Like Father Like Son Ch. 07

They both fell silent as the implications of David’s assertion sank in. They were interrupted by a sudden stir within the room. Colonel Williams, Master of Fox Hounds and prime mover behind the New Year Ball, had taken over the microphone from the crooner. The band fell silent. The Colonel was nearly seventy but straight as a ramrod and still riding to hounds as befitted a retired cavalryman or ‘donkey walloper,’ as


Peter irreverently called him. There were spots of colour on the man’s cheeks and his nose glowed like one of the new Beleisha beacons that had recently appeared on the streets to mark pedestrian crossings. Even so, his voice was steady and there was no hint of drunkenness as he announced the countdown to the New Year in clipped, martial tones at a volume that rendered the microphone redundant.

The crowd joined in:

“Eight! Seven! Six!”

David and Johanna moved from their table into the centre of the room to join in the singing and clasped handshand-clasping of ‘Auld Lang Syne.’ For a little while, at least, everyone forgot about the storm clouds gathering over Europe and sang lustily, wishing each other ‘all the best’ for 1939. Handshakes and kisses were being exchanged all around them. David stood awkwardly then thrust out his hand. Johanna almost laughed out loud but instead, she leaned in and kissed him lightly on the lips, giggling when his eyes went wide in wonder. Then they both blushed furiously as shouts of encouragement from one or two of the less sober members of the party reached them.

All too soon for David, the Ball came to an end. The ‘last waltz’ was played and he forgot some of his earlier shyness as he danced with Johanna. He was no longer conscious of her body; simply her presence in his arms and the strange, warm feeling that she engendered in him. He asked her, hesitantly, if they could go walking together the next day. She smiled and said she would love to and they made hasty arrangements to meet in the village square at noon before she was swept away by her smiling and somewhat unsteady parents.

David had to endure some gentle ribbing from his father as he made himselffor ready for meeting Johanna. Bethan, amused but feeling a tinge of sadness, watched her younger son blush and stammer while protesting Johanna ‘was just a friend.’ David would be eighteen in a couple of months and Bethan sighed inwardly at the thought that she was now something of a matron. Phillipa didn’t help matters by giggling every time she looked in his directions and David was glad to get out of the house. He strode out into the crisp clear air of a bright morning and walked briskly the three or so miles into Beaminster. He had been so anxious to avoid the comments at home that he left early and found himself entering the square some twenty minutes before midday.

He was surprised to see Johanna already there, sitting on a stone bench under the market cross and kicking her heels as she looked around her. She saw him coming and jumped to her feet.

“Hello, you’re early!”

“My father was being a bit of a rotter and I couldn’t wait to escape. Didn’t really look at the time to tell you the truth.”

“Yours too? I had to put up with ‘I suppose my little girl is all grown up.’ I think they think it’s funny.”

“I know. Parents can be so embarrassing at times. I thought we’d walk up past Pitton House and over to Netherbury. Are you game?”

“Absolutely! And, David.”

“Yes?”

“Oh nothing, really. It’s just nice to see you.”

“It’s nice to see you too, Johanna.”

“Oh, do call me Jo. Johanna sounds so familial – it’s what my father insists on calling me and I hate it – the name I mean.”

“I think it’s a perfectly lovely name, for a perfectly lovely girl.”

They stared at each other and then looked away, each overcome with shyness and the recognition that something quite unknown was beginning. David opened his mouth to speak but found no words, so he gave a slight gesture and they walked off down towards the Church, turning left towards the river then turning right, taking the lane that led to the open fields. A few curious cows stared as they passed through a couple of fields and then they were into the sunken pathway that ran along the back of Pitton House. It was here that they encountered Beatrice.

“Peter? Peter, is that you? Where’s Phillip?”

“Oh, hello, Mrs Welford-Barnes. I’m David, Peter’s son.”

“Peter, you’re very naughty, playing games with an old lady. I’m looking for Phillip and Miss Meredith. They went out for a walk and will soon be late for luncheon. If you see them, Peter, be sure to tell them to hurry home.”

“Uh, yes, Mrs Welford-Barnes, I’ll be sure to tell them if I see them.”

They walked on in silence, leaving the frail, distracted figure behind them.

“David, who on earth was that?”

“Mrs Welford-Barnes. My half-brother’s grandmother.”

“She thought you were your father. And who are Phillip and Miss Meredith?”

“Phillip was her son and my mother’s first husband. He was killed in the Great War. He was dad’s best friend. My mum’s name used to be Meredith.”

“Oh golly! How sad, sort of Dickensian, really – a bit like Miss Faversham!”

David shook his head and climbed a styile. He paused to help Johanna and then headed up the hill. They climbed out of the trees and came upon the hilltop graves.

“Phillip’s buried there. The other grave belongs to his father, the old lady’s husband.”

Johanna turned and surveyed the view from the hill. She was about to pass some comment but caught herself as she noticed the dark look on David’s face.

“Whatever is the matter?”

“Sometimes I hate this place. All my life, somehow, we’ve been under their shadow. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Well I can’t if you don’t explain it, David. Who’se shadow have you been under?”

“Mostly it’s my half brother, Michael. He’s a beastly swine. Always rubbing dad’s nose in it. He’s been rotten to Phillipa as well.”

“But not to you?”

“Oh, he tries, but I ignore him, these days.”

She sensed the hurt concealed behind these casual words and her heart went out to him. In the very little time she had known him, she had come to realise that he was a gentle, sensitive soul and although she had never met his half-brother, she was more than ready to dislike him intensely.

They spent the winter afternoon walking the hills and talking. David could not suppress the feeling that, somehow, he had known Johanna all his life and said as much. She smiled shyly back at him and hugged herself, only partly against the cold. She, too, felt this sense of connection with him. She was a down-to-earth sort of girl and harboured few illusions about herself. She knew she wasn’t beautiful or even conventionally pretty but David made her feel as if she was the most gorgeous creature who’d ever walked the earth. Whenever he looked at her, she could see the admiration writ large upon his face and it made her glow inside to know that she had this effect upon him. There was something of the overgrown puppy about David, she decided; one of those large, friendly, loyal dogs like a Newfoundland or something. He didn’t move at all gracefully and his feet were far too big but there was an endearing quality to his awkwardness.

Sometimes he would turn to her to say something but caught himself simply gazing at her in wonder. He had absolutely no experience of girls apart from his sister and, of course, she didn’t count. Phillipa was nearly sixteen now and seemed to delight in teasing him and he was always at a loss how to respond. He felt safe in the company of men and was happiest when, hands covered in grease, he was working at something to do with aeroplanes with Albert or Young Peter. Now Johanna had come into his life and he kept slipping into a state of wonder bordering on catatonia. When this happened, and it was obvious from the slightly vacant expression that settled on his face, Johanna enjoyed his discomfort, well aware that she was the root cause of it. There had been moments when she had been tempted to tease him, to see the flush of embarrassment colour his face, but something held her back. It was as if she sensed that these embryonic feelings of mutual attraction were too fragile for such rough handling. Far better to stay on safe ground; to accept the occasional wordlessness as if it were simply her due. Intimacy would come in time.

She liked it best when he talked about his life, what he wanted to do. At such times he became animated and she could feel the fierceness of his passion for flying and flying machines. Her father, the good doctor, had initially dismissed the Rileys as a family of mad eccentrics, the father something of a speed-demon and the boy – well, he was always to be seen dragging some fantastic model aircraft up to the open fields behind the village, a smaller boy at his heels. Then her parents had got to know David’s family better and Peter was pronounced a ‘sound man.’ Dr Hepworth-Lloyd would never agree with Peter’s politics, of course, being a staunch supporter of Chamberlain and the party of appeasement, but he learnt to respect the sincerity of Peter’s views. Even then, at the beginning of 1939, Peter was in a small minority of the British people. Hadn’t the Daily Express, that very morning, published a leader giving ‘ten reasons why we should all sleep soundly in 1939?’ Johanna was no longer convinced either her father or the Daily Express had it right.

David and Johanna spent as much time in each other’s company as was possible over the next few days. David took her to the workshop and introduced her to Albert and Young Peter – the latter had stared at her round eyed, as if she were some exotic species he had never encountered before. Albert had paid her the compliment of taking her entirely in his stride. He hadn’t made any facetious comments to David and made no attempt to patronise her, asking her questions in the same considered and deliberate manner as that which he used to address David or Peter. Johanna liked him instantly, just as she liked Bethan. Bethan recognised the fragile signs of first love in her son and went out of her way to do absolutely nothing about it. She didn’t talk to David about it or tease him as Peter did. While David resembled his father physically, he lacked Peter’s self-assurance. Bethan dimly remembered the hesitant, shy girl she had been and her heart went out to David in his awkwardness. Some instinct told her that Johanna was exactly the right girl for David at this time. Johanna was smart, confident enough without being brash or overwhelming and well, plain sensible, a quality Bethan approved of most heartily.

When the time came for them both to go back to school, David felt a keen sense of impending loss. How could he bear to be parted from this paragon? They walked together on that final day on the downs at Rampisham.

“You know, Jo, I’m going to miss you most awfully.”

“I know. And I shall miss you too. We can write to each other you know.”

“Yes, of course, and we shall. But it’s not the same as talking, is it?”

She smiled at him then and reached forward, putting one arm about his neck and pulling him down, offering her face for a kiss.

He was clumsy, of course. His lips were hard upon hers and his arms squeezed her so tightly she could scarcely breathe. She made herself relax and drew back slightly. As he, in turn, eased off, she leaned forward once more and kissed him gently, darting her tongue into his astonished mouth and closing her eyes. When she opened them once more she saw his eyes were about to pop out of his head and he was flushed and wild looking.

“Oh My God! Wow! Oh, Jo!”

She smiled at him and skipped away.

“That’s so you don’t forget me in a hurry.”

“Oh Jo, I will never do that! How could I? I uh.…”

“Don’t say anything. It won’t be that long ‘til Easter.”

“Too long!”

His voice held a note of desolation that made her laugh out loud. She stepped back and hugged him close, loving the way it felt as her breasts crushed against his chest and the solidity of his arms as they hugged her. She was suddenly conscious of a hard lump pressing against her abdomen and it was all that she could do to stop herself jumping away in surprise. She tentatively pushed back against him and he groaned in her ear. She felt deliciously wicked. A voice at the back of her mind shrilled a protest and she reluctantly yielded to its censure, backing away from him and taking his hand to lead him forward once more.

“It’s going to be a busy term for us both, what with the exams this summer. You’ll see. Time will fly by.”

He nodded dumbly, too shaken by the recent physical closeness to trust his voice. He took a deep, shuddering breath and grinned at her.

“It still won’t fly nearly quickly enough for me.”

They walked on in silence for a while. Johanna felt physically light, as if her feet were barely in contact with the rough grass of the hill. Her soul seemed to be singing inside her. She wasn’t in love, she thought, at least, she didn’t think she was; but she acknowledged the possibility of love to come; a seed to nurture through the coming weeks. For his part, David’s mental state was akin to delirium. He was used to the empirical, the factual, measurable world of machinery. Over the past few days he had been made forcibly aware of another world, one which was soft and feminine, mysterious, alluring and quite scary at the same time. At the centre of this other world was Johanna. It made him feel funny even thinking about her. When she was there, her physical presence seemed to shut out all rational thought. And when she’d kissed him! His brain had shut down entirely. That other world had usurped the natural order driving away the real version with its schools, families and impending wars. He was confused, ecstatically happy and consumed by a sense of loss all at the same time. He shook his head to clear it.

“I suppose we ought to be heading back. I’ve still to pack my things for tomorrow and the parents are taking Phillipa and I out for ‘the last supper.’ It’s something we always do on the last day of the hols.”

They retraced their footsteps back down the hill. A sharp wind brought a blustery shower but they didn’t notice.

March 1939 The Millionaire

Pilot Officer Michael Welford-Barnes, Royal Auxiliary Air Force, was in a foul mood. He strode away from the Blenheim F1 he had just landed without a backward glance at his crew. He had spent a good half of the last two and a half hours completely lost. He had sworn richly and filthily at his navigator, cursed the wireless operator/air gunner and then called himself a number of particularly vile names under his breath as it became clear that the mistake was entirely his. Eventually, dropping out of low cloud over Cambridge, they had been able to get a fix on their position and had flown home in silence.

The sortie had been ordered to assist with the training of operators for the new ‘Chain Home’ system. Twenty ‘radio direction finding,’ or RDF, stations were dotted along the east and south coasts of Britain, from Scotland to the Isle of Wight. The 360ft towers had been placed at intervals to allow the Royal Air Force Fighter Command early warning of any incoming aircraft. Michael had taken off from Hendon with instructions to fly out over the North Sea and approach the coast near Bawdsey in Suffolk. He had strayed too far north in thick cloud. He didn’t trust his navigator, had called the man a ‘dud’ to his face, and had followed his own ‘plot’ instead. Now he was in for a royal bollocking from the squadron commander. The worst of it was, he knew, that the radar station at Bawdsey would have followed his aimless wanderings. It would have been quite apparent from the sudden descent and straightening of his course precisely what had happened.

The ‘Chain Home’ system had grown out of experiments conducted by Robert Watson-Watt and his team at Daventry in 1935. Radio Direction Finding, or, as the Americans called it, radar, was the one significant advantage that the RAF had over any potential enemy. The system was still quite crude with separate towers for transmitting and receiving the radio pulses that would ‘echo’ off an inbound aircraft. It wasn’t perfect by any means but it would allow for ground-controlled intercepts. Commanders on the ground would be able to direct their fighter aircraft to where the threat was. It would no longer be a case of fighter pilots ‘stooging around, looking for trouble.’ Of course, the modern single seater monoplane fighters wouldn’t have the fuel to do that anyway. That was another cause of Michael’s bitterness. His squadron had been re-equipped in January with the fighter version of the twin-engined Blenheim Bomber. The Mark I Blenheim with its short, greenhouse-like nose, had grown out of a private initiative paid for by Lord Rothermere, the proprietor of the Daily Mail.

Michael’s squadron was more like an exclusive gentlemen’s club than a military formation. There was a liberal sprinkling of titles among the pilots and the rest, like Michael, were wealthy bankers or stockbrokers, pursuing their careers in the City of London from Monday to Friday and indulging their passion for flying at the weekends. They did not enjoy a high reputation and were viewed with a great deal of reservation by the professional airmen of the regular Air Force. Even the squadron’s nickname – The Millionaires – had been bestowed with some bitterness. Incidents such as Michael’s most recent adventure added few laurels to their already dull crown.

The mood within the squadron was bleak. Only the previous autumn they had thrown a spectacular party in honour of the Munich Agreement. It had seemed as if their life of well-heeled hedonism would continue unabated. Now, though, the picture was far less optimistic. Hitler had gobbled up the remaining part of Czechoslovakia and now the world waited to see where next he would turn his hot eyes. Those who still believed there would be not be a war were in the minority but most still felt that it was a couple of years away. The government, of course, were wedded to the policy of appeasement and clung to their tattered faith more in hope than realism. Michael didn’t doubt Mr Chamberlain’s sincerity but increasingly, he questioned the Prime Minister’s judgement. Maturity had made him more cynical and surely there was no more cynical bunch than the Millionaires.

His flight commander was waiting for him as he stormed into the flight hut.

“Ah, Michael, the boss wants a word. The Stationmaster’s been on the blower and he’s not a happy chappy. Seems you put up a black with Group.”

Michael bit back a reply and made his way to the squadron commander’s office.


The bollocking was savage but predictable.

“What were you doing poncing about over the Wash and most of eastern England when you were supposed to be out over the North Sea? No, don’t bother to answer, I can guess. You thought you knew better. How many times do I have to stress the importance of teamwork? But you’re not a team player are you?”

“If you say so, sir.”

“I do say so. Now look here, I cannot allow this to continue. Group have been onto the Stationmaster and he’s been on my back. This squadron isn’t exactly everyone’s cup of tea as it is and idiots like you aren’t exactly helping the cause. You’re a good pilot, Welford-Barnes, but a bloody useless officer. Unless you buck your ideas up I’ll have to post you to another squadron – if anyone will have you, which I doubt.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Right. You’re grounded until further notice and Orderly Officer for the next three weekends. That should give you time to consider the error of your ways.”

“Yes, sir.”

Michael left the office still seething. It wasn’t fair! It wasn’t his fault that his crew were all duds. Perhaps he should request a posting to a single-seater squadron? That way he wouldn’t have to fly with idiots. The only problem was that the Auxiliary Air Force Squadrons could take their pick of volunteers – lot’s of young men wanted to learn to fly at the tax-payers’ expense. Added to that, a lot of the single-seater squadrons were still flying Gladiators, biplane fighters that had been obsolete before they entered regular service. He decided he needed a drink and some female company.