Chapter 105

I was back at the Loftus’s not too late on Easter Monday night; the much-reduced Bank Holiday rail timetable and a consequently very crowded train got me there with only a slight delay, caused by having to take a bus from Darlington to Middlesbrough because of engineering works – the annoying bit was that the bus passed close to the Loftus’s street but the driver (a real jobsworth) wouldn’t stop and let me off because he was contracted to take us to the railway station and nowhere else!

I had to walk back the way we had come; at least it was dry and I hadn’t got very much luggage, so I only chuntered mildly to myself.

I stopped at the local phone box and reassured Mum that I was safely back; then I phoned a rather sleepy Julie at Jen’s, and told her how much I loved her. I would much rather have been able to tell her in person, but with work tomorrow, that simply wasn’t possible. I did go to sleep thinking about her, I suspect with a big smile on my face because I knew I’d see her again in less than 72 hours.

It was very quiet at work; a lot of the married men had taken the Easter week as leave so as to be with their children over the school holidays. I probably could have skived off another day to be with my girlfriend without being missed, but then, hindsight always makes you more aware of unexploited opportunities!

I took that Friday as a day’s holiday as planned, and got home to Stamford at eight o’clock on the Thursday evening after my three-day week, to find the birthday girl, her boyfriend and my own girlfriend all happily tucking in to supper at the kitchen table – so, although I had consumed a British Rail egg and cress sandwich and a cold (and rather greasy) sausage roll on the train, I joined them.

Dad pretended to complain that Jen could at least have invited some of her dolly-bird friends from Reading for him to give the once-over to; Mum swiftly retorted that he was more likely to leave a trail of drool down his cardigan onto his slippers, and the sight of all that nubile young flesh wouldn’t be at all good for his dicky ticker, and he laughed the loudest of all of us.

Julie shook her head in disbelief; when I asked her later if she was okay, she almost got weepy.

“My parents would never joke with me like that; you are so lucky that they treat you as adults!”

I hugged her silently. There was nothing I could say.

Their treating us as adults once again extended to sharing our childhood beds with our other halves; Julie and I made love slowly and tenderly to celebrate being together again, and then a while later put the pillows and quilt on the floor so I could be a little more athletic in my attentions, without the bed squealing or the headboard hitting the wall and broadcasting exactly what we were up to. No, it wasn’t as vigorous as some of the times of the previous weekend, but we hadn’t then been constrained in the amount of noise we could make. Even though we had to slow down a couple of times when the slap of flesh against flesh was getting too obvious, it was thoroughly enjoyable anyway.

The best thing by far was being able to be intimate again, just the two of us in bed together.

Although the previous weekend had been more than memorable, I did feel that I hadn’t had nearly enough quiet time with my Julie after being apart so much. The summer holiday in Cornwall, which had felt like a honeymoon for the two of us, was now a long time ago. Julie and I cuddled and talked softly; I asked her jokingly how she’d survived spending Tuesday and Wednesday in Reading with the sex maniacs. She giggled and told me that everything had still been rather restrained after the excesses of Good Friday and Saturday; they had slept three in a bed for the fun of it, but none of them were up to very much at all. She had spent both days in the library while her hosts were busy revising for their Finals – she’d done some of her course reading, but had also stumbled across the recent copies of “The Times Educational Supplement‘, and had been very busy writing down details of the Education Departments of the North Riding of Yorkshire, County Durham and the new County of Cleveland. She’d also studied their advertisements for teachers, and was happy with what she’d found out.

Friday was an early start for all of us, mostly spent preparing for the party at the Legion; Ned the barman was once again already well organised with a couple of barrels of Sir Kenneth Ruddle’s finest, and Mr & Mrs Albone were delighted that we were back – they said that the success of my 21^st celebration the previous year had brought them a welcome increase in bookings, which in turn had brought some much-needed and overdue re-investment in the club. I certainly noticed that the bar and party room had been painted; they looked a lot fresher and brighter, now that many years of brown staining from tobacco smoke had been covered up.

I did manage to do two things from my own list; I faced the Market Day crowds and got some cash out of the bank, then nipped down to Boots, and bought Jen a replacement tube of Badedas. She grinned as I slipped it into her hand when we went upstairs to wash our faces and hands before having tea and cake on our return home.

“You never know, Jon, you might even get to help me use some of this tube as well!”

I grinned back at her. Our recent Badedas bath together had been much more enjoyable than those long ago when we’d shared the tub as grubby pre-pubescent youngsters, perhaps with a capful of “Matey” bubble bath to encourage us to wash ourselves all over. A repeat performance of the adult version, when we washed the other one all over, concentrating on the tricky bits, was definitely something to look forward to.

“I can’t wait!”

She winked at me and disappeared into her bedroom to put her loot away.

The rest of Friday evening was relaxed, once Mum had gone through her party-planning notebook one final time, although Hamish and I did get sent out to the chippy on St. Leonard’s Street, up by the Driving Test centre, to save on cooking. Of course, the relaxation in the rules didn’t go as far as eating them out of the newspaper; Mum had her big serving dish and six plates warming in the oven when we got back, and we sat round the table to eat with knives and forks. Once again that night I had my love with me in my bed; the next morning it would be all change, as Jen and my bedrooms once again became single-sex sleeping bag dormitories.

Dad dragged me off to the barbers at quarter past eight on Saturday; we both had a quick trim to look our best. Hamish had already had a haircut that week, so declined our invitation to come along. We were early enough to be ahead of the rush; we both spent less than ten minutes in the big red leather and steel American barber’s chair as we were tidied up, and then we walked over to Mr Johnson’s butchers shop to pick up the rest of Mum’s order and confirm that we were on for tonight.

The twins arrived at midday via Peterborough, we all stood around chatting on the platform for ten minutes until the Birmingham train brought Vee & Fred to join us. We strolled home together to find that Sian had just phoned from the platform at Peterborough, so Adrian & I turned straight around to go back to the station and wait for them. I was really chuffed that Sian & Malcolm had taken the trouble to come all the way from Aberdeen for my sister’s party; they’d apparently come down on the Thursday night sleeper train, spent Friday with her folks, and here they were leaning out of the window waving at us as we stood in the station yard. The train squealed to a halt, and two minutes later we were hugging our friends.

We all talked non-stop over lunch, Mum just had a huge grin on her face with twelve people around her dining table. At three, Alastair & Catriona Baxter rang the bell; they had driven up that morning and were staying at the George, despite Mum’s protestations (and secret relief). They happily accepted a cup of tea and a slice of one of Mrs Johnson’s finest pork pies, and then said that they’d see us all later.

Jen’s 21^st party went very well indeed; we all enjoyed looking at the display of embarrassing childhood photos (even though I also appeared in some of them), Alastair & Catriona Baxter showed that they too could rock and roll with the best of them, and my suit was soaked with sweat after dancing like a lunatic all evening. I collapsed on my bed about two in the morning, having stepped over the occupied sleeping bags on the floor, and slept right through until nine when Dad knocked on the door to announce that the bathroom was all ours for the next fifteen minutes. After a quick breakfast, we nipped over to the Legion to tidy up, and then sat around at home drinking coffee and chatting for a while. The party was pronounced another huge success. Mum pretended to be embarrassed by the praise, but we all knew that she deserved it.

Mum & Dad, together with Jen & Hamish, were going to have lunch at The George with the Baxters (we’d all been invited, but the rest of us thought it was unfair to put them to the great expense, and besides, there were plenty of yummy leftovers from the party which needed eating up). Eight of us sat around in the kitchen eating buffet style (a polite way of saying helping ourselves without too much use of cutlery or crockery), and then we had a quick washing-up session so that the dishes could all be returned to their owners. The others returned from The George at three, I took Julie up to my bedroom to kiss her goodbye properly, and then I said my farewells all round, and headed for the station. The train north was slightly late getting in to Peterborough, and fairly full at the end of the Easter holidays, but I found a seat and pulled out yet another of my collection of science fiction paperbacks – the bookcase in my bedroom at home now had definite gaps between books, and I had quite a pile stacked up on top of my wardrobe at the Loftus’s.

Work was quiet on the Monday; on Tuesday 27^th everyone was full of the news that the comic actor Sid James, best known for the “Carry On“ films, had collapsed on stage from a heart attack the previous evening while performing in “The Mating Season” at the Sunderland Empire. Apparently half the audience had assumed he was just pretending and it wasn’t until all the staff rushed onto stage and the safety curtain came down that they realised that maybe he had been taken ill. He died almost as soon as they got him to hospital; he was only 62.

Yes, there were a few less than tasteful jokes about the dangers of venturing into Sunderland, but most people were saddened. I’d grown up seeing Sid James on the telly fairly often, and one of my favourite bits of “Carry on up the Khyber” had been the resigned expression on his face as the various ladies of the Khasi’s harem trooped into his office and insisted on making amends for the ‘insult’ to Lady Ruff-Diamond. The part where he ordered the soldiers to lift up their kilts and the tribesmen ran away in utter panic was also pretty amusing; the ‘astounded and terrified’ facial expressions on Kenneth Williams’ face said it all. We’d miss Sid James.

I had a long letter from Julie at the end of that week telling me what had gone on after I had left to travel back to Middlesbrough, and they too had all headed for home. What they hadn’t mentioned with Mum within earshot was that all five of them were going to Reading that night. It wasn’t a problem for them because none of them had started back for the summer term, and they could always fit their exam preparation in some other time. I had realised that with a bit of forethought I could have been with them, and, with the benefit of 20:20 hindsight, cursed my stupidity. I was hoarding my holiday entitlement because I wanted to save it to spend with Julie later in the year, and here I was, idiotically not using it when she had time off herself!

I got back to reading the letter. Julie related that, once they were safely on the train and could not be overheard, Sheila had immediately announced that she wanted to spend 24 hours with Hamish to see whether they could match our orgasm totals! So Jen, Julie & Adrian ended up sharing a bed and leaving the other two to their own devices, going in occasionally on missions of mercy with cups of tea and toast for extra sustenance. Sheila, being the competitive individual she was, had taken the challenge seriously, and Julie reckoned that poor Hamish had been a shadow of his former self when they’d finally emerged triumphant late on Monday evening. Adrian hadn’t looked much healthier, and neither Jen nor Julie had done a scrap of revision all day.

On the Tuesday, rather than going straight to Winchester, Julie had accompanied the twins back to Clifton; although the three of them had all shared Adrian’s bed that night, she admitted that it had only been for the comfort of all sleeping snuggled together – none of them were in any state for renewed nookie. My girlfriend had got back to her college on the Wednesday, found a letter from me waiting for her, and had written back immediately before tackling the pile of college work that was also in her pigeon hole.

I have to admit that I wasn’t entirely happy with the events she described.

While I did have complete faith in Julie’s love for me matching mine for her, I felt a little uneasy, but at first I couldn’t work out exactly why.

I thought about it for quite a while before I nodded off. Although I had actively encouraged her to go over and see the others at weekends, rather than stay in her depressing teacher training college bed-study room with a load of god-botherers who had nowhere to go, now that it was actually happening while I was several hundred miles away, it didn’t seem such a great idea. Yeah, I was jealous.

I decided to look at it from the other point of view; if I had the chance to spend a night with Sheila, rather than on my own, would I take it? (Silly question! Damn right I would!) Ditto Jen; after all, when I’d been in Slough in late January, had I accepted the offered hotel room? Nah, I’d turfed Hamish out of his girlfriends bed, and done my level best to empty my bollocks of a month’s accumulation of semen.

When I turned my scientifically-trained analytical mind to it, I could only come to one conclusion. It looked very much like I was trying to operate double standards for me and Julie.

That discovery made me a little more anxious – was I becoming unreasonably jealous, just because I was away from the others? It wasn’t as if Julie was being shagged by some unknown Casanova(s); Hamish and Adrian were my very best male friends, and they were more than generous with letting me borrow their partners. After all, hadn’t Hamish willingly bought me a beer back in January before leaving me and his girlfriend to have a night of passion while he slept on his own next door? Hadn’t he happily swapped girlfriends the Easter weekend so that my sister and I could fuck each other to our hearts content?

I also had to admit to myself that I’d been failing to keep my eyes to myself at either badminton or the swimming pool; whenever I’d spotted a pretty girl I’d looked, even if I’d never touched nor spoken. I was sure that my Julie had also attracted roving eyes; heck, with her good looks and flowing blonde hair, there was something wrong with a man who didn’t take a second glance at her. We’d discussed her wearing an engagement ring to give her a little bit of a defence against being chatted up, but once again had come up against the ingrained and old-fashioned culture that if she was going to get married and therefore have children, then the state was wasting resources training or employing her.

(During our second year at college, Sian had told us over supper one evening that at the end of the First World War, some of the labour unions had held strikes and protests against allowing any of the women who had stepped in to free up men for the fighting being employed one moment after the men had returned to civilian life. Thousands of women had damaged their health making munitions in incredibly noxious conditions – many had been killed or died of attributable respiratory disease – and as soon as the War was over, they were sacked without a word of thanks. There was still a prevalence of that “a man works to support his family” view in some quarters – for example, I’d been told that I would get a pay rise when I got married, in recognition that I now had a wife to support!)

I had a couple of disturbed nights, feeling unhappy about our continued physical separation. But there was nothing sensible I could do about it, other than just keep going for another couple of months.

That weekend I was Duty Officer again; Julie was staying at college to get ahead of the timetable, Jen & Hamish were nose to the grindstone with last-minute preparation for their Finals, and the twins too were revising solidly for their third-year exams. Julie did phone me at the office and got through a couple of quid’s worth of 10p coins her end. It was so good to hear her voice that I didn’t raise the subject of her side trip to Bristol; neither did she. Instead we talked about what more she had learned from the “The Times Educational Supplement‘ about getting a teaching job in Middlesbrough, and what I might be able to do to help.

That really cheered me up; it was clear that Julie was going full steam ahead to be with me. Even if I had temporarily doubted her, she had not forgotten our intention. I put the phone down in a much happier mood than I had answered it. As Doctor Who had finished for the season, it didn’t worry me that I was spending my Friday night and most of Saturday at work; the extra duty payment would all help pay the deposit for our flat when Julie joined me. I had some work-related reading to do, and there were a couple of library books and a Mars Bar in my overnight bag.

On the Sunday morning, I went over to Billingham to have a decent swim. I’d finished my first forty 25-yard lengths and was sitting on the side getting my breath back when the lifeguards changed over. One of the new shift was a lovely redhead, whose figure looked great in the white sports shirt and shorts that was their uniform. Her legs looked pretty good too! I had a decent letch, making sure that I wasn’t too obviously looking at her, and decided that my first impression had been correct. She was a very pretty girl, and the pale skin suggested that she probably was a genuine redhead. Her hair was a slightly more orange colour than Vee’s auburn locks, and she was a good six inches taller than my petite Welsh lover. The comparison almost made Gustav order “Up Periscope” and pop his head out of my trunks to assess the target, so I slipped back into the cool chlorinated water, which immediately suppressed his activity, and did another thousand yards. When I had finished, I had another look at the girl sitting in the high chair to refresh my memory, and went off to shower and change. I reckoned she was probably a P.E. student home for the holidays and earning an extra few bob.

I treated myself to a hot chocolate in the café, being lucky enough to find a table by the viewing window overlooking the pool. The eye-catching red-headed lifeguard was still on duty, and I was able to have another good gawp with no risk of being discovered. If I hadn’t already got a girlfriend, here was one delectable piece of crumpet worth approaching – even if she was almost certainly already taken and would shoot me down in flames. However, I did have a girlfriend, who I fully intended to marry, and I wasn’t going to cheat on her with a stranger, no matter how annoyed / jealous I’d been that she’d been shagged stupid when I couldn’t be there to join in. Still, it had been fun looking at some new top tottie, and I allowed myself one last lingering glance as I took my cup and saucer back to the counter. I daydreamed on the bus home about Julie and I setting up a menage-a-trois with the redhead, or at least having a few threesomes. A boy can have his fantasies, can’t he?

After lunch, I gave the twins a quick call; they were revising hard so I didn’t take up much of their time, just wished them well, and said how much Julie and I were looking forward to seeing them in two weeks time. They’d got my birthday cards, and thanked me, and then the pips went. I got back to my lodgings to find Mr Loftus sitting in front of the Sunday afternoon war film – this week the Americans were once again having trouble with Japanese snipers in some jungle-strewn Pacific island, and it was an hour and half of undemanding entertainment before the hero grinned bravely as his stretcher was lifted onto the jeep ambulance, his job done. Mr Loftus just snorted and proposed a cuppa.

I had a word with Anita on Monday, telling her that Julie was asking me about how best to apply for teaching jobs. She didn’t know, but kindly said that she’d ask around.

There were local elections on the 6^th May, there was a great disappointment for the new Labour Party Prime Minister, James Callaghan (who’d been our M.P. in Cardiff) when the Conservatives gained over a thousand councillors. The Government wasn’t helped by the headline rate of inflation reaching over 15%.

I went swimming again on the Sunday, more than half hoping that the redhead would be on duty; there was no sign of her. Gustav sighed because he had been hoping to refresh his mental picture, but no such luck. So I swam my two thousand yards, got changed and headed for home. The weather had warmed up; Spring was most definitely in the air, and I cheered myself up with the thought that I’d be able to start exploring the local area very soon.

I had another lovely letter from Julie waiting for me when I got back from work on Monday; she was going to be doing her last week of classroom experience teaching, so warned me that she probably wasn’t going to be able to speak on the phone, but she then wrote down a lot of the things I most liked to hear. The best bit (of course) was that she very much looked forward to seeing me at the Carter’s on Friday. I wasn’t feeling so unsettled about it all now.

For the twins 21^st Birthday; Mr & Mrs Carter had invited Julie & I down for the weekend. Enquiry had revealed that the main event was a posh meal out on the Saturday evening, with pre-Sunday lunch drinks at home for a few friends and neighbours. I had taken my suit to the dry-cleaners after Jen’s party, so it was once again smart and well-pressed; I had checked with Adrian, and the dinner jacket was not required.

Sheila had written to me reminding me to get myself a passport for our foray across the Channel – there was no need to splash out £9 on a ten-year passport (which also required to be signed off by a Justice of the Peace, Minister of Religion or someone of similar standing) when for £1.20 I could get myself a 12-month card British Visitors Passport at the Post Office. I had gone along on the Saturday morning, popped into the instant photo booth and for 30p got four black-and-white mugshots, only two of which made me look like a feral axe murderer, and queued for a couple of minutes. Hey presto, I could now travel abroad. The first thing I did was to walk along to the bank to collect the £10 worth of French Francs I had ordered; as was then required, the transaction was entered into the passport and it was stamped by the teller.

Julie was five hours closer to Brighton than I was; even though I took half a day off and got into London on time, with the Friday evening rush hour and having to cross Town, it was eight o’clock before I got to Brighton, where Sheila and her mother were there to pick me up.

Sheila looked (and felt) thinner than when I had seen her last; as we were following her Mum to the car, I asked her how the exams had gone, and she quickly told me that she’d explain later, as she didn’t want her Mum to know quite how stressful it had been. We passed the journey back to their place with small talk, and found Adrian and Julie sitting watching telly with Mr. Carter. Mrs Carter had very kindly made me a plateful of ham sandwiches, which went down very well. Adrian was told off for nicking one of them, and was sent to make another plateful, so that everyone could have one.

It had been a long day, so we all headed for bed as soon as we’d heard the news headlines. I was delighted when Julie quietly slipped into our room ten minutes later; Adrian went to cuddle with Sheila, and Julie and I borrowed his bed, as it was substantially more solid than the camp bed I was in. We’d almost fallen asleep when he returned; I kissed Julie goodnight and she sneaked back to her own bed.

Sheila woke us at the ungodly but necessary hour of four on Saturday morning; we were going on the Newhaven-Dieppe route which would take four hours each way, so we’d only get three and a bit hours actually in France, but then, the crossing itself was very much part of the fun. After a very quick breakfast (and a final check that we did have our passports and French Francs), Mr Carter drove us down to Newhaven and, as intended, we caught the six o’clock sailing with twenty minutes to spare. We struck lucky and were on the almost brand-new British-Rail-owned Sealink ferry “Senlac”, with its Battle of Hastings theme. The sun was now shining, so we sat up on deck on the sunny side (it was still distinctly chilly in the shade) on a slatted bench and chatted as we watched the English coast recede.

The twins now came clean about their exams; the third year Medical School ones were considered almost more important than the final fifth year, and to use Adrian’s term, had been a right bugger. There had been three years worth of learning to revise, days of exams and vivas, and stress levels had been pretty high. At least they had each other for comfort; they had made a strict rule that they wouldn’t revise past midnight, and at that time they had headed for bed, single-mindedly fucked until they had both achieved release, and then exhaustedly fallen asleep together to snatch a few hours deep sleep before the alarm clock rang to herald the next day of revision or exams. They had only snatched quick meals; there was no time for complex cookery, and cheese or ham on toast had become a staple of their diet. They both said that they couldn’t have done it without the emotional support of the other. When one had been down, the other would cheer them up with a cup of tea or a hug, and they gained the strength to go on. It was no wonder that they now appeared tired and strained – in some ways it had been more of an endurance test than an opportunity to prove their knowledge.

Although the results were not yet out, they were very confident that they’d both passed. They’d been able to complete the written papers, and their practical work and vivas had not produced a storm of scornful abuse from their examiners (as it had for some of their peers), so had presumably been acceptable.

Despite the sun, it was now getting cold in the wind, so we went inside, nearly tripping over the raised threshold as we pulled at the heavy doors, and found a place that served coffee and snacks. We all elected for a danish pastry; they weren’t very fresh but at least the sugar in the icing gave us some energy to combat our early start. The coffee finished, we found a cushioned bench seat where we could vaguely look through the salt-spattered windows at the English Channel. Julie pulled her legs up and cuddled into my side; Sheila did the same with her twin. We carried on chatting until we could see the French coast ahead, and then we concentrated on looking out. Once we were close enough, we put our coats back on and went on deck so we could lean on the rail and watch.

As the ferry came into Dieppe, I was disappointed not to see the place crawling with beret-wearing onion sellers on bicycles; okay, there were a couple of horizontally-striped blue and white shirts visible, but most of the locals appeared to be wearing blue boiler suits and flat caps. On the positive side, most of them appeared to have a Gitane welded to their lower lip, I did spot a Gendarme in a kepi, and there were a couple of sailors with hats with little bobbles on top, so that cheered me up a little bit. It still wasn’t like the France depicted in The Day of the Jackal, though. Nor like the TV series Clochemerle – not that I’d seen many episodes – but I couldn’t spot a pissoire anywhere.

The ferry turfed us out on the north side of the port; the French douaniers looked briefly at our passports as they stamped them, and we were in France. The signs pointed us round to the right, and we soon saw a bridge over the water to Dieppe proper. The locals were all going about their Saturday business and town was busy; all the foreign cars and vans were interesting to see as Peugeots, Renaults and Citroens were still rare in England. (The classic French cars and vans are one of the best bits of watching The Day of the Jackal again – I’d love to have one of the old Citroen police paddy-wagons.) I noticed that all the number plates ended in 76, Sheila explained that it was the departement number. I nodded. Of course. The UK had similar regional identifiers – most of the plates I saw around Stamford had –FL in them. The cars also drove on the wrong side of the road; Julie had to rescue me a couple of times when I was about to step out into the road having instinctively looked the wrong way. We got up the hill into the town without any casualties, and strolled around to see the sights.