Date: Fri, 26 Mar 2004 19:32:03 +0000 From: Jeffrey Fletcher Subject: Two Jubilees etc Part 20 This is a story that involves sex between males. If such a story is offensive, or illegal for you to read where you live, then do not continue, go and surf elsewhere. This is a work of fiction and in no way draws on the lives of any specific person or persons. If there is any similarity to any real persons or events it is entirely coincidental. The work is copyrighted (c) by the author and may not be reproduced in any form without the specific written permission of the author. It is assigned to the Nifty Archives under the terms of their submission agreement but it may not be copied or archived on any other site without the written permission of the author. My thanks to John and Michael who have read this through and made a number of corrections and suggestions. Any remaining errors , grammatical, spelling or historical or whatever are entirely my fault. I am trying to use terms that were used by us who were young in the UK at that time, and not to use anachronistic terms, like gay, blow job, wank, and cum. It is surprising how difficult it is. If you want to comment on the story then do contact me on Jeffyrks@hotmail.com. I aim to reply to all messages. Two Jubilees and One Spitfire. Resume:- Trevor born in the East End of London, adopted by Isaac, a gay Austrian Jewish refugee, has done his National Service, where he was wounded in Korea, is about to go up to Cambridge. Part 20 Cambridge University. Isaac took a ten day holiday to be with Trevor before his going up to Cambridge. Trevor needed no help with his packing, and his trunk had been sent off just before Isaac returned from Germany. They treated the time as an opportunity to see more of London, and to have a long weekend at Stratford on Avon seeing a couple of Shakespeare plays. They decided good byes would be said at home. It was not the painful farewell of joining up at the start of National Service, and even less the parting at the end of Trevor's embarkation leave. It was only going to be for just over ten weeks, as Isaac was coming home for Christmas. Once Trevor had left, Isaac was going to shut down the house for the next eight weeks, turning off water, electricity and gas. Mrs and Mrs Stevens, who lived next door, were going to keep an eye on the place, and forward all mail to Trevor. He could deal with any bills, and send on any other mail for Isaac. He did not expect much. Joseph, with whom Isaac was in frequent communication, sent his letters direct to Frankfurt. The night before Trevor went up the two men lay together in bed. Trevor was now taller than Isaac, but they still adopted one or other of the two positions that they had taken when Trevor first visited Isaac nearly ten years before. "Looking forward to it?" asked Isaac. "Yes, and no." "In what way?" "Yes. I'm looking forward to getting back down to some serious directed study again. It is Cambridge, I realise just how fortunate I am. It's an ancient seat of learning. It's a beautiful place. It's an opportunity to sit at the feet of some of the great scholars, and hear some of the leading authorities in various fields. But I'm still an East End kid at heart. I know I've lost most of my broad cockney accent but I don't speak like the guys from the Public Schools and there'll be a lot of them around." "Remember what Nanny Flora said to you the last time you saw her?" "What? That I have got there because of my own efforts and not because of blue blood in my veins, or the riches of my family?" "Exactly. There'll be some others just like you. Probably feeling just like you. You never know you may well meet some super guy like Con, or Fergus, or Brian." "Maybe," said Trevor, with the a wistful smile. "And you, Dad, may well meet some delectable German guy to share your bed with?" The smile had become the familiar impish grin. "Chance would be the thing." Isaac kissed Trevor, and one thing led to another, and they took as much pleasure in each other that night as on their first night long before, and many of the nights between. *** Trevor arrived in Cambridge in the middle of the afternoon. He took a taxi from the station. The money that he had inherited from Nanny Flora meant that it was slightly better off than he had expected. Isaac had promised him £50 a term, and that was a very generous sum in those days. He was welcomed by the porter, and one of the college servants showed him to his room. It was in the Lady Anne Building. A dowager Duchess in the early twentieth century had given a sum of money inherited from her American father to build a residential building in the college. As it was one of the more modern buildings each staircase had its own bathroom and lavatories in a semi-basement, with a ground floor, and two further stories above. Trevor was led to the top of his staircase. "These are your rooms, Sir. If there is any thing you need, or want to know, do not hesitate to ask." said the servant. Trevor found the rooms much like the ones he had occupied nearly three years before. There was an outer door, and immediately within two further doors. One lead to a small bedroom, and the other to a larger study. But neither room was large in any meaningful sense of that word. The bedroom was furnished with a single bed, a chest of drawers, a hard backed chair, and a narrow wardrobe. There was also a stand for A water jug and washing bowl. The study had a table with a couple of shallow drawers in it, which would be for a desk. There were empty bookshelves and a small cupboard and a couple of easy chairs. Each room was heated by a small gas fire. There was a knock on the outer door. Trevor called out, "Come in." Into the room came Paul Driffield. "Trevor, good to see you." "And you too!" They shook hands. "Where's your room?" asked Trevor. "Just across the landing. I hope you don't mind, but I wrote asking if we could be placed near each other." "That's great. It is good to have someone you already know nearby." "I was just about to make some tea. Come across in about five minutes and we can catch up on news." Trevor was delighted at having Paul close. Though they had not written since they both exchanged letters on getting their places at Beaufort. He had liked Paul from the time they had spent together. He thought he was not a stuck up snob, in spite of being an old Etonian. Over a cup of tea and some biscuits they caught up on their news. "Where did you get to with your National Service?" asked Paul. "Korea." "Cor! See action?" "Yes, some." "What was it like?" "Grim. And you? Where did you get to?" "I'm almost ashamed to tell you. I spent most of the time skiving in Germany." Trevor laughed. "Lucky you." "Commission?" "No. You?" "Yes. But why not you? Did you fail your WOSB or something? [War Office Selection Board] "Didn't even get sent on one." "Do you know why?" "I think so." "Why then?" pressed Paul. "Because I didn't go to the right school, and I don't speak proper like you," answered Trevor lapsing into his broadest cockney accent at the end of that remark. "Bloody hell! That's terrible. A man of your intellectual ability , and from the look of you you're no physical weed. You should've walked through, judging by some of the snooty morons that land up in the officers mess. That makes me ashamed of the British army." "Are you still hoping to be ordained?" asked Trevor. "Yes. Why?" "I think your God would have seen a good purpose in it. I learnt a lot that I might not have learnt if I'd got a commission." They talked further, and then Trevor said that he had to finish unpacking. They kept their doors open, and though they could not continue to talk they wandered into each other's rooms to ask questions and to talk. Trevor unpacked. He had brought with him Harry's Spitfire. After all he was in residence in Cambridge now. He placed it with Eric's photograph on the mantelpiece in his study. When Paul made one of his visits, he saw the photograph and the crudely made Spitfire. "Did you make this?" "No. It was made by a friend down in Somerset, when I was evacuated down there at the beginning of the war. It was the first real present I was ever given." "You seem to have had an interesting and eventful life. And who's this?" asked Paul picking up the photograph. "That's Eric. I knew him in Korea?" Paul detected the note of sadness in Trevor's voice. "You say you knew him - past tense. Is that significant?" "Yes. He was killed." Trevor came across and took the photograph out of Paul's hands, and looked at it. "He was killed saving my life." While Trevor stood looking at the photograph, Paul put an arm round his shoulder. "I'm sorry I asked." "You were not to know. Eric was a farm labourer from Norfolk. He could barely read or write. I used to help him with his letters home. But he was a great guy. I would not have known him if I'd got a commission." "Would you tell me what happened, or would that be too painful." "It'll be painful but I'll tell you. When we have more time. Tonight may be. I shall want time. Telling people about him usually brings tears to my eyes, I'm afraid." That evening Paul invited Trevor across for a hot bedtime drink. They sat in Paul's room and Trevor told him about Hill 226, and the events of the 28th March. He did weep; and Paul's eyes too were moist. Trevor told him also about his visit to Eric's family, and the welcome he had been given. "Knowing you is doing me good. I realise how much home, school, officer's mess, and now Cambridge is just one long 'ivory tower' existence. You have seen life in a way I never have. Most people think it's a blessing to be born with a silver spoon in your mouth, but in some ways it is the exact opposite. Thank you Trevor; I'm more than ever glad I asked for a room near you." "I'm glad you did too," replied Trevor. The next few days were spent getting ready for the start of term. They both bought cheap bicycles. They were an essential item of equipment for getting around Cambridge quickly, from lecture to tutorial and back to college again. Some crockery had to be bought and, if you moved in a certain set, wine glasses as well. Trevor was inundated with appeals to join a host of societies and clubs. There was a plethora of religious, political, hobby, sports and games to cater for every quirk of human interest. Though in those days there was certainly no CUGSoc [Cambridge University Gay Soc]. Gay was not a word used in a sexual sense, and the activity it later covered was still illegal. On the second day, when Trevor was in his rooms he had a visitor. "My name is Algernon Montgomery-Hyde, usually just called Algy. I hear you are interested in joining the boat club." "Yes." replied Trevor, remembering what he had said at his interview. "I've come to sign you up on the dotted line for the College Boat Club. Done any rowing?" "No. Complete rookie?" [Recruit] "Good. There are several chaps like you. We'll teach you. Beginners practise on Friday at 6.30 AM, at the boat house. It looks as though we may have a crew for every boat." Trevor gulped at the early hour. "I'll be there." Paul was delighted when he heard that Trevor was keen to learn to row. He, of course, had rowed on the Thames at Eton. Late one evening when they were talking Trevor told Paul there was something he wanted to do. "You may find this surprising, you may find it silly, but I want to go to King's Chapel. When I came up for the interview I went in there, and though I am not sure about this God thing, I prayed that I'd get in. I want to go back to the place where I said that, and just say 'thank you' to Whoever or Whatever." "I see I'll have to work on you. You're half a believer already." Trevor gave Paul a rueful grin. "We'll see!" Perhaps because of this conversation Paul took Trevor along to various Christian activities. They went to some of the University Sermons in Great St Mary's. Sometimes they went to the CICCU [Cambridge Inter Collegiate Christian Union] sermon on a Sunday evening in Holy Trinity. Sometimes they went to King's for Evensong, and in that most numinous of buildings, listened to the perfection of the choir. Once it was Evensong on the fifteenth day of the month and the choir took fourteen minutes to sing the seventy three verses of psalm seventy eight. But most regularly of all they attended the College Chapel, which was typical middle of the road Church of England. A few evenings later there was a knock on Trevor's door. In came the Revd Percival Crampton-Brown, the aged cleric who had just asked the one question 'Do you row?' at his interview nearly three years before. Trevor was embarrassed to receive a senior fellow of the college in his room. He did not know what to offer him. The finer details of the consumption of alcohol were still an unknown ritual to him. He offered a coffee. "No thank you, I have dined well in hall this evening. Well, Trevor, may I call you Trevor? How are you getting on? Settled in? Finding your way around? It's all very confusing to begin with." They chatted about the problems of settling into college life. "Thank you for taking that note of mine to your headmaster. We served together in the first war. I was chaplain in his regiment, he was a very junior lieutenant. I had lost track of him, until I recognised his name among your papers. We're back in touch. I've invited him up for a weekend next term. Now how is the rowing going?" They talked rowing for about half an hour, and then Percival Cramton-Brown left. Later that evening, when Paul and Trevor were having their bed time drinks, Trevor mentioned the visit. "It is said that P.C.B. has three passions in life, Religion, Roman Law, and Rowing, and the greatest of these is Rowing." They laughed. Cambridge cast its spell over Trevor. The beauty of the ancient buildings, many alongside the river Cam, with impeccably mown lawns, and the customs and rites of college life, the freshness and vigour both physical and intellectual of the undergraduate body, the privilege of listening to world-renowned experts speaking on their own specialities: all these things and many others contributed to a strange cocktail of emotions. There was excitement, joy, peace, contentment, as some of the ingredients. *** Very quickly Trevor found himself falling into the pattern of college life. He rose at 6.00. Most week days there was some early morning physical training. After breakfast the mornings were spent working, with lectures, tutorials, reading, writing essays. Lunch was taken in his college rooms. Often two or more, sometimes all on the staircase, would eat lunch in one of their rooms. The first part of the afternoon was nearly always rowing or training associated with rowing. After tea and cake the second half of the afternoon was again spent in study. Dinner was always eaten in hall. The evening was varied, sometimes in social activities, or any activity that caught his interest. The last half hour of the day was usually spent with Paul, talking over a cup of hot cocoa. Trevor found that he needed to be in bed by half past ten at the latest if he was to be fit for the day ahead. Only during the last few days of term did he burn the candle at both ends. Trevor made many friends. One of the delights of University life was mixing with men, and a few women, for Cambridge in those days was overwhelmingly male. They were men of different backgrounds, though the Public School contingent predominated. But there were also undergraduates from abroad. Many were studying subjects far removed from Trevor's Modern History Tripos. Because he had an enquiring mind, and was always ready to discuss, and often argue, Trevor found his mind being broadened and stretched in many different directions. Trevor and Paul did not live in each other's pockets, but they were close friends. The truth was that their widely differing backgrounds intrigued each other. The cockney boy from the East End wanted to know about Eton, as much as the old Etonian wanted to know about cockney slum life. It was Trevor's good fortune that in Paul he had met a Public School boy with no side. One evening in the last week of term they were talking later than usual in Trevor's room. "Trev, after Christmas, and when your Guardian has gone back to Germany, would you like to come and stay for a long weekend at Winchcombe?" "If it was just you, Paul, I would say 'yes', straight away. But I'd feel awkward. Your father's a retired Major General, Sir George Driffield, your mother is Lady Elizabeth Driffield. I wouldn't know what to do, how to address them. Should I bow before speaking to them? Or what?" Paul burst out laughing. "Trevor, you're wonderful. One of the brightest freshmen in the college, and you're worried about such things. They'll be scared stiff of being shown to be ignorant morons in front of you. I've told them about you. The Mater suggested I invite you for a weekend. Good Lord man, when you leave this place, with the sort of job you'll get, you'll be meeting top people all the time. I bet you meet the Queen long before me. You need to see how the other half live." Paul winked as he said these words, as they were usually said the other way round. "I want you to come. They want you to come as well. Anybody'd think you didn't know how to use a soup spoon, or which knife to use for the fish. I know you know how to do that, because you've never put a hand wrong in hall." "That's because I'm careful to watch the likes of you." It was Trevor's turn to wink. Then he muttered, "Isaac did teach how to do some things, and so did his old Nanny in Scotland." "There you are. Nothing to be afraid of. You're coming." So it was arranged. Trevor and Paul travelled to Liverpool Street together. Paul went on his way across London by taxi, to catch his train from Paddington, while Trevor took the tube out to Leytonstone. *** 37 Chelmsford Road felt cold and unlived in. Trevor went through into the living room. There was a note on the table from Mrs Stevens inviting him round there for a meal at 6.00pm, and saying that there was some milk and some biscuits in the kitchen, and that she had been putting hot water bottles in his bed to air it. Trevor laid the fire and lit it. He knew that it would take a couple of days for the house to feel lived in again. He made himself a cup of tea, and ate half a dozen of the biscuits. He then went out shopping for all the food he would be needing over the next few days. On the way to the shops he made a detour to Brian's house, and pushed a note through the letter box. He enjoyed the evening with Mr and Mrs Stevens, and Tom. They were interested to hear what life as an undergraduate at Cambridge was like. Tom was wistful as he would have liked to have gone to University, and would probably have done so but for the war. Trevor spent the next morning doing various household tasks. In the afternoon he settled down to some serious study. He had been given a lot of work to do in the vac [vacation]. In was just after 7.00pm when there was a knock on the front door. Trevor smiled to himself as he had a good idea who it was. He went to the door and opened it, and yes, he was correct: there was Brian with a broad smile on his face. "Sex starved are you, Trev?" "I should say! Nothing since I went up at the beginning of October." "I'm not much better, just a quick grope and toss off one evening in the park." They hugged each other and went through into the living room. "Drink? Beer?" asked Trevor. "Yes, please." Trevor got the beers and they drank straight from the bottles. "It's good to see you, Brian." Trevor reached and felt Brian's crotch, which was already showing signs of enlargement. "You're a randy sod." "You don't feel anything less than wanting it," observed Trevor. "Where do you want it? Down here in the warm, or upstairs where it's cold but more comfortable in bed?" "Down here. I've always wanted to do it in front of a fire." They stripped off, and stood for a moment naked looking at each other, Their cocks erect and pointing up towards the ceiling. They moved into each other's arms. "Good to 'ave you back, Trev." "Good to be back." "When does your guardian return from Germany?" "Ten days time. Good, that gives us a couple of weekends, and a couple of nights together. If that's alright by you." "Course it is. I've been counting the days. And hoping you hadn't got caught up with some other guy." "No such luck. But you're worth waiting for,"" said Brian. "I suppose these want emptying?" Trevor held Brian's large balls. "Yes. I last tossed off yesterday morning, but when I got your note I held back from doing it again. I thought you deserved to receive a good load, and not just a dribble." Trevor laughed. "You produce just a dribble! Half an hour after shooting off a full load you produce another load that most men would be proud of. Both in quantity and distance shot." "Come on Trev. Stop gassing, I want to shoot a first load where you're wanting it." They lubricated themselves, and then Trevor got down on the mat in font of the fire. He lay on his back and pulled his knees up. Brian got into position and placed the head of his cock on Trevor's opening. "I love it when you do that. The warmth and moistness of your cock head knocking at the door is just great." Brian stroked his cock head up and down over that sensitive part of Trevor. Then he began to push. Very slowly his cock made its entry. When Brian's cock was fully in, and he could feel the big balls resting against him, Trevor sighed. "That's great. It was almost worth waiting for it all those weeks." Brian began to push and pull his cock in and out of Trevor. "I won't be able to 'old back for long, Trev." "That's fine. I know you'll be able to do it again before you go home. I don't think I'll be able to hold back for long." It was Trevor who came first, shooting his spunk onto his own chest and stomach. The sight of the jetting spunk triggered it for Brian. Both felt the large quantities of Brian's spunk being deposited deep inside Trevor. Brian came round to Trevor's nearly every evening until the night before Isaac's return. Sometimes they made love on the carpet in front of the fire, and on other nights they went up to Trevor's bed. There were the two Saturday nights when Brian stayed and slept with Trevor. *** Trevor had prepared the meal for the first evening of Isaac's return from Germany. As they sat at table there were two items of conversation. "Have you been following the news from this country?" asked Trevor. "Not much. Mainly the political and economic news. Why?" "There has been some interesting sensations in the popular press." "What way?" "In October John Gielgud was arrested for cottaging." "No? The Shakespearean actor, we saw him in "The Lady's Not For Burning" didn't we?" "Yes. And one or two other things. He was knighted in the Coronation honours list. He was arrested, and appeared in court. Pleaded guilty and fined £7." "He was lucky, wasn't he?" commented Isaac. "Yes, very. Earlier this year Lord Montagu of Beaulieu was sent to prison for having fun with a couple of sailors." "Gielgud was very lucky then. Any repercussions?" "A savage editorial in the Sunday Express." "You didn't keep it did you?" asked Isaac. "Yes. Hold on. I'll get it." Trevor went upstairs and came down clutching a piece of newspaper. He sat down and started to read. ' Sir John Gielgud should consider himself a very lucky man to have met such a gentle magistrate. I am loathe to make his punishment heavier by provoking a wider discussion of his delinquency, but the moral rot in the charge against him of "persistently importuning male persons" menaces the nation much more than most people realise. Because the offence to which Gielgud pleaded guilty, with the excuse that he had been drinking, is repulsive to all normal people, a hush-hush tends to be built up around it. Sensitive people shrink form discussing it. Newspapers are disinclined to switch on the searchlight of public exposure, regarding it as a peculiarly unsavoury subject. What have been the consequences of that delicacy? The rot has flourished behind the protective veil until it is now a widespread disease. It has penetrated every phase of life. It infects politics, literature, the stage, the Church and youth movements, as the criminal courts regularly reveal to us. In the exotic world of international politics, it seems at times to be an occupational disease. It is not purely a West End plague: it is often pleaded, on behalf of these human dregs, that they are artistic or ineffectual creatures, who because of their special qualities should have special freedoms. This is not so; the vice is prominent among low brows as it is among high brows, the suggestion that peculiar people should be allowed peculiar privileges is arrant nonsense. The equally familiar plea that these pests are purely pathological cases, and should be pampered instead of punished, is almost as rubbishy. It is time our community decided to sanitise itself, for if we do not root our this moral rot it will bring us down, as inevitably it brought down every nation that has become affected by it. There must be sharp and severe punishment ; but more than that, we must get the social conscience of the nation so raised that such people are made into social lepers. Decent people would neither encourage them nor support them, and it is utterly wrong that men who corrupt and befoul other men should strut in the public eye, enjoying adulation and applause however great their genius. And I would suggest that in future the nation might suitably mark its abhorrence of this type of depravity by stripping from men involved in such cases any honours that have been bestowed on them.' " "Whew. What a tirade? Poor Sir John! Has he kept his knighthood?" "So far. But the story is not totally black. A few days after his court appearance John Gielgud was due to appear at a first night in Liverpool. His first entrance was about a quarter of an hour after the start of the play. He stood in the wings petrified, unable to move. Sybil Thorndyke saw what the trouble was, went off the stage and put her arm round John G. and led him onto the stage whispering to him, "They won't boo me." "What happened, Trev?" The audience got onto its feet and gave him a standing ovation. They cheered, they applauded, they shouted. It was some time before the play could resume. Sir John's first line was something completely fatuous about some azaleas. The audience fell about with laughter and started applauding again." "You know, Trevor. I've been in England all these years, and I still am nowhere near understanding your people. A magistrate fines a man for a sexual crime, a newspaper editorial condemns him, and an audience cheers him!" Isaac shook his head. "You're all crazy. But it shows these are dangerous times, Trev. You will be careful, won't you?" "And you too!" "Chance would be the thing," muttered Isaac. The second item of conversation centred on Trevor and Brian. There were very few secrets between them, and Trevor brought him up to date with all that had happened over the previous few days. "How have you managed in Germany? How's the work going?" Isaac reported on the way the work was growing, and that he was having to take on new staff. "Male or female?" asked Trevor. "A couple of women shorthand typists, and a young man who has just qualified as an accountant." "What's he like?" "He's a typical Prussian German. Quite tall and slim. Very blond hair, and pale blue eyes. And very correct. He almost clicks his heels when he speaks to me. Like all these Germans: they shake hands almost every time they speak to you." "Do you like him?" "Hardly know him. He only started work a week ago." "How do you find working more closely with the Germans, knowing what they were doing less than ten years ago?" Isaac thought for a moment. "I do think about it, Trev. This young man was caught up in the last eighteen months of the war, and fought against the Yanks on the Western Front at one stage. So he was not involved in any way in the Death Camps. They have got a tremendous problem coming to terms with what was done. There is a great sense of guilt. Few are willing to talk. When I see some of the middle aged and older guys I sometimes wonder if they were involved, herding my people, my family even, on to the trains or into the gas chambers." "But that can be a dangerous line of thinking for you." said Trevor. "In what way?" "Bitterness, anger, and so on, are consuming emotions. I know you cannot forget, but don't become a bitter, angry old man, Isaac." "Do you think I should forgive them and forget it?" "I don't think you should forget; but perhaps forgive." "You sound very Christian, Trev. You been going to Church in Cambridge? That Paul converted you?" "I have been going to Church. I think Paul is trying, but he's not succeeded. I still have too many questions." "It is easy for you! Your family was not exterminated by the Nazis." "I know it is easy for me to talk, but I also know how bitterness and these other negative emotions can eat away at a person, and destroy them. I know Isaac, that there is a lot of love, joy, goodness in you, don't let it be drowned because you survived and so many didn't. I am sure all your family who died in the Camps would want you and Joseph to live life to the full." "May be. But that reminds me, Joseph is coming to stay for a few days over the New Year." They talked for a while about Christmas and Joseph's visit. Eventually they were both yawning with tiredness. "I think it's about time this 'social leper' went to bed." said Isaac. "This human dreg can hardly get to his feet let alone rise up the stairs." "But I want to continue in my evil ways of corrupting and befouling you." "I want you to pamper me in the ways you have done for the last ten years." They stood up, put their arms round each other, kissed, and went up to bed. *** Footnote: - I am indebted to Sheridan Morley's authorised biography of John Gielgud for that section of the story. Jeff at jeffyrks@hotmail.com