Date: Sun, 28 Dec 2003 23:38:16 +0000
From: Jo Vincent <joad130@hotmail.com>
Subject: Aladdin's Awakening:  Part 82

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:.............................