Chapter 10: Sinking

September 1974, age 19

The academic year 1974-75 was either a triumph or a descent into depression, depending on which way you looked at it.

My relationship with Charlie had been patched, but not entirely repaired. I negotiated with his mother for him to come down to stay every other weekend, but there was no getting around the fact that we were growing apart.

The kids at the home all started their new schools in September, scrubbed and fitted with new uniforms. For some of them, it was their third or fourth school in as many years, which is what comes from being bounced around the care system. But now they had some degree of stability, and in return, they gave me a purpose in life that I wrapped around me like a cloak.

Freya moved out of her family’s home in Croydon and into a nice little cottage on the Trent Park estate. That enabled me to spend more and more time working from home instead of traipsing into central London. When the builders finished renovating the middle floor of the mansion in October, the suite of rooms at the east end became my new office. You went up the grand staircase, turned right through a security door and into a large open foyer with a desk for Freya. On the left was a room looking north toward the lake which we would use as a conference room. Then beyond the foyer was a corridor with my office on the right: a large, elegant room with high ceilings, solid wood floor, an ornate fireplace and sash windows on three sides. Finally, on the opposite side of the corridor were several small storerooms, a kitchen, and a recently built lift down to the new top secret bunker.

We had executed a little subterfuge at the end of the summer, erecting a massive scaffold tent over the ageing outdoor pool supposedly so we could refurbish it while sheltered from the inclement autumn weather. Hidden from view, the old pool had been ripped out, but the guys were still beavering away. Eventually they would create a cavernous hole in the ground, into which would be lowered prefabricated bunker sections and connected to the house via a tunnel and lift shaft. A new regulation-size heated pool would be the icing on the cake, leaving no sign of anything else. We just had to cross our fingers that no council planning inspectors came round asking why our new swimming pool was taking so long.

So my new routine was to go to the London office after the kids went to school on Monday morning, and to return before they did. Tuesdays and Thursdays I worked from home. Wednesdays and Fridays I flew for the RAF and British Caledonian, as before.

My first morning back at RAF Lyneham, they seemed intent on putting me through my paces. I discovered why after lunch when I was summoned to the Squadron Leader’s office.

“Ah, Finnley, sit, sit. You’ve been with us eight months now, excluding your summer jaunt. How would you say you’re progressing?”

That put me on the spot, having to try and avoid babbling like an idiot. “I’d say I feel very comfortable in my job, sir. The Herc isn’t that different to the BAC 1-11 I fly for BCal, so it feels like second nature now.”

He nodded, his face not giving anything away. “You finished all the official paperwork and flight tests before the summer, but we didn’t want to do this then because of you taking a two-month break. Your instructors were happy this morning, so, you are now rated on the C-130 and will move to operational status effective immediately.”

I couldn’t help but break into a grin.

“Furthermore, you are to be promoted to flying officer. Congratulations.”

“I ... thank you, sir. I didn’t think reservists got promotions? At least, not this quickly?”

“Ordinarily, no. But then, an ordinary reservist wouldn’t be flying a Hercules. And I’m sure they’ve also factored in your commercial flying experience, not to mention the political delicacies of your owning British Engineering. The official line from upstairs is and has always been that you would be promoted when your flight rating made you eligible.”

He was still poker-faced, so I was pretty clear that he didn’t approve. But he had always been fair and reasonable toward me, so I couldn’t complain. A couple of weeks later, when the paperwork came through to make it official, the single stripe on my uniform epaulette changed from thin to thick, a minor distinction that made all the difference in the world.

On the 18th of September, the Prime Minister went on television to announce there would be yet another general election. That marked another round of political lunacy, with the parties trying to court me (and my newspapers) for an endorsement. My instructions to Freya were firm. “There is NO WAY that I want to waste more time with politicians. This election is going to be about as thrilling as watching paint dry. Just refer them to the editors.”

Also in September, I finally passed my private helicopter license. The company promptly bought two helicopters and, after dispensing with copious red tape, turned the former college sports hall and the car park next to it into a hangar and helipad. One of the helos would be for me (saving time on journeys to London, Gatwick, Lyneham or Cambridge), and the other, a Puma, for the Rapid Response Team which was being moved up to Trent Park from Marvel Tower.

As the autumn term progressed, I became more and more comfortable in my new routine. But to the outside world, even my family, it looked as if I was becoming reclusive. They were particularly concerned at my complete lack of social life outside my private enclave. I personally didn’t see it like that. I seemed to draw strength from being around the kids and knowing that I was helping improve their lives. Much of the rest of the world just seemed to get filtered out.

There was company stuff, of course, and more exchanges of documents with the KGB via my desk drawer. We continued to make money at an obscene rate. Dan had closed a deal with Argentina to build them some great big ships. Spielberg finally finished filming Jaws, after an overrun of 104 days that allowed us to demonstrate to him our absolute unwavering support and thereby solidify our working relationship for the future. We were pulling ahead in the race against Gulf + Western to buy up shares in Madison Square Garden. Oh, and we got a journalistic scoop in November when we revealed the location of the missing Lord Lucan.

More importantly, there were numerous ‘firsts’ with the kids. My first time looking after a kid who’d stayed home sick; first time breaking up a fight; first birthdays; first battles with social workers; first ‘birds and bees’ conversations. I was technically employed as a ‘residentiary assistant’, low ranking in the pecking order despite also being chairman of the trust that owned the place. That meant I was saved from most of the day-to-day administration, but to the kids, I seemed to be the one they’d go to with their joys and sorrows.

And then there was our first Christmas together, which I was determined to make one they’d never forget. Preparations started in early December when we installed the biggest tree we could fit, each of the kids adding a decoration of their choice. Present buying was a repeat of our previous mass visits to Hamleys, the kids given a budget to buy gifts for their friends. And wrapping those presents was an even bigger operation than buying them.

By Christmas Eve, the builders had finally finished their work on both levels of my mansion apartment, in time for the Wimbledon, Donington and Sheffield contingents to come to stay. At the top of the great staircase, you turned left to go through a security door into my private living space. There were three rooms south of the central corridor and three north, and a flight of stairs up to the top-floor bedrooms. I spent as much of my time on the ground floor with the kids during the Christmas holidays as I did upstairs. Our old Christmas Day routine may have been slightly hijacked by the addition of 40 kids, but it was the most special I could ever remember.

In January 1975, the RAF ended my time flying Hercules. I’d managed four months as an operational pilot, which amounted to fifteen days of active service — short and sweet. Those duties had been limited somewhat by what I could fit in single days, so the further I ever flew was down to Cyprus, deadheading back. I did get quite expert at dropping people out of the back of my plane, and that at least would be useful for my next assignment: Kingfisher.

“Each of you has been selected for this detachment for your particular skill set with fixed-wing and rotary aircraft”, my new Squadron Leader droned on in his posh accent. “The Kingfisher aircraft may be unconventional, but it has already been through hundreds of hours of flight testing and has proved safe and reliable by civilian standards. Our task is to re-test and assess to military standards, with a particular focus on the applications of troop deployment and search and rescue. Here at RAF Thorney Island we are well placed for both, with 22 Squadron providing SAR across the south coast, and the Royal Marines barracks just across the way in Portsmouth.”

This was to be my new Wednesday posting.

“Harrison, you’ve already flown the Kingfisher. Correct?”

“Yes sir, once, at the Brooklands factory.”

“What can you tell us about its flight characteristics?”

“Vertical takeoff and landing feel much like a conventional helicopter, just heavier. Same with hover. Horizontal flight feels odd because the rotors are so large, but you get used to it. The dangerous moment is the transition between vertical and horizontal, and vice versa. There are mechanical safeguards to prevent doing it too quickly. Horizontal takeoff isn’t possible, so overloading would be a danger for vertical takeoff.”

He nodded. “Very well. Each of us will be taking an orientation flight today with one of the manufacturer’s test pilots. Pay close attention. They’ve been flying Kingfishers for years, so their knowledge is valuable.”

So began my time on the V-22 Osprey knockoff.

My twentieth birthday was not one I was looking forward to. I suppose a lot of people see casting off their teenage years as a positive rite of passage. I wasn’t so sure. Perhaps it’s because my childhood was unconventional — I would have been Peter Pan if I had the choice. And the birthday letter from Grandpa made me angry. He strongly disapproved of me living at Trent Park while Caity was back in Wimbledon. Never mind the good I was doing. Never mind that Caity visited me and the kids most weekends. Never mind that she had Dan, Uncle Will and Mrs O’Keef to look after her (not that she needed it with her fiercely independent character). His rebuke was harsh and caused me to stop considering him an ally.

When Easter came, I bought a huge quantity of chocolate for the kids. It was another chance to help them overwrite negative memories with good ones. I was on a mission to remove their stigma of being in care, and God help anyone who got in my way.

In May, Dan announced to the world that Marvel and music giant EMI were to merge. That wouldn’t happen anytime soon, as the merger needed regulatory approved over monopoly issues. But it was a good match. Technically it would be EMI buying Marvel, as they were a publicly traded company, so we would be getting a proportionate number of shares in the new Marvel-EMI, enough to keep control.

The merger went hand-in-hand with the project to build a school in Wimbledon, next-door to the new football stadium. It was to be a ‘Voluntary Aided’ school, its operating costs coming from the government like any other state school, but with the site owned by an educational charity (ours) who contribute to ongoing capital development and get a big say in the school’s governance.

I’d been toying with the idea of running schools for a long time. It started off as a way to influence future generations. But our schools in Sierra Leone had changed my thinking.

Most VA schools were either Church of England or Roman Catholic foundations, but our charter from the Department for Education focused on equality of opportunity. In partnership with the company, our school would offer kids opportunities that no other schools could, hopefully making us distinctive enough to get parents to send us their kids. When we had brainstormed ideas, it was things like:

“Football. The school is next-door to the new stadium. We can sell the emphasis on sport.”

“We can link Science and technology subjects to British Engineering and the construction company.”

“Arty subjects we can link to Marvel.”

“English links with our journalism and publishing divisions.”

“Maybe we can connect the hotels and the airline to foreign languages, or geography and tourism maybe.”

So we put together a team of educational experts to sit down with our industry experts and together craft an entire curriculum for the new school, just as we had done in Sierra Leone. The link to industry would become the school’s unique selling point, preparing kids for O-Levels and A-Levels, but also serving as an introductory apprenticeship for footballers, actors, writers, cartoonists, engineers, bankers and so on to join the company. And now, with the addition of EMI, we could add music to the list.

In June, my sister finished her O-Levels. That made me feel old. She came to see me the day after her last exam.

“So how’s the best brother in the whole world?”

“Ha! What do you want?”

She smiled sweetly. “Just a couple of little things. I know you’re staying here for the summer, but I thought I’d take some friends to the villa. That okay by you?”

“How many friends?”

“Ooh, no more than you took two years ago.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Boys?”

“I do have male friends, yes.”

“So you’re asking if you can take 40 teenagers to Italy for an orgy.”

“I won’t be having sex with anyone except Simon. But not all my friends have boyfriends or girlfriends.”

I considered it for a moment. “You’re not a baby anymore, but you’re going to need adults there. I doubt your friends’ parents would let them go without chaperones anyway. So you can tell Dan that I’m okay with it, and you can spend whatever you need on travel and food. But only if he and Mrs O’Keef go along.”

“Oh come on! Can’t I just take security? You didn’t take Mrs O’Keef for your trip around Europe, and you were younger than me!”

“True. But that was just me and Harry. Do you think I’d have got away with inviting girls along?”

She pouted in answer. Eventually, she moved on. “The second favour is a bit ... personal. Hear me out. Simon has been thinking for a while ... you remember the day you walked in on us ... he wants to spice things up ... I mean, he thinks, he wants to try...”

“Okay, stop!”, I said with a laugh. “Take a breath. Construct one sentence in your head, then speak!”

“We want to recreate what happened before and take it a bit further.”

I sat in stunned silence for a while, then whispered, “For God’s sake, why?”

She shrugged. “He liked it. He’s a bit kinky. He likes it when I spank him, and we role-play a bit. But he says the best feeling he ever got was when he was, you know, licking me, while you were spanking him.”

“Your boyfriend is seriously fucked up!”

“You have no idea”, she replied while waggling her eyebrows suggestively.

I had to laugh. “And what do I get out of this?”

She went back into ‘sweet mode’. “Your sister’s undying affection?”

“Yeah, nice try! I’m not sure it would even be legal. Maybe when you’re both eighteen.”

“You spanked him before... ?”

“And could have got into a heap of trouble, as you both know.”

“It’s not like we’re asking you to have bum-sex. That would be illegal ‘cos of his age. But we think it would be okay for spanking.”

“Oh, you do? Did you go and ask the family solicitors?”

“Anyway, you know neither of us would ever tell. I’ll love you forever...”

I don’t know what made me cave, but I somehow said, “I know I’ll regret this.”

She gave a gleeful clap and handed me a sheaf of notes.

When the appointed day and time came, I entered the Wimbledon house in character, following Caity’s instructions. I stormed into her bedroom, where I found Simon and Caity in some heavy petting action on her bed. They were both dressed, thankfully. I grabbed Simon by the hair and dragged him out of the room. Unlike last time, I led him downstairs and into our living room. Caity had carefully arranged for the house to be empty, but being in a room where you half expect Mrs O’Keef to walk in gave us all an added frisson of excitement. “Strip!”

Simon had known that this was the day, but not the detail of Caity’s plan. He looked genuinely scared of who might walk in. Thirty seconds later, the boy was starkers. I’ve said before that he was a good-looking lad, and he had done some growing since the last time.

I opened the patio door. “Outside. Fifty star jumps.” There was very little chance of anyone seeing him in our back garden, but he still looked mortified.

For the next half an hour, I worked him hard, finding exercises and locations to test his endurance and modesty. Before letting him in the pool, I handed him a pair of scissors and told him “pubes”. He hadn’t expected that and looked thoroughly defeated as he snipped away the signs of his maturity. My sister is a sadistic little minx.

Swimming was next. “You like skinny-dipping so much: fifty lengths!” Then I took him to the garage and made him wash one of the cars (albeit with the garage door shut). Finally, I took him back to Caity’s room.

“Your little boyfriend has had a good workout. Now he needs his punishment.” I sat and pointed: “Knee!”

Simon took his position, and I went to work on his rear with my hand. Unlike the last time, I was careful in what I was doing. There was no anger, but I couldn’t deny that there were an adrenalin rush and perverse pleasure. Like last time, Caity had moved to position herself at Simon’s head. But she was still dressed this time, only moving the necessary to give Simon access without being in my line of sight.

After a few minutes of that, and his arse very pink, we moved on to Caity’s finale. She made a show of dragging him to her bed, and I looked away while they got started having intercourse. My part was to ‘find’ the makeshift whip of knotted string that she had constructed and to flog him.

The sounds of sex and torture went on and on. But something had gone wrong in my head. As my arm brought down the full force of the little whip over and over again, tears started leaking down my face. I have no idea why. When I reached critical mass, I could only drop the whip and collapse in a blubbering mess.

I gradually became aware that the sex noises had stopped and that Caity’s arm was around me. Simon was nowhere to be seen.

Two days later, I was sat in front of a shrink again. And the very same day, the newspapers announced that my MBE was to be upgraded to a CBE (Commander of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire) in the Queen’s birthday honours. What a joke!

The summer of ‘75 was spent in the emotional safety of my walled enclave, surrounded by my kids. Charlie was with me for his twelfth birthday, and, other than her group trip to Italy, Caity always seemed to stay close enough to keep an eye on me too.

Through the autumn, people got more and more concerned about me. I was able to self-diagnose the anxiety and intense stress I often felt. I put that down to my mind tying itself in knots over my world-changing vocation. I couldn’t tell the shrink about my future knowledge, obviously, or I’d have quickly ended up in an asylum. The weight of my impossible duty should have driven me to drink, but I was too shit-scared to touch the stuff: secrets drip from inebriated lips. Instead, my drug of choice was the affection of my kids, which proved a powerful antidote to stress and anxiety. Yet even that pushed me toward the brink in late September when one of my 12-year-olds was removed from the house in favour of a long-term foster family.

By mid-October, my shrink had become determined to wean me off my addiction and had enlisted Dan’s help to do it. That’s how I ended up on a one-month deployment to the Falkland Islands with the RAF. Officially, it was part of the evaluation process for the Kingfisher. It had performed admirably in every test so far, so they wanted to send it to an inhospitable climate to see how it fared.

So in November, I found myself on a VC-10 to Stanley via Ascension Island. November is summer, in theory. Thank God I wasn’t there in winter. Those few weeks were bleak. The RAF had pre-shipped one of our Kingfishers, newly painted in search-and-rescue yellow to avoid alarming the Argentinians with ideas of a military build-up. The last thing I wanted was to bring forward their war plans. We had gone so far as to build a new barracks for the Royal Marines on the neck of land connecting Stanley to the airport. Anyone who’d seen their previous rickety huts would think that fully justified. The new barracks was far larger than currently needed, but no extra troops had turned up until my RAF party, so the Argies hadn’t paid any attention. They should have done. There was a secret command bunker built underneath the airport terminal, and all sorts of other secrets hidden out of view.

Two flight crews were sent on the deployment, and by that point, I had the seniority to be pilot rather than co-pilot of one crew. A few exercises were laid on with the Marines and HMS Endurance. We did a few at-sea winch ops, lowering and raising people to the deck of the ship. We also did a battle scenario where we dropped the Marines onto a distant part of the islands that had been invaded by those evil Antarcticans. It gave them some experience of roping down from an aircraft and alleviated their boredom. We offered them some para-drops, but they were declined.

There was a genuine air-sea rescue on a small ship that had lost power. But the most interesting job, for my money, was the long re-supply run out to the British Antarctic Survey station on South Georgia. That was a trip that took nearly a week by sea. We did it in a few hours. If there were ever an emergency in future (or if they were invaded, say), aid could reach them much sooner.