Usual Disclaimer: If you are not of an age to read this because of the laws of your country or district please desist. If you are a bigot or prod-nosed fundamentalist of any persuasion find your monkey-spanking literature elsewhere and keep your predilections and opinions to yourself. Everyone else welcome and comments more than welcome. Those so far have been very helpful in that they have given me the encouragement to persevere!
This is a very long tale. It unfolds over a good number of years. What is true, is true: what is not is otherwise. If you have trouble with the English educational system let me know.
ALADDIN'S AWAKENING
By
Joel
CHAPTER 47
PART TWO
I was already awake when Jem came into the outer room in the morning. I heard the busy rattle of poker and the scratch of a match being lit. I sat up in bed waiting for the usual entry with a mug of tea. I wasn't disappointed.
"Good morning, Mr Thomson," he said, most cheerily as he handed me the steaming mug, "Mr Lockhart is out running already with Mr Stewart. Most friendly. Mr Stewart has high hopes for the Boat this year."
I knew this meant he was a possible for the Cambridge versus Oxford Boat Race which Cambridge had won this last year. I also knew, from Jem's gossip, he was a particular friend of Pongo Parkinson with whom he'd been at school. How particular I wasn't sure, but Jem said they often drank together and, if under the weather - meaning, pissed as newts - slept in whichever room they landed.
"I hear you are likely to leave us for a post at London Zoo," I said, taking a sip of the reviving beverage, "Hosing down the elephants, eh?"
I was reminded of young Georgie's withering look, it must be an East Anglian trait. I was on the receiving end of the equivalent from young Jem.
"That is most uncharacteristic of you, Mr Thomson," he said, reprovingly - I noted the put down, no 'Jacko' - "I was merely offering a helping hand to a student in need far from home."
"A large student with a young scout in a bathroom," I said, "Sounds very fishy."
He was not going to be outdone.
"If you do not require my services this morning, I will be going, Mr Thomson."
"Jem," I said rather contritely, "I'm just teasing you. You know that, don't you?"
"Of course I do," he said, his face creasing in a smile, "He is big, isn't he? Slopped the water all over the floor when he got in that bath." He grinned conspiratorially. "He can't reach his back. Too much muscle. Wow, shouldn't like to be playing opposite him. Tell you what, though......"
I held up a hand. "If you are going to divulge something you have seen and shouldn't repeat I'd better not hear it."
The little monkey just grinned. ".....Just that you've got nothing to worry about, cobber!"
Cobber? Some Australian term? Cheeky little toad, he would have to be dealt with in some way! And, I had a good idea about something else! At that moment there was a thump on my outer door. I knew who was there.
"Come in, Bruce, I'm still in bed," I winked at Jem, "Jem'll make you some tea."
I slid out of bed and stood up. My usual morning hardon had gone during the conversation and the tea-drinking, but my cock was still plump as it sagged down. I followed Jem into my study room. A steaming giant clad in his skimpy running gear stood and stared at me. I saw his eyes rove down my torso and stop somewhere below my navel.
"Want to know if Jem'll do my back for me again, eh?" He looked at Jem. "That OK?"
Jem said if he liked to run the bath and get in he would come along in about ten minutes as he had to wake three of his other gentlemen, but he was not able to stay long as it was the first day of term.... Bruce waved a meaty paw, smiled at me, turned and lumbered out. No, not lumbered out. He was surprisingly light on his feet for such a huge lad.
Jem followed him to the door.
"Get hosing, Wambo!" I said and gave his backside a slight smack.
He turned and grinned. "Cobber," he mouthed.
I met the other new member of my mentor group that morning. I had left a note saying I would see him at nine o'clock. Nigel Fawcett turned out to be a cheerful lad with a mass of blond hair. His grandmother was French so that had set him on his chosen course. He spoke French quite fluently and we exchanged all sorts of information about each other. He was astounded I was married. I think rather over-awed. He confessed he'd been to an all- boys school, just like me, and didn't know any girls. I said he'd have a hard job finding any in Cambridge unless he cycled over to Girton and got past the dragons at the gate, 'les gardiens du vertu', even though there were stories that Bertrand Russell was reputed to have had his evil way with one, or even more, of the eager young ladies in residence there! Actually, there had been two very nice girls from that College at a set of lectures I had gone to last year, but they seemed to have been snapped up by two rather handsome young guys who cycled off with them after each lecture. I rather fancied one of the guys. He had a mop of red-brown hair and a gorgeous smile, eminently bed-able, I thought. But, I wasn't going to tell Nigel that. Or Kats!
I had arranged for Bruce to see me at ten o'clock and I was still chatting to Nigel when he arrived. I think Nigel was rather over-awed by him as well. He virtually cowered when Bruce entered and gave him a hearty handshake. He fled quite soon after that. I'd found out he liked running so perhaps he would be another partner for Bruce's morning jaunts.
I spoke to Bruce in French for almost the next hour. At least, I started sentences and, as soon as he looked as if he was floundering, I stopped and went slower, or gave him clues in English. Actually he wasn't as bad as his great-uncle had feared. He made the usual errors but I knew with practice we could iron them out.
"Do you know Mrs Vandetramp?" I asked at one point.
He looked at me with great puzzlement. He shook his head. "I had a Mr Vanpool at that school," he said, with some wonderment. "He taught maths."
I shook my head. "No," I said, "Mrs Vandetramp is very useful." Just as useful as Widow Palm for you, my boy, I thought! My boy? He's twelve months older than me! "Look, let's write the name down and I'll show you."
I put the letters down vertically, one to each line on the foolscap pad he'd been making notes on.
"Mrs Vandetramp is useful because she tells us some common verbs that take 'etre' rather than 'avoir'." I wrote each as I said it. "M for Monter, R for Retourner and S for Sortir. They're all verbs to do with movement, or becoming. Any more you can tell me?"
His face lit up. "E for Entrer. That's right isn't it? Il est entre."
I nodded. "What about V?"
He cogitated. "Il est.... venu. That's 'Venir', isn't it?"
I said he should try to complete the listing and practice sentences using the words. Also to think of some not carried by the mnemonic like 'couper', or 'circoncire', I said with a grin. 'Castrate' and 'circumcise' - I didn't translate. As he assimilated this he must have done, at least with the second. He blushed, delicately. I was taking to my young man mountain. I said that Nigel Fawcett was a runner, perhaps they should hook up later in the day. Nigel was about five feet seven and had a runner's slight build. I tried to imagine a conjugation of the pair but had nothing to go on. Oh God! I was getting randy again! Still I had to report to Dr Blake as I was having a tutorial with him at five minutes past eleven. Bruce was most effusive with his thanks. I said we would be meeting on Friday with the others and I expected him to have attended the two lectures tomorrow morning and take some notes and read the chapters in the set book. He winced.
"Got a game tomorrow afternoon. Mustn't get crocked, eh?"
From his size I expect he'd 'crock' someone else. I winced as I imagined a full-tilt clash of bodies like his and Prosser's. "Take care," I said as he went off.
I reported to Dr Blake that his great-nephew was certainly not a 'great dumb beast' or words to that effect. I said I hoped we could draw him out a bit. I didn't think he'd had too much opportunity to show what he was capable of - except, perhaps on the Rugby field. He was certainly enthusiastic. Dr Blake looked more relaxed after that.
"I have to report to his grandmother every week." He smiled. "Perhaps I should ask you to write."
So began a very hectic term. I decided I was going to work hard so attended as many lectures as I could, spent hours reading the books and the commentaries and really worked at my German, especially, as I found that harder. My mentor group was great. Just Bruce, Nigel and the chap who'd been in the French Resistance. He also took Bruce under his wing as he was an avid rugger fan and Nigel was equally enthralled by his tales of how they outwitted the Germans. Nigel joined Bruce and Philip Vane-Stewart on their morning runs and Jem said he'd been told they would be able to deal with Bruce in the bath most days!
Jem couldn't contain himself and blurted out, around the sixth week of term, that Mr Lockhart was always scratching himself, just like that Mr Townsend last year who went with that boy at the Champion in King Street and caught something and had to be shaved and paint himself with blue stuff, and he also had a very small thing. He had said this all in one breath when he'd appeared in the middle of one morning with the excuse of attending to my fire. I stood up from my desk and grabbed him as he poked the fire. I lifted him up and stood him on a wooden chair.
"Are you telling me you think Bruce has been off the straight and narrow, you imp?"
He stared down at me, quite unfazed. "May I get down, please. I didn't mean to say that last bit. You know, about his...."
"Oh, come on down," I said, "I know you've been itching to tell me that bit of news since that first day." He hopped down and I motioned for him to sit. I sat at my desk but faced him. "Now, what's this about Bruce's itch now we've got over yours?"
I'd heard the rumour about Jeb Townsend who had been in his final year.
A supposedly staunch member of the church, but not reading Divinity luckily, he had, allegedly, got involved with a 'bit of rough' who was always around a pub frequented by rugger types and boaties. A dark, rather dingy, pub, I knew from experience, as I'd been there with Tony's cronies on several occasions. I'd been smiled at by a ginger-haired lad of about seventeen - too young to be admitted to the bars, but who seemed to haunt the outside and was often having a pee, or appearing to have a pee, in the rather rank-smelling piss-house at the back. The story went that Jeb had succumbed to this lad's charms and had caught the crabs from contact and had to see the College doctor.
"Mr Townsend's scout told me that he was for ever scratching until he went to Dr Powell. He said the doctor told him to shave himself and he had this bottle of blue stuff to paint all around his...."
"Penis, not 'thing'," I said, "Though knowing Bobby -," a wizened little man who'd been a College scout from time immemorial, "- I expect he said cock or prick, eh?"
Jem looked askance. Then he grinned. "Tool, actually."
"But what has this got to do with Bruce. I know he's been to that pub.
We all went the week before last. I was with him all evening...." I looked at Jem. "No, he wasn't in the bogs long enough. He's probably got sweat rash or something." I snickered.
"Next time you wash his delicate bits have a look!"
"I do not wash his delicate bits," said Jem emphatically, then giggled.
"I only scrub his back now on Tuesdays and Fridays and he stays in the bath until I've gone. I only saw him that first time." He giggled again. "I think he saw me looking at him."
"And I suppose you've discussed this with Sam and he suggested you talked to me?"
He nodded.
"OK," I said, "I'm seeing him later this morning. If I see him scratching I'll ask him what's the matter. Rely on me."
He smiled at me. "Thank you. I knew you would."
Oh, Jem. You have all our interests at heart! Just as I have yours.
As he went to the door I said, very quietly, "I shall be at King's all afternoon. Piano lesson at two, an hour's practice, then tea with Tony and our friend Mr Wilkinson will be joining us. Back at five."
A quiet signal that Jem and Sam would appreciate.
Spot on eleven Bruce appeared, looking pink and well-washed, but...., he had no sooner entered the room than he scratched his groin briskly.
"Caught the crabs?" I asked, knowing full-well he hadn't. Or had he? I wondered if he was the so innocent lad he appeared to be.
"Fuckin' hell no!" he grunted, giving the other side an equally forceful rub. "Got a bloody rash!"
"Have you seen the doctor?" I queried, "How long have you had it?" I realised he must be in some discomfort as he rarely, if ever, swore now and certainly not in Jem's presence.
"No I ain't!" he said, his lapse of good English emphasised. "I don't want any bastard quack feeling round my parts! Had enough of that when my dick didn't grow!"
He lapsed into silence. He'd let out some personal little secret.
"Oh, come on, Bruce," I said, "Plenty of people must have seen you. You can't play rugger and have showers or a bath afterwards without everyone seeing what you've got. And I bet you haven't got less than a lot more, especially on a cold day."
He wasn't too mollified by this. "Bastards at school used'ta call me dingo-dick," he said quietly... "But I used'ta say it still spurted good cream when I wanted it which was more than Reggy Mackay could and his was like a fuckin' hosepipe!"
"But you ought to get whatever it is seen to. Is it bad?"
"Hurts like fuck!" was the pained reply. "I'm fuckin' red raw!"
With that his large buckled belt was unsnapped. His ample brown corduroys were unbuttoned and dropped heavily down his tree-trunk legs. A pair of voluminous white underpants were slid down and all was revealed. Not much of a dark hairy bush, about as much, I thought, as I had soon after my cock began to grow. Not much of a cock, either. About three inches of very thin gristle. But what made it seem longer was the foreskin which sheathed his knob end. This had about an inch of skin ending in a pinched rosette. His balls were tight up below it in a small red sac. However, what was most evident were the two huge red welts either side of his groin and stretching onto his white legs. I shook my head.
"You must see the doc with that. He'll only be interested in curing you, nothing else. Do you want me to make the appointment? I'll ask Willy Roberts to book you in first thing tomorrow."
He nodded abjectly.
"Thanks, Jacko," he said, bending to draw up his pants and trousers. He looked at me and smiled wanly. "And thanks for not calling me dingo-dick."
"Gosh, Bruce, with a body like yours what does it matter. You said it works. It does doesn't it?"
He clipped his belt and sat down. "Not too often," he said slowly. "I just grew huge as I said when I was fourteen but nothing else followed." He looked and saw I wasn't amused, but was concerned for him. "Found out all about it when I was thirteen. Perfectly OK then," he pursed his lips. "Then I grew fast and everything else stopped. I tried it a lot till I was fifteen or so than gave it up. Nothing much since."
"Bruce," I said, "It's important you tell Dr Powell that as well. Have you seen any other doctor?"
He shook his head. "No. Saw a local quack when I was fifteen and I wasn't getting bigger down there and he said it'd grow all right later." He shook his head. "It hasn't though."
"I'm certain Dr Powell will be able to do something, but you must tell him. If you can't, write it down and give him a note. I'm certain he'll understand. He's been coping with us youngsters for years."
He seemed happier and managed to get through the next fifty minutes with just a few tentative rubs. At twelve I went to the Porter's Lodge with him. Willy was there by himself and noted that Dr Powell had a free slot at eight forty-five in the morning.
So all was arranged.
I had a most pleasant afternoon. The lad at King's, already diploma-laden at nineteen, was a superb teacher and I felt I was really improving in my interpretation of the pieces I was playing. He suggested I might try for my LRAM next year and would ask the Director of Music to give his opinion if I would play for him. Wilkie was full of tales about the goings- on in his college and had news of both Lachs and Flea.. Both were determined to visit Kerslake at Christmas time. He also said he'd heard that Titty and Bastable were joining the Royal Marines next September.
On my return I found my rooms had been especially tidied and cleaned. Jem and Sam must have been extra pleased today, even though my bedroom was used at least once a week for their assignations.
When I saw Bruce next he said Dr Powell had made an appointment for him to see an endocrinologist at Addenbrooke's Hospital the next week, but more importantly for the present, had prescribed some soothing cream!
So the end of term and Christmas approached. Pa and Ma wanted everyone to spend Christmas in London. Tim and his brother would be going home and had said we could use their bedrooms. So, that would be Kats, me and Francis in one room, Tony in another and Mr and Mrs Marcham in a third. Still one bedroom over! I wanted to see this flat.
Charley had invited Bruce to spend Christmas with his family up in Westmorland. At least there would be sheep up there. I still didn't know if it was true but a couple of the rugger-buggers had twitted Bruce with being a 'sheep-shagger' as they said they knew Australians were addicted to their woolly friends for comforts of an unspecified, but hinted at, kind.
Bruce had been to see the specialist at Addenbrookes and been thoroughly examined, blood tests and various other most personal things as Bruce shyly said when telling me. He had been told he had a rare condition of 'Delayed Pubertal Development' where one system, that of body growth, had become emphasized and another system, that of external genital and secondary sexual characteristics, such as hair growth had been minimised. If he was willing, the doctor would start a course of injections for him after Christmas. He had agreed but had been warned there might be side-effects.
First though, Tony and I set out for Kerslake. I had a whole lot of presents for Francis as various fellow students pressed small parcels on me sent by mums who had been told my news. Charley presented me with a Christening mug for him engraved with Francis's name and date of birth. I had told him Mrs Marcham had insisted he be christened and this was happening in their local church on Sunday December the nineteenth.
I was overjoyed when I saw my son for the first time after eight weeks absence. Here he was now, three months old and smiling. Smiling or the wind, what did it matter. He was mine. I fussed round him until sternly told to let him be, there would be plenty of time in due course to discuss rugger or the third person present subjunctive of 'avoir'.
We had plenty of visitors. Nobbo and Cleggy came round to the Marchams to see us one morning. Their news was that if Charley wanted his foot looked at, it could be examined and a decision made by the Professor of Orthopaedics. Apparently, Cleggy's brother Geoff had made such a good impression while on the old boy's firm that he had immediately agreed. Interesting case anyway. Perhaps I should set up as a medical troubleshooter!
Another visitor was Tom Buchanan, a full Sergeant now but still his old self. I was alone with Francis that morning as Kats and her mother had gone out shopping. Tom had plenty of tales to tell including the time he was Orderly Sergeant one Sunday. His duties included checking the cookhouse. I laughed and said most of his stories involved cooks. He grinned and said they were the randiest set of buggers as he'd told me before. This day he knew something was going on. Sunday lunch was over but the cooks were nowhere near cleared up and kept going into one of the store rooms off the main kitchen. A couple of them tried to head him off but, pulling rank, he insisted on knowing what was going on. He'd noticed that there were still pans of semi-congealed mutton fat on the warm range and he saw one of the cooks come out and pick one up and disappear into the storeroom with it while he was looking at them. When he got to the door all was revealed. One of the cooks was tied down, on his back, over a table in the middle of the room. His cook's whites were pulled down his legs and his shirt was open. Two of the cooks were steadily dripping rapidly congealing and hardening mutton fat over the lad's groin. There were about half a dozen others all milling around and laughing. It transpired the lad was always boasting how big his cock was and now there was a fast growing thick, long, soon to be moulded, representation of a prick, sticking straight up in the air, with his own erection held fast within it. He was grunting and swearing mightily as the eighteen inch high edifice was shaped and moulded by one of the cooks who, Tom knew, made fantastic ice or butter sculptures for the Officers' Mess. As Tom watched, the artist produced a masterpiece, so he said, complete with a modelled rolled back foreskin. Two of the cooks had cameras and took photos but Tom said he hadn't seen the results.
Tom was also a happy lad as he said he was taking Betty Briggs, home from Teacher Training College, out to lunch at Lyons. I grinned at him and looked at Francis. Tom made a slightly wry face and shook his head. Tom wasn't getting his end away, yet!
Of course, I was! I'd visited a barber's in Chesterton to get my hair cut a couple of days before leaving Cambridge for Kerslake. My ulterior motive was quite simple - a supply of contraceptives! Luckily, I was the only customer at that moment when the barber, a large middle-aged man, asked the age-old question "Anything for the week-end, sir?". I bought six packets of three. He had a slight smile on his face and I had a slight blush as I paid. But, what the hell, thousands of blokes, every week must buy their supplies - probably the six packets was not so usual - he probably thought I was extra randy or just boastful. I'd heard tales of lads buying Frenchies just to wank in. Rather a waste!
The christening was a lovely ceremony. Tony, Matt and Bella stood as godparents. Although I knew I had no beliefs the age-old Christian, Anglican ceremony was so beautiful. Tony had sung in the choir of the church from the age of seven and Dr Baines had made sure all the choir were on top form for the occasion. Francis was as good as gold. He didn't even whimper when the sign of the Cross was made on his forehead or when the Holy Water was poured over his head. Matt insisted on holding him as we walked out of the church and I knew that although Matt would never have a son he was one person I would trust to love and cherish my own son. Odd, two of the godparents were good friends who would never, I knew, make that supreme step of producing a child.
Anyway, Kats and I, to begin with, didn't intend to produce another, yet! We were both ready and able for encounters, neither of us could get enough, so it seems. Kats, quite independently of me asking, experimentally sucked my cock that first night home. She was good, but left off just before I felt myself coming. She certainly wasn't as good at that as her brother! I remembered the numerous times he'd taken as much of my shaft into this mouth as he could and had sucked and savoured my cum and shared it with me. That first night I came as she held my prick and urged me to a climax where my first load squirted fully over my chest and coated my neck as well. My second lot was buried deep in her but shed into the constricting confines of that latex covering. So, that pattern continued. I was still experiencing my two orgasms each day but not now by use of my trusty right hand. In fact, a couple of afternoons when ma-in-law was out we fucked ourselves to a delirium of delight, as well.
On Christmas Eve we all got packed up and it took two cars, Mr Marcham's big Rover and my little Austin Seven, to get ourselves and all our clobber to London and Kensington Gore. My, the flat was huge! It stretched on and on, windows overlooking the Royal Albert Hall. Ma was overjoyed with seeing us all and had produced quite a sumptuous meal for that Friday evening. She and Pa insisted on looking after Francis while Mr Marcham drove the rest of into town to see the festive lights and decorations. I felt, even after three years since the end of the War, that London still looked drab and there was still so much bomb damage to be repaired and rebuilt. I shook my head when I saw St Pauls and imagined Dresden, completely flattened by Allied bombing. Even St Pauls had had a direct hit but even so with all the damage still evident it didn't compare with the pictures I had seen of German and other cities so ravaged by seeming hate. I had come to love the German language and its literature so much over the past year. I loved Beethoven and Brahms and Bach - why, oh why, did such things happen? I knew I had to visit Germany as soon as I could.
Still, we had a packed Christmas Day. It was bright and clear and we walked across to see Albert in his faded, gilt glory and strolled in the park while the Christmas lunch was cooking. Replete and content we played parlour games in the afternoon and, tired and happy went to bed quite early. Not too tired. Francis might have been. He slept soundly in his cot. With good food and a couple, nay, three or four, glasses of good wine, Jacko was extra randy. Kats was soon on her back being caressed and stroked and felt and fingered. She was moaning most contentedly, my finger touching that button which would soon, I hoped, bring her to her own climax. I felt for the familiar packet. Oh shit! Oh holy buggeration! We must have fucked eighteen times already. The packet was empty. I was too far gone and Kats was urging me to complete the act I had started. I sank deep, unencumbered, and fucked her twice in quick succession and a third time much more slowly, letting loose in her those countless millions and millions of my sperm all vying for the supreme prize.
That did it. For the rest of the holiday we didn't bother. Without the impediment of that bothersome covering we fucked at least three times each night. I had read a few trashy novels but I could honestly say, in the words from one purple passage which stuck in my mind, our passion was white-hot. Each first time it was if as soon as I sank deep then my innermost being was sucked out of me. Each second and third time I felt as if my heart and mind were on fire. I felt in those moments just as I had when Lachs and Flea and I had sealed our covenant with each other. I loved Kats and I knew I loved those friends of mine as well. Lachs and Flea were preeminent but Tony, Tom, Roo, Matt and Mike especially, were there as well. My friends and I had loved each other with that supreme passion of two males coupling and giving each other all their trust and strength. Now, my trust and strength with Kats had produced that other supreme consequence, my son, my beloved Francis.
New Year - 1949
Mr and Mrs Marcham went back to Kerslake the day after Boxing Day and we four stayed on to greet the New Year. Both Lachs and Flea joined us as they had been to Cheshire for Christmas. Lachs was hoping to be promoted soon as he had passed all the Regimental hurdles. His Company had managed to come second in the annual review and for a rookie Second-Lieutenant this was quite an achievement. He said being five feet five was a bonus as lots of the Jocks were quite small as well. I said Billy Clarke had said this as well. He said it helped as he was eye to eye with his lads and they didn't feel they were being looked down on.
Flea was a Pilot Officer now with his wings proudly displayed on his chest. He had passed his course with flying colours and no exaggeration. He was destined for further training in the New Year and was so looking forward to it. He was entranced with Francis and sat nursing him for ages saying the sooner he grew up he could marry his sister Julia. I pointed out this was unwise as they would be quite close cousins and I didn't want grandchildren with fair hair, two heads and three left feet, which I was certain would come from his side of the family. Big and as old as he was Jacko was dealt with by two incensed Officers of the King. Tickled and squawking I had to retreat. What annoyed me was that Francis smiled while this was happening! No, it must have been wind!!
Tony and I explored all sorts of parts of London while Ma and Kats explored Harrods and similar emporia. Tony and I found second-hand bookshops in the Charing Cross Road and came back with bundles of books, English, French and German. Pa said the main use for several of the old tomes might be to hold up a rickety bed-leg. We found he was very busy sorting out the post-war scientific scene as far as our defence was concerned. He was off to America early in January to discuss some sort of collaboration. Ma was going too and would be seeing her sister in Boston for the first time for many years. Her only regret was that she would be missing concerts next door in the Royal Albert Hall. She was in her seventh heaven - she had been to several of the Promenade Concerts in the late summer and was highly complimentary about Dr Sargent, the new conductor in charge of the Proms.
I had also gone to see Mr Blane the publisher in Bloomsbury and he said the translation was more than acceptable. He showed me the proof copies of the book. My name was, admittedly, in small print under the author's name, but...... He said Ma's fourth book was in press ready for Easter. He asked Tony if he was thinking of becoming a writer. Tony smiled an enigmatic smile and said 'Perhaps'.
Two days before we returned to Kerslake, Tim and John Parker came back to claim their rooms. We went with them to the Royal College across the way to hear them rehearse Schubert's Trout Quintet with three other students. Tim was standing in for their pianist as he was still on holiday. John said he liked playing in small groups but he was having two auditions at Easter for orchestral positions. Tim was now in his second year BMus course as well as taking piano and conducting. How time moves on.
Time moved on very quickly. It was Charley's last term before his final exams. Bruce was having his injections, running and annihilating any opposing forwards in a slew of wins for the College team and Jacko was reading and writing essays.
In January on a particularly cold day I was writing out my weekly essay for Dr Blake when there was a rap on the door. From the code, rap tap-tap, I knew it was Willy Roberts. I got up and opened the door. There stood Willy, bowler-hatted and great-coated, with two swaddled figures behind him.
"Mr Beckett and Mr Collins to see Mr Thomson, sir," he said most importantly, then winked surreptitiously.
Well, well, well. It was Red-bum Beckett and young Collins, my rugger fiends! Red- bum! What was his real name? I thought hard. Oh, yes! Peter - like the farting canary!
It dawned. They must be up for interview somewhere.
"Come in, come in!" I said, beckoning all three in. Quick think. "What time are your interviews?" I asked.
Young Collins, Mark, spoke up. "Two o'clock."
I looked at Willy. Now was the time to use Lord Harford's card. "Mr Roberts, lunch at the Blue Boar for half-twelve. Four, if Mr Marcham can be contacted."
Willy, who had removed his bowler on entry, inclined his head. "Certainly, sir, I will see if young Jem is available for checking with Mr Marcham." He turned, smartly and exited replacing his bowler hat as he closed the outer door.
"Sorry, that was all a bit sudden," I said, "Take your overcoats first then find a seat."
They looked suitably cowed by all the attention. After a bit of a flurry Peter Beckett spoke.
"Gosh, who is he?"
"That" I said, "Is the most important person in a college. There might be a Provost, or Master as head of college, but you get the wrong side of a Porter...." I drew a line across my throat.
Young Collins giggled. "Worse than Old Harry?"
"Much worse," I said. "Now tell me about yourselves."
Over the next ten minutes or so I heard they'd both got interviews, one at Pembroke and the other at Sidney Sussex, for Natural Science. This was a catch all for Physics, Chemistry and associated subjects and students usually came in for a lot of ribbing from the self-important philosophers and classics students. 'What's the last thing which goes through a Nat-Sci's brain when he hits a car windscreen at fifty miles per hour?' 'His arse-hole!' 'A Nat- Sci went to the doctor and said, Doctor, doctor, I'm not feeling myself today. Good, it's a nasty habit!' Plenty of these, but the Nat-Scis survive and even managed to split atoms in the Cavendish Laboratories.
They wanted to know what to say and I said, they should just be themselves. Make sure, if they got a hint, to say they played for the school and not to flannel. If they didn't know an answer, just say so. We were well into how college life went when there was another rap at the door. They were even more flabbergasted when a neatly dressed Sam carried in a tray with a pot of tea, milk, sugar, cups and a plate of chef-cooked biscuits. Willy was really putting on a show for me! I would definitely have to make sure I vacated my room at least two afternoons this week, too!! Sam bowed and left. And left a good impression. I wondered what on earth would be conveyed back to school.
They were even more impressed when Tony met us at the Blue Boar and we were escorted to our table by old Bert. The lads had steak pie - steak of unknown beast but smothered in rich brown gravy. They looked, goggle-eyed, when I produced Lord Harford's visiting-card at the end of the meal and old Bert just glanced at it and wished us a happy afternoon. The lads were too polite to ask how all this happened and neither Tony nor I were going to enlighten them. Of course, as we got back to Clare who should we meet but Charley. He let the cat out of the bag and demanded to know why he hadn't been included on the jaunt. I promised that he could be entertained later in the week. He grunted as I was still keeper of his allowance!
That reminded me. I had never enquired of Willy how Charley got to be known as the Abominable Arseholes - I realised the alliteration with Lascelles but Charley was the mildest of creatures ninety per cent of the time. A couple of drinks and he did go rather berserk, but... abominable, no!
I was in the Porter's Lodge a couple of days later when Willy was in sole command. I asked him about the nickname. He smiled and looked to see that no one else was about to enter his sanctum.
"Goes back a long time," he said, confidentially. "Family nickname. Two of his older brothers were here, Gussie and Bertie, both called AA in turn. Apparently, according to dad, their father and uncle were called that as well, that was when my granddad was Porter."
The mind boggled. I couldn't imagine Lord Harford being worthy, or unworthy, of that name.
"Goes back further than that, though," continued Willy, "Bit of college history. His Lordship's uncle got the name when he was here." Willy leaned over the desk. "Found in bed by his scout with a kitchen-lad. Nearly got sent down but said the boy had got locked out of the kitchen where he slept and he'd taken pity on him. They had to believe him and kitchen-boys got proper beds after that."
I had a glimpse. "And the kitchen-boy?"
"Granddad," said Willy, quietly.
Inquisitiveness satisfied I said that was a good story and not one to be repeated to all and sundry. Willy nodded.
A fortnight later there was a letter from the interviewed pair - accepted for October on condition... I wrote back congratulating them and said I would be in Kerslake over Easter if they wanted to know anything, call round at the Marchams.
Then even more momentous news. Again, in March, came a letter. Kats was pregnant again. From her reckoning it was that Christmas Day fuck which did it! Oh God! We were both very fertile, according to a grinning Tony the next day. His sister had written to him as well. He advanced on me when I opened the door to him and said he thought I ought to be neutered like their old tom cat if I was going to produce a sprog every time I was home with his sister.
I pointed out we were married. He laughed and said he liked being an uncle. What would it be this time?
He told his rugger-bugger crowd, of course, and I was treated to a regular hazing when I went for a drink with them. I was made to stand on a table in the Champion, trousers round my ankles, leading the assembled throng in seventeen verses of the Good Ship Venus. Luckily I remembered most of the words, but it wouldn't have mattered as everyone else joined it.
I did have one outing. Tony, Charley and I decided to take Bruce to see the Boat Race. On the spur of the moment I suggested we could take young Jem and Sam as well. Both getting on for eighteen and never been to London. Well, for that matter, neither had Bruce. Actually we never saw the Boat Race. We left Cambridge by an early train but spent the day exploring all the tourist spots of London. Of course, the boys and Bruce had never been on the Underground and were quite taken with the way it rattled along and Bruce managed to run all the way up one of the down escalators as he said he hadn't had his usual run that day. We ended up for high tea at the flat in Kensington Gore. We twitted the boys that the Albert Hall was really a gasholder, just that much bigger than the ones beside the river at Cambridge. Sam remarked that he knew someone so full of hot air he could fill it with a couple of breaths. I was deflated! Tim and John came in and joined us for food then played to us. Luckily Cambridge won! A great day!
The final year students had their exams towards the end of term and Charley really worked hard. He did get a good degree and said it was mainly due to me and a couple more of his friends who had helped him. He was also going up to London at the beginning of the vacation for his appointment about his foot. We all wished him luck and so the vacation began.
Easter 1949
Kats was getting quite plump by now. I wasn't sure how pleased her parents would be. I had told Pa on the 'phone as soon as I heard the news - luckily he had answered as I think Ma would have let me have an earful about being inconsiderate while I was still at college. He said he understood I liked sailing and hadn't Flea and the others taught me to tie knots. I got the drift and said I considered that too painful and, unfortunately, the Thomson exuberance had been let loose once again. I heard him giggle and there was a hurried conversation which I couldn't hear. "Your mother sends her congratulations, but wait until she sees you!"
Mrs Marcham was actually quite complacent. She adored young Francis and was eager to have a second grandchild. All was well, then. As a break I drove Kats and Francis, with Tony in tow, to Ulvescott and we spent the whole week before Easter there. We visited Lady Bing who was still as upright and as acerbic as ever. She said she was glad my mother and father were enjoying the London flat and she had heard good things about young Timothy. I played a couple of duets with the Duchess and we came away with two very old Christening spoons which the Duchess said had come from her late husband's family.
Back in Cambridge the Summer term just disappeared in a haze of essays, parties, farewell dinners and all sorts of post-juvenile frolics. Jem and Sam were dismayed. Both were now almost eighteen and, as National Service had been brought in completely, had been for their medicals and were both deemed to be A1. Would they be there next term? Jem's younger brother, David, or Davy, now sixteen, was eager to get a college job so I think was all lined up, in case!
One changed character was Bruce. He had been having his treatment for some months by the end of term. A couple of days before we were to go down he came all jovial to see me.
"Got something to show you," he said as he closed the door behind him and slipped the latch. "Saw Professor Tillotson yesterday and he's very pleased with me!"
If anything he was larger than when he had joined the college and I watched as he undid and dropped his trousers. As he lowered his pants and pulled his shirt up I saw the change. Four inches of thick, now hardening, young cock rose up against a much increased bush of pubic hair above a larger, swelling ballsack.
"God, Jacko, I'm so pleased with myself as well," he enthused, he grinned. "Bastard is up like this most of the time now. Needs fuckin' taming!"
Oh, Bruce. Now over twenty, enjoying and experiencing that sense of achievement and pleasure I and almost every other boy had savoured and revelled in before we were fourteen.
"He's going to give me more next term. Gotta see how it fuckin' goes until then. Fair dinkum now, eh?"
"No longer dingo-dick, eh?" I said, "Congratulations. But see you don't wear it out."
He was no longer embarrassed at all. He just laughed. He was obviously delighted with his new toy, as it were.
"Thanks to you, mate," he said, "Wouldn't have been like this! Gotta see what happens next!"
Tony was off to Yorkshire with Percy and his pals again for a short stay and I left for Kerslake at the end of term. I had plenty of work to do as my final year would be upon me in September. I worked steadily through July and August, reading, making notes, practising the piano, as well as playing with and looking after Francis. He was quite a precocious child as I helped him to stand and stagger when he was just over eleven months old. Kats was looking forward to the birth as she was so big. Tony and I twitted her and suggested it might be twins. But no, on Friday, September the Second, 1949, my second son, James Antony Thomson was born. Eight pounds exactly, mother and child (and father) doing well.
To be continued:.............................