and put it in his trousers pocket.   “I'd better go and see James isn't tormenting Stephen too much.  I haven't told Stephen, yet.”

     I wondered if, when I was thirteen and a few months and if I'd found I could come then and I was also already masturbating daily, I could have been so forthcoming with an adult.  I suppose Safar being brought up in the company of so many 'older brothers', who also told him they'd talked to Dad, it was just a natural thing for him to do.

     That night the three of them were adamant they were sharing a bed there was too much to talk about.  So, Khaled and Safar were staying over and Khaled was going in with Francis.  Long after the five of them had retreated to bed I went to my study to find a book and could hear talk going on in the room with the three of them in it.    I tapped on the door and went in.  Two were in bed and James was still half-dressed sitting on the bed and they were chattering away from boyish treble, pubescent alto to adolescent tenor, nineteen to the dozen.

     “Come on now, you've got all the Christmas holidays to talk.  In bed!  And if you don't shut up Stephen can have the bed and you two will be in the bunks.”

     “Dad!”  From an aggrieved James.  “We're only going over what we've done this term.  They wanted to hear about me rowing.  Stephen doesn't believe it.”  He grinned.  “And he said we should all go to the show they're putting on before Easter because he'll be dancing.  And he'll probably be in the ballet at the Opera House next Christmas....a mouse or something....”

     “...It's not a show,” said Stephen archly, “...It's a performance of work in progress.  Our first year group are going to demonstrate training and the older ones will do proper dances...”

     “...And can Lucius...,” interrupted James, “...come and alter the height of the barre as Stephen has to do his exercises every day.”

     “....I told you earlier,” said Stephen, “...They're not called exercises, they're called 'class'.”

     “Shut up, you two, I need to go to sleep,” said Safar, giving me a huge conspiratorial wink, “And anyway I know about boaties like James.  I asked him the other day if he wanted his pizza cut in four or eight pieces and he said he didn't think he could eat eight!”

     Safar rolled out of the way as James pulled the pillow from behind Stephen's head and tried to swipe him.
     I left them to it.  Once downstairs I made a note to 'phone Lucius.

                              *
     A couple of days later Stephen came to my study.  “Dad,” he started, looking a bit hesitant, “Can I talk to you?”

     I said of course he could.  He shut the door and sat on the chair by my own at the desk.

     “Safar told me what he can do.  I know James and the others do it and my friend Jody at school does it too, he's fourteen. When will I be able to do it?  James says I'm too young and I'd better talk to you.   He said I might be nearly fourteen when I could like he was but Safar's younger than that.”

     I explained as carefully as possible that boys grew up at different rates and he'd notice certain things happening when he was twelve or so.  He might start to notice hair and then he would begin to grow down below, like James.  He nodded.  I knew he'd seen James pass from boyhood to being a young man as he'd shared a room and a bed with him for some time and James was no slouch in wandering about naked in the mornings, especially.  I said he knew about Giovanni and he nodded.  I said he was another example of a boy who developed early, but he wasn't to be in any hurry, it would all happen quite naturally.

     “Can I ask you something else?” he said.

     “Stephen, you know you can always ask anything.  I expect James and the others have told you that.”

     He nodded.  “It's only that two of the boys always sleep together.  We're not supposed to, but they do.  Are they like Francis?”

     A difficult one.  Was I being told something I should really pass back to the school?  No.  This was all in confidence.  I wondered how Mike managed to maintain the seal of the confessional when told of much more heinous happenings?  I said if they slept together that was up to them as long as they confined it to themselves.  I said that when boys developed they often did things with friends.  “Like James and Khaled do?” he asked.  I didn't ask whether he meant helping each other manually or in any other way.  I rather chickened out and just said,'Yes' which he probably interpreted as a fact I knew what they did together.  I didn't know, but from all the accumulating evidence they were at least wank-buddies.  Not surprisingly.  If I was their age they would have been prime wank-buddies for me.  I said the boys at school might be just being best of friends or they might only want to be with another boy, like Francis.

     I asked him to tell me, in confidence, if any of the boys had suggested he join in anything.  He nodded.

     “I said I didn't want to and they left me alone.  There's quite a few who go off together, though.”

     I said he might feel like that when he was older.  Boys often experimented with each other.  He nodded again.  “James says I've got to be careful.  If I wanted to do anything it's only with someone I like.  Like him.  Is that right?”

     I did have a most sensible son.  James might be a pickle but he was very level-headed.

     “Stephen, as I told the others....   ...You are your own master.   You do what you want to do.  You must become what you want to be.  But, never harm anyone else and don't let anyone harm you.  Understand?”

     He seemed satisfied about all this.  There was a lot for a nearly-twelve-year-old to digest.  In many ways he was old for his years.  I had never had a thought about what boys did or how they developed at his age.  I suppose being an only child, although having played 'doctors and nurses', I was really innocent.  It was only with Alun's visit when I was thirteen that I became attuned somewhat to the changes which were happening in me.  Safar and Stephen had the benefit of constant interplay between their older brothers and their friends.  There was an openness between the main six of them which could only be for the good.  The natural way they had interacted with the six Amati brothers and the way they had become friends - even poor Silvio from under the domination of his father - showed their characters.

     One further question.  “James said you said Silvio and Bruno could come to stay.  Could Domenico come as well?”

     I said we'd have to think about it.  We couldn't just have three of them and Safar was friendly with Giovanni.  I said they couldn't come at Easter because Francis and Grunty had their A Levels to prepare for.  But, there was all the summer.  We'd arrange things for that.

                              *
     The great news was that both Francis and Grunty were successful in their applications to read Medicine.  Both had applied to Pembroke College and both were accepted subject to horrendously high A Level results.  Both families made the stipulation that if successful they were to live in college and were not to be seen hanging around home hoping for extra sustenance and comfort.  Tiger had made the decision to train at St Georges in London and I just wondered if the boys would have been better a bit further away from home.  Still it was done and there was the option for them to do some of the training in London after the first couple of years.

     Two other things happened just before Christmas.  Firstly, Ma and Pa moved back to the flat by the Albert Hall.  Pin Mill House was just too big for the pair of them, now.  It needed lots of repairs so Aunt Della was going to sell it as there were plans to develop the sailing facilities at Pinmill and it would be ideal for a developer.  Also, Ma was missing her concerts and theatre.  Tim and Maureen had a couple of rooms and Ma and Pa got on so well with them it was no problem.  Anyway, they were coming to stay for Christmas so we would hear more then.

     The second thing was a real bombshell.  Flea announced he was retiring from the Air Force.  He loved flying but was more and more involved in training schedules and dealing with cutbacks so he wanted out.  I also found out he was also at the end of a rather torrid affair with a lady, still married, who had suddenly ditched him for someone ten years younger and five inches taller.  It wasn't so much the five inches taller but the ten years younger that annoyed him most.  He was at a loose end.  He had nowhere to stay and was just about to start his accrued final leave.  He'd been promised a job, managing a small engineering works down near Brighton, but that wouldn't start until the week after Easter.  He moved in, much to the delight of the boys, three days before Christmas.  We also had another visitor.  Titty Temple-Tempest.  He was being seconded from the Marines to oversee an exploration of parts of Papua New Guinea with a couple of Australians.  He was quite the celebrity as the papers had all the details.  Mainly wrong he said.  All speculative.  He had to be primed about the known area and the only person was a retired missionary who, of course, lived in Cambridge.

     With the pair of them in the house it was Bedlam.  I would think every boy in each of the Forms Francis, James, Khaled and Safar were in came to ask questions and meet them, especially the intrepid explorer.  The household expenditure on buns and cake rose alarmingly and I told Francis and James their allowances would be docked to pay for it all.  All I got was the usual, “Dad!”.

     So, Christmas came and went.  Hilarity was caused when the presents under the tree were opened.  None more than when James unwrapped a large package with layers and layers of paper until he reached an inner layer surrounding a further wrapped package.  The inner layer was a small well-used and well-washed dance-belt.  Even smaller than Stephen's.  There were hoots as a blushing James was made to hold it up to cries of  'Too big, too big!  He needs two sizes smaller!'.  His blushes turned to smiles as he opened the inner package.  It was a jock-strap.  Just his size.   Of course, that night when the lads went to bed James disturbed the peace by thumping loudly on his bedroom door as he'd been locked out by a tormented Stephen and Safar.  Naturally he was clad only in his new garment.  A well-filled new garment.


14.                    January 1966 - Easter 1966

     I went with Francis and Mrs McIntyre to deliver Lisa and Stephen back to the ballet school.  James moaned but was mollified as Flea and Titty took him, Grunty and the brothers up to London for a day visiting unknown bits of Whitehall and having lunch with Lachs.

     Quite a few of the students had already returned when we got there and I could see why James had been so enthusiastic.  Every one of the girls was elegant and had a deportment and carriage which caught the eye.  Not to say the boys didn't, either.  While I was getting Stephen settled into his room Francis wandered off.  We found him in a nearby room talking to two very presentable lads, about the same age as him.  They were already dressed in tights to below the knee and floppy tops and were starting 'class' in front of the mirror and chatting as they went through the sequences.  Francis was almost drooling.  His eyes were darting back and forth, most of the time on the two quite prominent bulges.  I nearly had to drag him away as we had a train to catch.

     Mrs M left us at the station as she was going on to stay a few days with her sister in the other direction.  Francis was very quiet on the first part of the journey.

     “Penny for your thoughts, Francis,” I said as the faraway look continued.

     He looked at me and smiled.  “I wouldn't last long there,” he said.

     “Why?”  I asked, “The exercise schedule too much for you?”

     He grinned.  “I think I would be much exercised to concentrate on what I should be doing.  Too many distractions, so to speak.”

     “I noticed.   I can see why James wanted to come with us today.  I could imagine a horde of those young ladies in tutus.  All on tiptoe.”

     “Dad,” he said grinning even more, “Stop pulling my leg, you know exactly what I mean.”

     “I told you I'd noticed.  Your eyes were nearly out like chapel hat pegs, as your Great-Aunt Faye would say.  Comely youths, weren't they?”

     He shut his eyes and nodded.  I could imagine his wank-fantasies in the near future.  As it was, as term progressed, I got the distinct impression Francis and Grunty were supplying each other with regular relief from boyish needs in between doing some serious work towards their A Levels.   James and Khaled spent hours together as he said he was making sure Khaled wouldn't fail his O levels and this meant numerous sleepover nights either at ours or the Wilkinsons.  Safar dogged Lucius and had a flute lesson almost every day.  So things were quiet and peaceful, for once.  Oh, and Flea was there keeping everyone cheerful and harrying the boys to work and play with little rest for anyone.  Grunty had persuaded Francis to play rugger again so what with four of them rowing and all five playing rugby it was a combination of sweat, toil, bruises, sore limbs but few tears as Flea said, paraphrasing the late lamented Mr Churchill.

     We all made the trek to see the 'show' at the end of the Easter term.  It was superb.  The artistry of the young dancers was supreme.  Stephen and four of his fellow pupils, all about the same age, showed how disciplined they could be in all the exercises in 'class'.  It was interesting watching the set pieces.  James's eyes flickered over all the young girls in regulation tutus or Greek tunics in one graceful dance, their every movement perfection.  Francis had eyes only for the boys whose figures, slim and well-proportioned, were set off by their tight-fitting doublets and tights as they danced, leapt and supported their partners.  Afterwards, he disappeared again and re-appeared from the dressing room with the two lads he'd met after Christmas.  One was American, one was French.  Both were seventeen, elegant, beautifully mannered.  Anne took to them immediately.  We were to have two visitors over the Easter holidays, they couldn't be abandoned to a stay in school.  The smile on Francis's face on the return journey was beatific.

     I never enquired about Buck (his nickname) and Fabien, their relationship, and any relationship with Francis.  The two shared the room that Flea had vacated just before Easter as he was going to stay with Georgie and his wife while he sorted out accommodation for his new job.  They took Stephen under their wing and the three did 'class' together every morning and exercises also later.  Francis haunted them and from the looks they all gave each other I could guess that more than conversation went on late into the night and Francis's bed didn't seem to be slept in much.  All I hoped was that he wasn't too tired out to study.  The arrangement was for him and Grunty to spend every morning together at his and then they would entertain the visitors with help from the others in the afternoons.  We saw nothing of Safar and Khaled who went down to Dorset with Miles Bastable to his brother's farm for the holidays.  Safe and sound.


     As soon as Francis and Grunty had finished their exams at the end of May they were despatched to Switzerland.  They were going to stay with Johann and his wife in Neuchatel as they were living in Johann's grandfather's chalet now he had died.  Their son, Johann the Third, was five and soon commandeered the pair as willing servants when they weren't out exploring the countryside.  Francis said later it must have been like the occasion when I'd taken him to Garthorpe Hall and he had been reminded about that many times.

     Actually,  I'd made a fleeting visit earlier to Neuchatel just after Easter to interview Dr Walter Suess, my cousin Johann's friend's younger brother.  That shy young lad of twelve or so, as I remembered him from my first meeting, was now a self-assured, well-reputed academic.  Harvey Levine had recommended him as a replacement for two years as he was off to America for a working sabbatical.  Harvey at the time hadn't known I knew Walter.  No problem.  He would be delighted,  he was looking for another job and two years in Cambridge would be a fine recommendation.

     What I didn't know until then were the results of Johann's Grandfather's Will.   Well, I knew bits.  He'd left Johann the chalet, plus a considerable sum of money.  Daniel and I had also been remembered as had our sons, even Stephen.  Thirty thousand Swiss francs each for them were safely tucked away to be used later.  Somewhat greater sums for the two fathers.  Johann had told me there was a bit of a shemozzle going on about the old boy's valuable collection of Swiss art.  All those dreary paintings which covered the walls of the old mausoleum and were a bit less conspicuous on the brighter walls of the new chalet he'd moved to.  Apparently he'd bequeathed that lot to 'the State'.  The argy-bargy was over the distribution of the paintings to various squabbling galleries.  What no-one in government had noticed was the sentence further on in the Will, 'That painting admired by my young English visitor, Jacques Thomson, is his.  Let him treasure it with the memory of the Brahms as I have done.'  That is, no-one noticed but Johann, who had immediately removed the painting and secreted it in his bedroom before the representatives of  'the State' came gloatingly to collect their God-awful spoils.

     As Walter had no further commitments at the University he said he could come to England straight away.  A man, a plan - not the palindromic, a canal, Panama - but, he wanted to bring his car to England.  What better.  I cancelled my homeward flight.  We packed his car with his belongings, plus three boxes of old books and a loosely wrapped flat package and my travel bag.  Between us we drove all the way back.  We talked and talked through Switzerland, France, on the ferry from Calais to Dover, stopping only once at a Campanile motel for the night.  He was a most delightful companion.  Erudite, witty, with the driest of dry senses of humour.  Only on the English side did the ever vigilant Customs ask to look in the car with two oh-so suspicious-looking academics in it.  After rooting through seventeen old books in one carton and three in the second and a cursory look in the third, and checking on the four hundred Gauloises for Tony - sorry, for our own consumption,  we were waved on.  Tired, hungry and thirsty we arrived in Cambridge where, after suitable sustenance and a bottle of champagne placed in the fridge for later we unpacked the car.  The Manet was hung on the drawing-room wall to the sound of a popping champagne cork.

15.                    Summer 1966

     The Amati boys had been invited.  What was planned?  Not to worry, their mother, Signora Maria Francesca Amati, was going to accompany them.  I wondered if she was like her strict husband.  No, no, by far the opposite.  A minibus appeared at the due time hot foot, or hot-wheeled, from Heathrow Airport.  Six grinning lads stumbled out and lined up.  All dressed identically in their dark blue ensembles, all a year taller, bigger and in the case of at least four, hairier.

     Our six were lined up, too.  There was a general stampede of hugs, greetings and general mayhem.  Then all fell silent.  A beautiful, elegant lady was helped from the front seat by the driver.  Anne stepped forward and with smiles they embraced.  I, as general spare prick at the wedding, was introduced and the holiday began.

     With twelve boys sleeping over, Grunty had insisted he was included though twenty feet separated his bedroom from Francis's, and Khaled and Safar were certainly not being left out, it might be construed a tight squeeze.   Boys' desires and pragmatism was the answer.  Of course, the Signora, complete with five large suitcases, had the best spare room with en suite bathroom.  I had the feeling she would have packed a maid or three if she'd remembered.  Grunty, Francis and Khaled had Silvio and Bruno in Francis's room.  How the five were going to share one double-bed and a single put-you-up, there for decency's sake, was up to them.  There was a spare mattress somewhere.   Stephen and James's room accommodated  four, including the now almost post-pubescent deep-voiced Giovanni and a beginning to be hairy twelve-year-old Antonio.  Safar was delighted because he had young Domenico and slightly elder brother Julio in our spare room.

     We had given some thought to help in the house and Sam with his helper, Nick the red- haired young man from the Buttery, were volunteered by ever efficient Willy.  Jem and Davy had to be involved, too, so our kitchen resembled the assembly line of the Savoy Grill or Joe's Greasy Spoon, depending on one's feeling at the time.  So, meals were prepared, beds made, rooms cleaned, all with super-efficiency - plus a certain injection of cash.

     Food over that night the boys invaded the drawing room amidst chatter in a mixture of languages.  Anne, also pragmatic, had made her study into a cosy sitting room for us three.  Signora had perfect English as well as good French and broken German so we chatted away drinking a goodly amount of rather fine Italian white wine suggested by the self-appointed wine connoisseur of our Senior Common Room.  It was good and we talked until at last the ladies retired to their beds.

     I looked in on the drawing-room.  Safar had retreated with his pair and Antonio looked half-asleep.  I had sent a bottle of the wine in so, with the glass the elder ones had quaffed at supper time, they'd had another glass each.  I said it was time for bed to the younger four as the bathroom would get clogged.  They went off without any grumbles leaving the elder five smiling like Cheshire cats.  Fifteen minutes later they were upstairs and when I went up I caught a glimpse of Francis and Silvio, both in the nude just going into the bathroom.  Francis might beat Silvio in one aspect but Silvio at nearly eighteen had developed so much hair in the last year it was difficult to see where hair ended and boy began.  At least at the front - the layer of chest hair had not yet curled round to his back but he did have a black patch just above the crack of his buttocks.

     Who wanked, sucked or fucked who I never enquired but over four weeks five teenagers became inseparable and Bruno did keep wriggling his backside when sitting down on more than one occasion and Francis spent much of his time staring at Silvio and unconsciously adjusting what seemed to be the more or less permanent bulge in his shorts.  I don't think any of the next roomful reached the final stage but there were suspicious stains on the sheets and plenty of self-satisfied grins.  Although the trio in the third room slept together Stephen joined in their group for most of their activities leaving James with arch-prankster Giovanni and his side-kick Antonio.  If there were any tricks those three got the immediate blame. From a snippet of conversation I overheard, Antonio was at the same stage Giovanni had been the year before.

     The favourite activity, other than bed-time, was punting on the river, especially along to the Grantchester meadows, with Lucius in general charge.  Vast hampers were packed for picnics.  Six a side football also proved popular on the field near the house.  This generally attracted other kids and there was much enthusiastic rivalry.   On the very few wet days the local swimming-pool was over-run by the twelve.  The Prato swim-trunks had to accommodate further-grown equipment and the sight of a succession of well-packed minuscule pouches caused a good few eyes to pop.  I thought none more than for the elegant, blond white-suited Stephen.  

     Anne and Signora, Maria as we learned to call her, got on very well.  They had their own itinerary of galleries and stately homes to visit in and around Cambridge and spent a few days in London staying at the flat with Ma and Pa.  Ma, of course, took them to a Promenade Concert in the adjacent Albert Hall and I think Maria was suitably impressed.  Actually, she was very down-to-earth.  Big families of daughters were difficult to marry off in Italy and she had been lucky to have met Alberto, ten years her senior, at a cocktail party when she was twenty and on an Art course in Milan.  He worked for a well-known car company which had expanded greatly and he was now just below being on the board of directors.  Hence, plenty of money, large cars and the wherewithal to send six sons to an exclusive school.  She had high hopes for them and now Alberto had loosened his demands on Silvio things were less tense.  She told Anne that all that was due to our crowd of ruffians.  No, she didn't call them that, but against the six immaculately clad youngsters last year on that fateful first day our lot had looked like extras from the Pirates of Penzance.

     We saw nothing of Tony as he was back in the States for four months, earning a fabulous amount re-writing the screenplay for some epic which had started to go sadly wrong with the original compiled by a team of others.  Lachs came for the day on a couple of occasions - bringing stuff for me to translate but joining in as there was a fair on Midsummer Common and he loved roundabouts!  So did the boys.  Flea came and stayed over a weekend and slept in my study.  He was full of his new job.  A good little engineering company let to go to rack and ruin through poor management.  He had sacked three of the senior staff and had enticed in a couple of his ex-aircraft engine fitters and things were turning round.  Of course, he led the boys a merry dance.  Even young Domenico was shouting out 'Uncle Flea, Uncle Flea' within hours of his arrival.

     Great news again in August.  Khaled got his eleven A's and Francis and Grunty got the grades required for entry to the pre-clinical course.  Signora Amati was so pleased how the holiday was going she took the whole lot of us to an Italian restaurant she'd discovered in one of the side-streets in Cambridge.  And we never heard another word about Signor Amati!


16.                    Winter Term 1966 - New Year 1967

     There was silence in the house when they went.  In fact, we would be even more depleted in number in the space of a few weeks.  Firstly, I, with Francis and James, went this time with Ina McIntyre, to take Stephen and Lisa back.  Stephen had, even with all the distractions, religiously done his 'class' each day and immediately we arrived and unpacked his bags he began to change into his working clothes.  I noticed as he stood, nude, ready to pick up his precious dance-belt that there were a few faint blond hairs just appearing above the snail.  His balls were just beginning to sag, too.  He saw me look, then winked at me.  He knew I knew he was beginning to develop.  Both James and Francis had sloped off as soon as the bags were opened.  One to see if any girls might be interested in a chat with a handsome, spotty youth and the other to see if his two friends were back from their homes to start their final year.

     “Thanks, Dad, for a lovely summer,” Stephen said with that smile of his as he pulled on his below the knee tights over his belt and then pulled the shoulder straps tight.  “I've got to work very hard this year Madame said and I intend to.  I'll look after myself, don't worry, and Buck and Fabien are going to work with me and Jody.”

     I had met Jody, briefly, at the Easter 'show'  but, speak of the devil, the red-haired lad of about fifteen rapped on the door.

     “Hi,” he said, “Hello Dr Thomson, I've come to collect Stevie.”

     We shook hands.  He was also in dance clothes.  He was all efficiency.

     “ Just seen Mrs McIntyre.  She said she was off to catch the earlier train.  Lisa's in the studio already.  We don't believe in wasting time here, do we Stevie?”  He turned to me.  “Stevie's good.”

     “Shut up,” retorted 'Stevie', the first time I'd ever heard him called that, “I'm only  good if I practise.  And I'm going to work hard this year - and so are you!”

     Jody held up his hands and grinned.  “Okay, Okay, we'll both practise hard.  Come on, Stevie, we'd better get off, Madame will be there, so don't be long.”  He did an elegant bow and did a leap out of he door.

     “Jody's very good, bit of a show-off, though,” Stephen whispered as he disappeared.  “I'm glad he'll work with me.”  He had pulled on his long socks and encased his feet in his dancing slippers.  He picked up a baggy, woolly sweater.  “That other pair won't be back yet so would you like to come and watch.”  As we walked sedately along the corridor he was greeted cheerily by several other students, male and female, either just arriving or already kitted for activity.  “You'll give my love to Mum, won't you.  I'm going to do my very best for both of you and Uncle Lachs.”   Although he knew Lachs was his true father he always called him Uncle.  “I shall miss you but I'm happy here.”  He put out a hand and gripped mine for a moment.

     As we entered the studio the other two materialised.  James was chatting to three very graceful young ladies.  Francis was standing, head and shoulders taller than, with a laughing pair of Fabien and Buck.  Both were in formal dance-wear ready.  There was a sharp 'crack'.  I turned to see the most imperiously elegant, quite elderly, lady with a silver-topped cane.  She 'cracked' the tip of the cane on the floor once more.  Someone started to play the piano in the corner of the room and all the pupils moved to the barre, all were mirrored.  On the next 'crack' all started a perfect sequence of movements.  I watched Stephen, now concentrating entirely on what he was doing.  Jody was beside him with Fabien and Buck a few paces on.  Madame paced up and down.  Her stick gently touching an ill-bent leg here or a not steady arm there.  The onlookers gradually dwindled away.  We three were the last.  It was fascinating.  Boys and girls of all these ages all with one ambition.  Others came in and joined the sequence.  Madame was imperturbable.  As if by magic her touches seemed to heal the imperfections.  I motioned the boys to leave.  Both were starry-eyed as we walked back down the corridor to the Porter's desk.

     As we walked out of the main door James let out a deep breath.  “Gosh, I nearly shot a load in there!”  He immediately realised what he'd said.  He turned to me as his face went red.  “I shouldn't have said that.  It's James and his open mouth again!  Stand in the corner, James!”

     Francis was in stitches, almost bent double with laughter.  I couldn't resist it.  “It's alright James, I think your brother already has!”

     A second red face and a concerted “Dad!” from both of them.

     It wasn't until we'd crossed London on the Tube and were sitting on the Cambridge train that Francis said anything.  “Dad, they haven't got anywhere to go.   Can Fabien and Buck come and stay at Christmas?  And we'll all be invited to the Nutcracker at the Opera House anyway.”

     It was James' turn to chortle.  “You were right, Dad!”

     “You wait, toad!” was Francis's retort.

     The second departure, even if it was more or less down the road, was that of Francis and Grunty, now both eighteen, at the beginning of October when term started.  James was now busy in the Upper Sixth.  His A levels to come next year.  For a reason known only to himself he had decided he wanted to read Law and, off his own bat, had applied to his Great-Uncle Edward's college, Gonville and Caius.  I had suggested he went further afield.  King's College London, Durham, or even that other place, Oxford, where 'Auntie' Julia and Roger had successfully completed their degrees and were now in pupillage in Lincoln's Inn.  But no, he was adamant.  He went for an interview, and I can honestly say there was no family influence, and was offered a place.  He said the old don who had interviewed him was so deaf he used an ear trumpet, looked like Beethoven and thought his name was Jimpson.  I did know the don in question.  He was forty-five, was one of the youngest QCs ever, and a stickler for exact wording on University Committees.  James got in with his usual gift - that of the gab!

     Although he was working hard and keeping up with his rowing and Second XV rugger he was also developing into a party animal.  Most Saturday nights he alone, or often in the company of Khaled, would be at some adolescent rave-up in some poor unsuspecting parents' house.  Rules were a) don't get drunk and b) be in by midnight.  Anne said the third rule was unspoken but she thought it was understood as she had found an unopened 'packet of three', obviously forgotten about, tucked under a volume of collected poems on his dressing-table.

     However, things did come to a head the week before breaking up for the Christmas holidays.  One girl, among a number he'd been pursuing with little success if the anguished telephone calls were any indication, invited him and Khaled to her house for a party.  What we didn't know was that her parents were away for the weekend and there was plenty of drink available.  On asking, I found out from Ludo that Khaled had arrived back home just before twelve and seemed a bit upset about something.  My interest was that James did not arrive home until three a.m. and he was more than slightly drunk.  I had a few words with him late on Sunday morning when he came downstairs.  He said he was sorry but the party had 'been a hoot' and it was nearly end of term.  I could see he wasn't at all sorry and he had a silly grin on his face for the rest of the day and when Khaled came round late in the afternoon he was nodding and grinning until Khaled pointedly said he needed some help with an essay he'd been set to give in before the end of term and they went upstairs.

     A couple of days later Anne said she'd been in with Mrs Pring to change his bed and put the accumulated clothes and jumble away.  She said the 'packet of three' in his slacks pocket was now a 'packet of two' and the prominent piece of paper he'd had on his dressing table all that term with an increasing list of names, all in capital letters, had an addition.  The second name, 'ANGIE NOAKES'  now had a big red tick by the side.  Oh yes, the party had been held at the Noakes' house.  He was a Physics don, I was pretty sure, at Downing.

     Anne didn't think our second son was a virgin any longer from the circumstantial evidence.  I was well aware neither of our elder sons were virgins in one sense and had indicated this to Anne who had been a little amused at what certain boyish habits led to.  In any case, we both thought it was perfectly natural for a young male to loose his usual virginity at some time.  We had to assume in this case this loss was accompanied by one act of intercourse only and they'd used the missing contraceptive.  Anne looked at me.  I held up my hands in defence.  “I was eighteen.  And I didn't.  And look what happened!  Francis!!   Then I was nineteen.  And I didn't....  and HE happened!!!”  We had to laugh and just sit and wait.

     There was a slight state of euphoria around James and all he did for the next few weeks.  Christmas came.  We didn't have to fetch Lisa and Stephen as they were escorted by Fabien and Buck.  They with Stephen and Lisa were in the second group of pupils appearing as 'children' or 'mice' in the performances after Christmas.  Pa and Ma came and Fabien and Buck were invited to stay at the flat any time they were at a loose end.  I looked at Francis when Ma said that.  As his bed had not been slept in for three nights I guessed where his loose end had been.

     The three lads and Lisa were taken to London by Mr McIntyre by car late on Christmas Day.  There were in for intensive rehearsals in the morning for the Boxing Day performance and were highly excited.  If we had seen the mouse fight once from Stephen over Christmas, we'd seen it a hundred times.  Front seats in the balcony for that first performance were ours and a whole crowd of the family plus Jem, Sam, Lucius, etc., clapped like mad at the end of that show of magical expertise.  We were then ushered round backstage and with the excited horde of mums, dads, small ballet dancers, larger ballet dancers, grown-up ballet dancers, stage-hands, everyone was there.  I hadn't recognised Buck and Fabien, all made-up and dressed as young adults but we'd spotted Lisa who was one of the girls around at the giving out of presents.  We had been instructed to look out for the fourth mouse from the back.  Stephen was still in his costume, carrying his mouse's head in one hand and holding on to the long mouse-tail with the other.

     James took the head from him.  “Good likeness.  Small beady eyes, sharp teeth and that bulbous nose.”  Stephen made a grab for the head and dropped the tail which flopped down.  He made a grab for that, too, and drew it up between his legs.  “Gosh, Stephen, that must be over a yard long.  Don't let Francis see it or he'll be jealous.  Whoops, James!  Not the thing to say here.”

     I was standing behind him.  He turned.  “Sorry Dad, it slipped out.”  He grinned.  “I'd better go and talk to Rachel over there.”  He rushed off in the direction of one of the girls in a long muslin skirt and blue coat.  One of the girls, I assumed, he'd chatted to in September.

     “Did you like it, Dad?” asked Stephen.  “I did my best and I think I died quite convincingly!”

     I'd noticed the poor fourth mouse from the back curl up when falling from the attack and then dragged unceremoniously from the stage.  Two minutes of glory!

     He looked at me and smiled.   “Lot of work for that, but Madame says I can do a solo at Easter.”  The letter from his main tutor at Christmas was so full of praise I didn't dare show him.

     One of the opposing soldiers came up, his hat in his hand.  It was Jody.  “Just seen your brother.  He's talking to Phillip Ross.”  Oh, the Nutcracker himself.  A very accomplished dancer.  “Wouldn't just go up and talk to him myself, wouldn't dare.  They say he's got a temper and hates being pestered.”

     Stephen was on the defence.  “I don't think Francis would pester him.”

     Pester or not I saw the tall figure of Francis approaching across the vast expanse of the stage with a much smaller figure in the costume of Hans-Peter, the Nutcracker.  Hans-Peter/Phillip Ross smiled at me and stuck out his hand.  “Your son tells me you are Hans-Peter in real life.”

     “Yes,” I said, smiling, “I'm Jacques Pierre but I have a good friend in Germany who is really Hans Peter.  Thank you for your performance.”

     He bowed slightly, then turned and smiled at Stephen.  “Your brother said you were fourth mouse from the back.”  He laughed.  “I started in that important position,” he looked at Jody, “then I was Sergeant next time.”  He shrugged his shoulders.  “And look at me now.  A block of broken wood - still I did get mended.”  He turned to Francis and shook his hand.  “You keep that brother of yours at it.  He's like the rest here tonight.  He's got potential.”  He waved at us, bowed slightly again and was off to another group who surrounded him.

     “Wow,” was a starry-eyed Jody's only comment.

     I gathered our contingent together.  We had to find the cars, mine, Mr McIntyre's and Jem's, ready for the return to Cambridge.  I bent down and hugged the fourth mouse from the back.  “Keep at it!”

     “I will, Dad!”

17.                         1967.

     The rest of that first term seemed to be fairly quiet.  That was, unless one discounted the fact that for the first couple of weeks James seemed to be out in the evenings more than in.  New Year parties was the excuse.  The third week of term he arrived back from school with a horrendous black eye and swollen lip which he said was due to a rather vicious tackle and a scrum at rugger.  He didn't go out much after that, except at weekends.  It was also noticeable that until the weekend after the black eye Khaled hadn't been round much.  When I saw him he said he was very busy.  For most, the First Year Sixth is a bit of respite between the two sets of exams.  Alright, I knew that the work in the Sixth Form takes everything more than a notch higher but the first couple of terms is a breather for many.  Actually, when I checked, James was working steadily as he should be if he wanted to get the grades needed to begin the course in October.

     Actually, I was pretty busy and so was Anne.  We had both decided to write another book each the previous Easter and I was going to analyse the other type of forbidden book of my period of French studies.  I'd been apprised by several correspondents who had read my articles mentioning the 'secret' book of a small corpus of 'Boys' Only' literature.  I'd had a week in Paris the previous term and had found my librarian at the Bib Nat to be very helpful.   So a review of some of the sources, comparison with the mainstream publications, ten of which I had, plus substantial bits of the 'secret' book would be sent off to Kanga for consideration under the title 'Audacity in the Age of the Enlightenment'.

     There were niggles though.  By some fluke of misunderstanding on my part I found myself to be a permanent member of the committee I had been on when Francis and Grunty were observed.   As with that meeting, the old don who was Chairman arranged meetings and then cancelled them at the last moment due to 'pressure of other business'.  Sleeping off the effects of the previous night's bibulous dinner was my opinion.  I couldn't refuse to be on the Committee as it controlled certain purse-strings.  Another niggle was the rising tide of student unrest.  Although low key at the moment we were having other meetings to make sure we didn't upset the 'scratchers after the truth' too much.  What we ever did to upset them I never knew.

       About two weeks before the end of term on the Friday afternoon another committee meeting was cancelled so I had lunch in Hall and decided to pack up and go home.  I could get on typing up the last couple of chapters of the book.  Willy had no news other than Jem and Sam had their eyes on yet another house.  He shook his head lugubriously and averred he didn't know when they found time to do any college work.  As I'd never seen any evidence of slacking as Lucius was a more than competent housekeeper and general factotum, I assumed dear Willy was suffering from a bout of sour grapes.  I knew, and he knew I knew, he had an interest in at least three of the houses the lads were running as he'd lent them some of the finance, so why the long face?

     I left college and cycled up to the market to get the rest of the veggies for the weekend.  Anne had given me the list and I managed to get all on it.  So, I was in a reasonably good mood as I cycled along the Barton Road and into our road.  As I approached our house, having waved to old Mrs Kiddle a few doors down, a girl cycled past me, wrong side of the road, and going like the merry clappers.

     Having parked my bike against the garage I noticed the backdoor was open.  I also heard voices having an argument.  There were two broken plates on the floor of the kitchen so I went through and listened at the bottom of the stairs.  Khaled was shouting at James.

     “I've told you, you should be bloody ashamed bringing that slut into the house!  There's no excuse.  If you want to fuck something like that take it on the common with the rest of them!”

     “I'll fucking bring whoever I want in the house.  Why the hell did you come up here yelling at her.   You bloody nearly kicked her down the stairs!  And what was that fucking crash?  Anyway, you're not my bloody keeper!”

     “I'm not your keeper, no, but I do know you're not bringing shit like that in this house!  Christ, she's been shagged by every poxed-up bastard in the town!”

     “God, Cally, you're jealous,” he taunted, “I suppose you wanted a bit too?”

     “Fuck you, James, I wouldn't touch that whore with a barge-pole let alone put my dick anywhere near it.”  He must have taken a breath, his voice rose.  “That girl's dynamite!  Your name would have been round the town before nightfall.  I suppose it was Dirk Callan who put you up to it.  He's a bastard if ever there was one.  He's no friend of yours.  Huh, I suppose he said 'Come on James, I know just the hole you can stick your cock in'.  He's all wind and piss....”

     “....Shut your mouth, Cally, just because you're still a bloody virgin!”

     I strained to hear Khaled's much quieter answer.  “God, James,  You got lucky once.  Last year.  And you were both too drunk to know much about it and what a disaster it was for you from start to finish.  You were spewing your guts out when I left so whatever you did must have been delightful for the pair of you. You're all mouth. I despair of you sometimes.”

     James began to shout out loud, “Shut your mouth, shut your mouth!”

     Khaled wasn't deterred.  His raised voice was full of anger but it was a concerned anger.  “Shut up yourself, James, and listen!  We all know you've got the biggest prick in the school, everybody's seen it enough times and we've all heard your tales about where it's been and you can't keep it in your pants at weekends, but you know the truth and I know the truth.   Yeah, you may have the biggest prick but you don't have to act like the biggest prick you are as well!”

     “Why, you little fuck, I'll have you for that!”

     I thought I'd better intervene before blows were struck.  I went up the stairs two at a time just reaching the door as Khaled was stepping towards a red-faced James who was advancing on him, fists clenched.  James had just a tee-shirt on and, thank God, had a condom dangling from his long, limp cock.

     “OK, break it up!” I said, “Come on Khaled, come downstairs with me.  You!”  I said to James, “Get dressed!”  His face went even redder as I looked down at him.  “...And is that your thirteenth A?    For being a prize Arsehole?”

     I turned and led a now silent but shaking Khaled downstairs.  We went into the kitchen where I lit the gas and put the kettle on.  He started to pick up the pieces of china.  He was calming down but was still in a very tense state.

     “Sorry, Dad,” he said, quietly.  “James is a fool, but I shouldn't have sworn at him like that.”

     “Not to worry, Khaled, you've quite a range, but, I added my penn'orth at the end.”  I sighed.  “I suppose we'll have to pick up the pieces, like the plates.”

     He looked up at me with a wry smile.  “James?”  He shook his head.  “I can't get over it.  Rowing was cancelled this afternoon and he'd disappeared so I came here to look for him.  They were on the bed but they hadn't started and I shouted and she screamed....”  He snickered.  “...She pushed James off and he fell on the floor swearing and shouting and then she grabbed her slacks and rushed off out and shoved me and called me a.....”  He shook his head again.  “...It doesn't matter...  ...She must have broken the plates when she was dressing in the kitchen.  She left these behind.”  He put his hand in his blazer pocket and pulled out a pair of flimsy knickers.  “I found them when I rushed down to see what had happened in here.  James was yelling at me so I went back upstairs.  Did you hear us?”

     I nodded.  Thinking about it, I recognised the girl on the bicycle.  She was early twenties or so, bottle-blonde, plenty of lipstick and eye make-up, and I'd seen her and a few of her mates hanging around King's Parade ogling students as they passed.  I had heard that little crowd were known as the town bikes.  Successors to the girls that hung around in my days as an undergraduate.  But James?  Was he that desperate?

     We sat at the table in silence drinking the tea I'd made.  Tea, the great British panacea for all ills and for all occasions, pleasant or unpleasant.

     “You knew about the girl last year?” he asked.  I nodded.  “She was OK, really.  I thought they might have hooked up permanently after that but she moved on.”  He paused.  “Upper Sixth, First XV full-back.”  He laughed.  “Bit more prestige than a Second Fifteen flanker.  Poor James, fumbles too much.”  So spoke a First XV fly half!   “And he didn't get that black eye playing rugger.   He challenged Phil and fumbled again.”  I had wondered at the time about the eye and the lip.  “Must say he tries, though.  He's been the rounds even if he's got nowhere with any of them.  I've tried to lighten it a bit for him.  I tell him who'd want to kiss a faceful of zits.”  He smiled, “The girl last year was the first and only one.  And I bet he doesn't know a lot about what happened.  I must admit I'd had a bit to drink that night as well.  Uncle Ludo guessed.  But James' been bragging a bit but I know the truth.  That's James.  But today?”  He shook his head.  “And with her?  Why?”

     A stumbling, humbled, now-dressed figure appeared at the door.

     “...Because I'm a bloody great fool, that's why!”  He stood just inside the room.  “I don't know why, but I'm a fool.”  He looked at me.  I could see he was near tears.  “Dad, can you ever forgive me?”  He shook his head disconsolately.   “It's the last thing I ever wanted you to know.”  He burst into tears.  “You won't tell Mum.  Please, don't tell Mum!”

     Khaled jumped up and put his arms round him.  They hugged each other and Khaled led him to a chair at the table.

     “I'm sorry Cally.  I didn't mean you to find us.  I'm sorry I brought her here.  I don't know why I did.  I didn't mean to shout at you like that.  You were right.  I'm a real prick!”

     He sniffed and looked at me.  “I'm sorry, Dad,  I just let things get out of hand.  I thought I was just being a big boy.  I'm not!  Please don't tell Mum.  I'll do anything for you not to tell her!”

     “And what happens when she finds these in the wash?”  I held up the knickers Khaled had placed on the chair by me.  “Would they have been a trophy of the chase?”

     Poor James.  He just stared open-mouthed.  Khaled leaned over and took his hand.

     “James,” he said, “I know why you did it.  I saw you talking to Dirk after school this morning and he was laughing.  I bet he suggested it.  I can tell you this he's just idle boast as well.  You think he's fucked every girl in town and you've got to copy, eh?”  Khaled looked at me. I knew I had to keep quiet.  “His brother Jake knows him better.  He says the only thing he's ever fucked is his right hand and he should know because he has to share a room with him in the House.  He also says he's more than jealous because he thinks you've had lots of other girls and anyway, you've got a bigger prick than him.  You're always waving it in the changing room and saying what you've done with it.  He set you up with that cow.”

     I had come across Dirk Callan, a rather large, South African boarder in James' class at school.  He was some six months or so older than James and, when I'd attended inter-school games, seemed to do more rushing about and shouting than being a useful player even in the Second XV.  His brother, Jake, was in the First Year Sixth with Khaled and was quite different.  A quiet, unassuming lad, he and Khaled often worked together as both were doing Economics and had been here on several occasions when they had urgent work to complete.

     Khaled squeezed James' hand.   “James, you have been a real prick!  It comes of being boastful.  But, I know you better than that.  We're still friends and I'm forgiven, eh?”

     James burst into tears again and  flung his arms round Khaled.  “You are my keeper,” he sniffed, “I couldn't do without you, Cally!.....   ....But Mum.... and Safar.... and Stephen?   And what about Francis?   What shall I do?”

     “James,” I said, “I'll talk to your Mum, she'll know something's happened and it's best if I talk to her first.  Don't be surprised, though, if you're on bread and water for a month.  Confined to the galley for spud peeling, I expect, too.  I shouldn't wonder if you'll end up like that character in Under Milk Wood with his flies sown up.  No more boasts and flag waving, either.  But, Safar and the others needn't know.  It's up to you.”

     James raised his head from Khaled's shoulder and shook it slowly.  “Thanks, Dad, I'm sorry.”  He rubbed his eyes.  “Cally, would you stay over with me tonight?  I need a friend.  I need to talk.”

     “Why ask?  And we'll have to do something about those spots.  No girl'll want to come within a hundred miles of that face.  I've told you that before.”  He slapped James on the back

     “Oh, come on upstairs I've enough stuff up there but they keeping coming up.  Stephen calls me a spotty-faced git and its true.”   He stood up and as they walked out he put his arm round Khaled's shoulders.  “But, I'm told they have some advantages as you might learn when you get some!”  He turned and looked at me.  “Dad, I wish it had never happened.”  He shook his head.  “Tell me you forgive me, please?”

       After that, what else could I say.  A seventeen-year-old with a rush of hormones and the offer of a good shag?  He and my cousin Rhys shared in superabundance that scourge of the adolescent, acne.  If it was hormonal then the advantages, as I knew from Rhys's daily prowess, were a compensation for the looks in one way.  But, I suppose his lack of recent success with girl-friends might be put down to those crops of red angry-looking pustules which adorned his chin and cheeks.   But today.  The set-up.  I expect Dirk had told the girl of a horny, long-cocked lad who'd give her the fuck of a lifetime and had probably slipped her a fiver as well.  She had probably lurked on the green at the end of Barton Road where the cycle path crossed from Fen Causeway.  A few words.  Encouragement.  No thought to consequences.  His boastfulness had come home to roost.  But then..., an eighteen-year-old had succumbed all those years ago.  Then. I hoped, it was love.   Today with this pair it was lust pure and simple.  At least today she, or he, insisted on a condom.

     Anne said she had suspected he was getting rather frustrated over things because she'd noticed he had been more tetchy and bad-tempered than usual over the past few weeks.  She'd bought him several concoctions from Boots in the past for his spots but whether they were any use, who knows.  All in all, not the usual James.

                              *
     She commented, a couple of weeks later, that he seemed much more composed now that Khaled had started to stay over a bit more often and they'd been to a couple of parties together.  There was no talk of any conquests, the list had disappeared and a single contraceptive seemed to remain permanently in his possession.

     But, this Dirk needed dealing with.   No worry.  I heard shortly after that  from Jem, who, as usual, full of gossip, came to brew up coffee in my room at college between tutorials, and informed me that a certain boy from James' school had been found on the roof of the school boathouse lashed to the flagpole with his genitalia on full view and painted red for port and green for starboard.  What were these youngsters coming too?   I laughed to myself.   James had told me nothing ever happened at his school!

     At the end of his term he came along to my study.  I was just reading through the final bit of my labouriously typed up manuscript of the end few pages of 'L'Audace'.  He sat on the chair by my desk as I noted a missing acute accent.  I looked up and smiled.  He was looking serious.

     “Dad, we're going down to see Stephen.  Please don't tell him about me.  Khaled says I'm reformed, but I won't feel I am 'cause I've still got things to confess.”  Ouch, I wondered what he'd done now?  But, no, it was a cleansing of the soul of the past.  “You guessed about that girl last term?”  I nodded.  “I've got to tell you we were both drunk.  I don't remember much about it.  She said I did it and I suppose I did.  I did, 'cause that thing had my stuff in it.”   He burst into tears and knelt beside me.  I put my arm around his shoulder.  He sobbed.  “I gave away something I should  have enjoyed.  I told Francis last night.  I went to see him.  He said perhaps when I find someone I really love I would be able to enjoy it properly just like that time with him.”  He looked up at me through tear-stained eyes.  “I gave away something precious and for nothing.  She didn't want me after that....”  He sniffed back his tears.  “I've got something else to confess.  I told you a lie.  I didn't get that black eye playing rugger.  She laughed at me and said I might be well-hung but I didn't last very long and hadn't a clue and after Christmas she went off with Phil Mann and I got in a fight with him.  I was so mad about what she'd said about me and she'd told him and he was sneering at me.  I thumped him. He got a black eye too, but I got the worst and she's with him now.”

     I helped him up and he sat on the edge of the chair.  I held his arm.  He looked so downcast but he looked straight at me.  “Cally's right.  I get carried away and boast.  But you'll forgive me.  Francis said I had to tell you everything.  I couldn't let him down, too.  That other was precious for both of us.”

     I waited a moment.  I had to compose my feelings.  My heart was going out to my poor dejected, rejected, son.

     “James, try to forget what happened.  It may not be much consolation but there is a little phrase in German, Einmal ist Keinmal, once is not at all.  For lots of minor things that works, where no real harm is done.  It's only if there are longer term major consequences you can't use it.  You say you did it, but you don't really remember, then that little phrase will probably help.  Just think, the most precious time will be when you and whoever you want to share yourself are both free to do that act without any encumbrances.”  I squeezed his arm.  I had to be truthful with him.  “Francis was conceived when I lost my virginity.  The first time with a girl, not a case of Einmal ist Keinmal then.  We loved each other and that act made our love precious to us.  It was a bit of a shock when we found your mother was pregnant but we loved each other and got married.  Yes, I know you and that oaf have giggled about dates and that's the reason.  One year later you were conceived.”  I grinned at him.  “An accident.  Not sufficient of the necessary to tide us over the holiday.  But, James, I know you were no accident.  I couldn't imagine my life without you as my son.  Your mother never had the privilege to see you grow up.”  I stood and flung my arms around him.  “You're my son and even if you are a pickle, or a little Newark, or a big boy waving that seven and a half inch possession of yours around, you're my James.”

     We were both in tears.  We let them flow.  My psychological friends spoke in terms of trauma and catharsis.   Just as Francis had faced up to his orientation so my second son was now experiencing the trauma of a 'rite de passage' and the catharsis of its healing.

     “Oh Dad,” were his first words as he composed himself.  “I don't know what I'd do without you, and Mum and Francis and Cally and Safar and lovely Stephen.  I'm sorry I'm such a bad son.  I never meant to be.....”

     “James, you're a boy.  You have to believe me, we've all been through it.  My realisation came after I'd shouted at a small lad who was late for school because his mother was in a wheelchair and a very wise boy, not much older than I was, said there were often two 'mes'.  I knew what he meant.  I'd sworn at your Grandpa.  I'd punished myself for my feelings.  It was like Jekyll and Hyde.  I said to myself there was Jacko and Jackoff.  I got through it.  You know Francis has been through it.  It's your turn.  We all do something different but it adds up to the same.”

     “I know.  There've been two of me inside.  Me and someone else.  Just the same.  This last thing.    I didn't want it to be like that.  That bitch got me into it because she said she'd heard I had a big'un and did I want to try it out because she was willing.  That other bit of me said yes!  Oh, God, I'm sorry, Dad!”  He shook his head against me as I held him tight.  After at least a minute I let go and we sat again.  He sat in silence.  Then he looked at me quizzically.  A thought had struck him.  “You said I was a big boy with seven and a half inches.  How did you know?”

     I smiled at him.  “You shouldn't leave your graph around for Mrs Pring to discover.”

     “Mrs Pring.  Oh, NO!”  

     “Actually it was your Mum who found it when they were turning your mattress.  I must admit I had a look at it as your Mum wanted to know what it was.  Simple.  You, Khaled and dear Francis.  Red, blue and green.  Month by month, eh?   And you beat Francis by four tenths of an inch but Kaled isn't far behind.  Congratulations!”

     The toad smirked.  “I can't help that.  Francis says he thinks it runs in the family and he doesn't know about Khaled but he's heard of Arab stallions.”

     “Well, all I can say is you want to keep that thing of yours  to yourself unless you know what you are doing!  And don't tell Khaled I've seen the chart!  Pact!”

     He smirked again.  “Don't you worry, Dad, I will, and I won't tell Khaled unless....”  I held up a finger.  “OK, I know.  I've learned my lesson.”  He smiled again.  “I'd hate to be in Khaled's shoes when it's his turn!”

     “Don't be flippant or you might hear more home truths.”  I paused.  “...And what about Dirk being tied to the flagpole.  What part did you play in that?”

     He laughed and held his hands up.  “I swear I didn't have anything to do with that.  He'd pissed off...  Sorry, ...I mean he'd upset some of the other boarders and they did it.    It's shut him up, too.  Keeps his ugly mouth shut now.”

     “And you promise you'll work hard during the holiday?”

     He nodded.  “Too true!  I'm going to Caius!”

     He stood up to go.  A much relieved young man.  “James,” I said, “I'm always here.”

     He smiled.  My old James, the foot in mouth, open-hearted, carefree James was back.

     He looked at my desk.  At the piles of typescripts.

     “What are you doing, Dad?  Is this another book?”  His eyes lit up.

     I knew the sections at the ends of the previous ones had been well-read and probably well-wanked over.

     “Of course, we academics have to earn our keep by keeping the presses turning and the bit extra helps to put bread into the mouths of hungry offspring.”

     He sneered.  Then, “Dad, what's it about?”  He was getting impatient.  Cogs were turning.  Wow, more to read one-handed!

     “Well, you have read the original translation.  There's bits of that in the appendix but the main part is an analysis of  what some Frenchmen wrote for the delectation of gentlemen who really only liked comely youths.  And if a certain comely youth would check over some of my typing he might get a reward.  Ten pounds and a couple of clean towels?”

     “Dad!”

     The comely youth, plus a rather startled comely Khaled, who volunteered to help without realising the content, had self-satisfied grins on their faces over the next week and it wasn't entirely due to the two sets of ten pound notes I handed out when all deficiencies in my typing had been noted.  I must say the manuscripts had been well-pawed, I mean well-perused, as every typing flaw had been noted.