Like Father Like Son Ch. 07

Without a word to anyone he slammed out of the flight hut and got into his Aston Martin. He drove furiously, letting the back end slide through the bends as he raced back into London to his flat. He took a shower, changed into civilian clothes and considered his options. TheBlack Cat Club, that was the ticket! But first he needed to eat. He made his way to Soho and wandered along Frith Street looking for a likely place. He chose a pub, theDog and Duck, and went into the warm, smoky atmosphere. Ordering a pint of bitter and a steak and oyster pie, he found himself a table in a corner and drank morosely. He drank his beer, ordered another and, when the food came, ate without tasting.

“On your own, love? Fancy some company?”

Michael looked up. The girl in front of him was obviously a tart, too much make up and a smile that never reached her eyes. She was pretty, though, and he felt a thrill somewhere between fear and lust creep into his groin. He looked at her closely. She was skinny and her skin was bad but somehow she exuded a sense of sexuality that was potent in the extreme. He nodded and indicated a chair. She sat and gave him that professional smile again.

“I’m Maisey, what’s your name?”

“Michael.”

“Well, hello, Michael.”

She said his name like an indecent suggestion and his balls twitched.

“How much?”

“Thirty bob for a quickie or a Bradbury for all night in.”

There was something sharp and calculating in those eyes and he felt that she had appraised his likely wealth and set her rates accordingly. Five pounds for the night wasn’t that bad though, and he didn’t think a quickie would solve his problems.

“All night it is, then.”

“Suits me. Aren’t you going to buy a girl a drink?”

He bought her a gin and another beer for himself. She kept up a stream of chatter – rubbish about the weather and how bad the smog was getting these days. At the same time she insinuated herself closer to him and placed a hand on his thigh and squeezed. It had the desired effect and he felt the first stirrings of an erection. No need to try his luck at theBlack Cat. They finished the drinks and he led her out into the cold of the London evening. She was right about the smog. The air smelt faintly sulphurous and there was a yellowish tinge to the tendrils of damp fog that swirled about the street lamps. It caught at his throat:throat, made him cough and his eyes smarted. He hurried her back to his flat.

Once inside, she looked about, taking in the expensive furnishings and the original paintings on the walls. No doubt about it, Maisey, my girl, you’ve caught yourself a proper gent tonight. He took her coat and she stood uncertainly for a moment, slightly overawed by the opulence of her surroundings. He indicated the bedroom with a terse “In here.” She followed him through and he sat in a over-stuffed armchair.

“Take your clothes off,” he said.

She shrugged inwardly. Gent he may be but he’d no manners, didn’t know how to treat a lady. She felt his eyes upon her as she stripped off her dress and underwear with practiced movements. Michael gazed at her. She felt she was being evaluated with the same dispassionate detachment as a butcher might give to an animal carcase. She found it vaguely amusing; they were two of a kind.

Michael was pleased with what he saw. She was skinny and her ribs and breastbone showed but her small breasts were high and tipped with large nipples. He thought she was about his age but there was just a hint of loose flesh on her stomach and slight stretch-marks on her thighs that told him she had had a child. That pleased him. Women’s nipples were always bigger after childbirth. She mocked him slightly by performing a slow pirouette. A thick fleece of black hair covered her sex and her buttocks were small and slightly dimpled. She teased him then by bending over, straight legged, to pick up her discarded clothes and affording him a view of long, prominent cunt-lips. She held the pose for a few seconds and looked back at him archly, raising an eyebrow and giving a broad wink.

“Enjoying the view, are we?”

Michael grunted and stood, stripping off his clothes quickly but without haste. He had all night. She folded her clothes meticulously; she’d paid good money for them. Michael sat down again, knees spread and she knelt between them.

“Start with a little French?”

He ignored the question, as she had known he would, and pushed her head down towards his groin. She took him in her mouth, her mind elsewhere, as always. At least he was clean. And young – that helped. His hand twisted in her hair and it hurt; made her eyes water. He was shoving his thing into her mouth, butting it against the back of her throat and she fought the impulse to gag as he came off like a fountain – Christ! – That was quick! She eased her head back and surreptitiously spat into a handkerchief balled in one hand. It was then that he slapped her.

“Bitch! Who said you could spit it out?”

She saw the rage in his eyes and was frightened.

“I only…”

He slapped her again, a wide, swinging, open-handed blow that spun her head round. He was smiling, a twisted, contorted sort of smile. His prick had swelled again and he stood. Grabbing her by the hair, he dragged her across the room to the bed and flung her across the blankets, face down.

Her world was now solely pain. He rammed into her violently. After a half dozen vicious strokes he pulled back and adjusted his position slightly, spreading her buttocks with one hand and forcing himself into that other opening. She screamed and was rewarded with another ringing slap. She tried to struggle but he was ready for her, twisting one arm up between her shoulders.

“Push back, Bitch, or I’ll really hurt you.”

There was no escape. Fear and pain contained her as surely as his strength. He was pumping into her and she could hear him mumbling as he did so. It sounded like he was calling a name but she couldn’t make it out. He let go of her arm and grabbed her by the hair again; lifting her head and slamming it back repeatedly into the pillows. He seemed to be swelling up inside her and she told herself to hold on, it would soon be over. He reached his climax with a roar and she heard him clearly through the agony that filled her:

“Peter! Peter, you bastard!”

He didn’t look at her as he threw her out of the door, still naked. He didn’t look at her as he flung her clothes onto the landing after her. He didn’t even look at her as he thrust two white five-pound notes into her hand. He didn’t even notice when she spat him, didn’t seem to feel the gob of bloody spittle hit his chest. Then his knee came up and cracked into her chin and it was her turn not to feel as he kicked her senseless body.

When Maisey Dawkins woke up she was cold. There was no light on the landing as she dressed painfully. She explored her swollen mouth with a bloody tongue, noting the loose teeth. Her ribs felt broken and her stomach hurt. Bastard! The fucking, bloody bastard! She’d have the law on him! But she knew, even as she thought it, that she wouldn’t. The law didn’t care about whores – never had. Oh well, put it down to experience. She wouldn’t be working for a few days, that was for sure. Still, a tenner was better than nothing. Christ, what a nut-case! Maybe she’d been lucky. Still, she’d better warn the other Frith Street girls. No telling what that bastard might do! First time anyone called her by a bloke’s name, though. He must be a queer, that one, as well as a fucking nutter.

August 1939 –No war this year!

David Riley surveyed his surroundings. For all the imposing frontage of the Royal Air Force College, Cranwell, the interior of Hut 144 in the South Brick Lines was austere in the extreme. At the entrance were the ‘ablutions’ – deep sinks, a couple of open showers and the toilets. The dormitory area was dominated by a pot-bellied cast-iron stove that gleamed black. He already hated that stove with some venom, as it had to be cleaned and polished until it shone for each morning inspection. Six beds stood around the room, each with its blankets ‘boxed’ into neat squares. A Lee-Enfield rifle was strapped to the side of every bed. There was also a small wardrobe and a chest of drawers in every bed-space. The floor was of dun-coloured linoleum and had to be buffed each morning and evening. The hut smelt permanently of coal dust and polish, mixed with stale farts.

In the three weeks since David had arrived, he seemed to have done nothing but clean and polish, iron and scrub and drill, drill, drill. The only aeroplanes he had seen were like distant dreams. His cadet entry was not considered fit to be allowed near a plane until they could march in step, shoulder arms and all the rest of it. In spite of this, as he wrote to Johanna in those rare moments permitted for such things, he was blissfully happy. He was eighteen years old and a ‘gentleman cadet.’ He fought back a smile. No time for such daydreaming, the morning inspection was due and the officer in charge of the new cadets, accompanied by two white-gloved NCOs, seemed to have an unfailing instinct for hidden dirt or grime. David sighed and pushed harder on the floor polisher. Only another three weeks until basic flying training would begin. Three more weeks and he would realise his greatest ambition – to become a pilot!

The hut was filled with the subdued grumblings of his fellows: he thought them all good chaps. He had made one close friend by the name of Aubrey Maitland – the hon. Aubrey Maitland, youngest son of an impoverished peer. Aubrey was presently engaged in dusting the pipe work while trying to preserve the razor-sharp creases in his ‘working blues’ – the everyday serge uniform cadets wore. This involved trying to scrub at the pipes with his arms straight, a sight that had David chuckling and then ducking the duster hurled at him by the object of his amusement.

“I say, Riley, you’re far too cheery. Just wait until Sergeant Rutter sees that ‘orrible floor, you ‘orrible little man.”

“If I were you, Maitland, old bean, I’d be more concernedw about what will happened when our esteemed sergeant runs his snow white mitts over those grimy pipes. What are you doing, rearranging the dust or trying to clean them, you scruffy little gentleman?”

It had not taken long for the cadets to mimic the voices and expressions of their instructors. All agreed that Aubrey was the best and more than once his impressions of Sergeant Rutter had had them all springing to attention before recognising the true culprit. David and Aubrey recognised the basic training for what it was – a method of forging them into a team - and had responded with more enthusiasm than some. One of their number, a highly intelligent boy called Mark Chapman, railed against the mindless repetition and was always in trouble. David liked Mark but had his doubts as to whether he was really cut out for service life. To David, there was no point in kicking against the system. It was there and had to be endured; the more one fought it, the more onerous it would become. Mark refused to grasp this. He insisted that he had a right to his own individuality. David agreed but accepted that this must be subordinated to the common good – something Mark was either unable or unwilling to do. Aubrey regarded Chapman as an idiot and rarely concealed his opinion.

The inspection passed without major incident. As usual, Mark’s personal kit was found wanting and he was put on another ‘fizzer.’ That would mean at least an hour of extra foot-drill on his own, under the watchful eye and sharp tongue of the duty Senior Cadet. Mark could not be persuaded that the said Duty Cadet would be as fed up with having to march him around the parade square as Mark himself was doing the marching. The other cadets had exhausted their supply of sympathy for their recalcitrant roommate and ignored his ‘binding,’ the newly acquired RAF slang for moaning. Their vocabulary had changed in the past three weeks without their really noticing. Aeroplanes had become ‘kites;’ girls were now ‘popsies.’ It was all part of belonging to Britain’s youngest service. It set them apart, identified them as clearly as the RAF blue uniforms they wore.

Thoughts of Johanna helped to sustain David, not that they had been able to spend much time together. Their meetings had been limited to school holidays and, with David at the RAF College, there would be no opportunity this summer. David was convinced that opportunities to meet might be even more limited soon. His father’s belief that war was coming had rubbed off on the younger man and he had already earned the nickname ‘Jeremiah,’ frequently shortened to ‘Jerry,’ for his gloomy prognostications. The headline in the Daily Express that morning had him bellowing with rage at anyone who would listen. It said, quite simply,‘No War This Year.’ David could only imagine his father’s reaction; Peter Riley would be incandescent with fury. Even David’s friend, Aubrey, didn’t seem to disagree.

“Don’t get in a flat spin, old chum. I don’t think the Huns are any more ready than we are.”

“Don’t be an ass, Maitland. They are more than ready enough. Let’s face it, they’ve been practicing in Spain and it’s all bloody ‘guns before butter’ over there in Hunland. We could do with a bit more of that attitude here but will we get it? Not a chance! We’ve grown soft and idle and.…”

“Riley, I do believe you’ve listening to that Churchill chap!”

David whirled at the new voice and saw Mark Chapman staring at him with an intense expression on his face.

“Oh, it’s you, Chapman. Shouldn’t you be marching up and down or something?”

“No. Forsythe is ‘Duty Dog’ and he can’t see any more point in it than I do. I said you sound as if you agree with Churchill.”

“As it just so happens, Chapman, I do. War is coming and coming bloody quickly, mark my words.”

“Well, Riley, it just so happens I agree with you. God, I thought that everyone here was clinging to the mistaken belief we have a few years ahead of us. I honestly think it’ll be weeks rather than months. That pact with the Russians was just clearing their path. That’s why I hate all this ‘bull’ so much. They should be training us to fight and fly, not bloody march and salute by numbers – we’re not ‘brown jobs’ after all.”

“Don’t knock the army, Chapman. I’ll have you know that both my brothers are in the Guards.”

Chapman shrugged. He liked David but the hon. Aubrey Maitland irritated him in a major way. Chapman was a shy young man and found Aubrey’s confidence unnerving and his supercilious manner when speaking to him was a constant source of annoyance. Chapman lacked the confidence to respond in kind so David often found himself defending the other boy to Aubrey.

“Just as well your Pa had ‘an heir and two spares,’ then, Maitland,“ David said with a smile.

Aubrey snorted and Chapman concealed a small smile. He was quite aware of David’s defence of him and was grateful for it. Chapman’s own father had died when he was young as a result of wounds received in the Great War. As a result, he had been raised in genteel poverty, lacking the advantages of most of his comrades. He was of average height and slimly built with dark hair and blue eyes. He was all quick, nervous gestures and jerky movements. He spoke rapidly and there was just a trace of a regional accent in his voice. Aubrey believed that Chapman was a socialist or, even worse, a ‘bolshie.’ The contrast between Aubrey Maitland and Mark Chapman could not have been greater. The former was languidly confident, athletic and spoke with an aristocratic drawl. Chapman was introverted, driven, almost desperate in his need to be taken seriously. David found it surprising that he liked them both so well.

September 1939 –Consequently this country is at war

Peter stood by the radio. Bethan sat very upright in a chair. It was 11.15 on Sunday, September 3rd 1939. Peter had been expecting some announcement for the past two days. Germany invaded Poland on the previous Friday. Britain and France had issued an ultimatum. Peter had little doubt as to Hitler’s response. The BBC announcer’s voice tailed off and was replaced by the clipped, reedy tones of the Prime Minister:

"I am speaking to you from the Cabinet Room at 10, Downing Street.

This morning the British Ambassador in Berlin handed the German Government a final note stating that unless we heard from them by 11.00 a.m. that they were prepared at once to withdraw their troops from Poland, a state of war would exist between us.

“I have to tell you that no such undertaking has been received, and that consequently this country is at war with Germany.

“You can imagine what a bitter blow it is to me that all my long struggle to win peace has failed. Yet I cannot believe that there is anything more or anything different I could have done and that would have been more successful. Up to the very last it would have been quite possible to have arranged a peaceful and honourable settlement between Germany and Poland, but Hitler would not have it…”

Chamberlain’s voice droned on but Peter had stopped listening. He examined his feelings. He should feel vindicated but instead he felt only a deep sense of emptiness. He looked fondly at Bethan who remained rigidly upright, her face white, and he sighed inwardly. She would know again the fear and anguish that springs from having loved ones where the fighting would be hottest. Thank God David was just a sprog cadet and hadn’t even begun his flying training.

David stood in silence with Aubrey Maitland and Mark Chapman listening to Chamberlain’s broadcast. As the dry, thin voice ceased there was a wild outbreak of cheering from the cadets. Only David and Mark did not join in.

Michael missed the broadcast. He was doing an air test on his Blenheim at the time but the news was relayed to him over the control net. Something new stirred within him; an excitement not unlike the first onset of lust. So it was war at last. That bastard Riley had been right all along. He turned the Blenheim for home. An observer on the ground saw him change course and head towards London. It was an easy mistake to make. The short greenhouse nose of the Blenheim Idid resemble a Junkers Ju 88. A call was made and, for the first time, London heard the wailing of the air raid sirens.