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From: "smilodon" <smilodonREMOVE@postmaster.co.uk>
NNTP-Posting-Date: Thu, 18 Sep 2003 21:56:42 +0000 (UTC)
Subject: {ASSM} Like Father Like Son Part Six
Date: Thu, 18 Sep 2003 22:10:03 -0400
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Like Father Like Son

Part Six



February 1920 Bethan and Peter

"Of course it's the war, it changed everything."

William Welford Barnes looked up from the newspaper and gazed at his wife.

"What do you mean, my dear, precisely?"

"It's Bethan and Peter, of course. They want to get married. At least, Peter
does. I'm not quite so sure about Bethan."

"Good God! When did this happen?"

"Oh, William, have you been blind these last months? Ever since Peter came
out of the Air Force, or whatever they call it these days, he's been hanging
around here like a lovesick puppy. I'll not deny that it's been good for
Bethan but I really don't know. I'm not at all sure how I feel."

"I'll have a word with him. Tell him to lay off, or something."

"My dearest husband, you can be obtuse at times. That is not what I said.
They want to get married. I'm terribly afraid we shall soon lose little
Michael. Oh, I don't blame Bethan; she's still a girl, really. One can't
expect her to wear widow's weeds for the rest of her life. And I don't
exactly blame Peter. I know he's a good man and he was Phillip's closest
friend."

Beatrice broke off, her voice choking. William, as always when confronted by
his wife's tears, was utterly discomfited. He sighed, put down his paper and
rose to place his arms about her.

"Come on, old girl, that's enough of that. Chin up, now. You know we said
that we wouldn't remember Phillip with weeping and wailing. He wouldn't want
that, now, would he?"

"No"

She shook her head but still the tears came. Why did it have to be him? But
she knew the answer. It was the War. In many ways Phillip had been fortunate
to survive as long as he did. A year in the trenches and then eighteen
months in the Royal Flying Corps, much of it spent at the front. How much
worse had it been for those mothers whose sons had lasted only a day or two?
Or even worse, for those who had almost seen it through, those who had died
in November 1918. She shook her head. It didn't actually matter. Dead was
dead and the 'when' of it didn't come into the equation. She took a deep
breath and wiped her eyes.

"I'm sorry, William. It's silly of me, I know. Peter must marry Bethan. We'
ll just have to make the most of our grandson when they visit."

"Why can't they live here?"

"No. That wouldn't do at all and Peter, quite rightly, wouldn't stand for
it."

"Why ever not? The place will go to Michael once I'm gone. I've put it all
in trust for him. Bethan is quite entitled to live here with the heir to the
estate."

"Yes, my dear, but Peter is not. And I would think less of him he proposed
such a thing. And so would you, once you think about it."

"Would I? If you say so, my dear, I probably should. You're usually right
about such things. Where shall they live, then?"




"I don't know. I haven't thought it right to raise the subject until they
did."

"Well, we'll just have to ask 'em, won't we?"

Peter Riley was deep in thought. The last thing he'd ever expected when he
promised Phillip that he would look after Bethan and the boy was that he
would fall in love. It had happened, though. Not quickly. Peter was a far
more worldly individual than Phillip had ever been. Somehow or other, Bethan
had crept up on him. Not literally, of course. She hadn't meant to do it.
They had been thrust into each other's company. Peter was the boy's
Godfather, an office he took very seriously, not out of any great religious
conviction; the War had shattered such faith as he possessed; it was more a
sense of duty to Phillip's memory. Peter often wondered why he had been
lucky enough to survive without so much as a scratch from enemy action. His
only injury had come in a crash. Better men than he had perished. It left
him with a lingering sense of guilt that no application of his strongly
rational nature could quite overcome.

Now he had asked Bethan to marry him and she had accepted. It was strange.
They had never been intimate on any level, had never even kissed. He knew
that he loved her, desired her; that went without saying. She was a very
beautiful young woman. Motherhood suited her. He loved the way her body
moved, the round curves and mane of thick, dark hair. He wasn't sure whether
she loved him or was simply seeking a less cloistered life than that allowed
by convention to a widow. He also suspected that she found the atmosphere at
Pitton House oppressive since the child had been born. She had had to give
up her work as a nurse, of course. Beatrice had insisted on hiring a Nanny
for the child and had then thrown herself into the role of doting
grandmother. As a result, Bethan had little to do and her own maternal
instincts were often frustrated by the arrangements Beatrice had imposed.

Peter supposed it would have been different had Phillip lived. They would
have built their house on the hilltop where Phillip's grave now lay. He didn
't doubt Phillip would have been master in his own home and that Bethan
would have enjoyed considerably more freedom that she did at present.
Thereby lay the problem. He could see that Bethan might be viewing a
marriage to him as a means of escape. He wanted more than that.

Peter had left the new Royal Air Force the previous summer. He had been
asked to stay in; thought about it briefly and then rejected the idea. He
was an engineer by profession. He'd abandoned his studies at the outbreak of
war in 1914 and been commissioned into the Royal Engineers. The transfer to
the Flying Corps had been almost an accident. In a strange way he enjoyed
the war. The expectation of being killed at any moment had somehow liberated
him. He felt no sense of responsibility to anybody but himself. Everyone
dealt with fear in his own way. Peter's way was to indulge himself at every
opportunity. Now it was over. Like many of his contemporaries, he felt a
great sense of restlessness; of something unfulfilled. He watched the peace
process at Versailles with horror. The French were indulging in a petty sort
of revanchism. Europe, the old Europe of certainties, had been stood on its
head. Russia had dissolved in bloody revolution. The maps had been redrawn;
entire new countries had sprung into uneasy existence. It boded nothing but
trouble.

Unknown to Peter, Bethan was thinking along similar lines. She had accepted
his proposal instantly; maybe a little too quickly, she felt now. She didn't
know how she felt about the tall, gangly man who had been Phillip's closest
friend. She was attracted to him; she couldn't deny it. What gave her pause
was whether this was simply because he was the only eligible male she had
seen since Phillip died. She was also worried that she had agreed simply to
escape from the overbearing affections of Beatrice. Even thinking this made
her feel guilty. Beatrice had been a rock; had comforted her and provided
for both her and her son. Thinking of Michael made her smile. He was two,
now and, like all two-year-olds, a proper handful. Sometimes she thought the
only word her little boy knew was 'no!'

Of course, she could back out of it. Peter would be disappointed, possibly
heartbroken. Yet he was too much the gentleman to hold it against her. Part
of her wanted to do just that but another part, a more seductive part,
wanted the comfort of a man of her own again. The lack of any intimacy to
date didn't bother her. She could tell by the way he looked at her that
Peter desired her. No. She had made up her mind. Marry Peter she would. It
only now remained to break the news to Beatrice and William. She got to her
feet, her back straight, emphasising the thrust of her bosom. She would go
and find Peter right this minute. Together they would confront Phillip's
parents.

"I really don't know quite how to tell you this, and I do sincerely hope
that you won't be mortally offended but, you see, I have asked Bethan to be
my wife and she has agreed."

To Peter's ears, the silence seemed to stretch out for ever. He saw William'
s eyes slide towards Beatrice, looking for a cue to follow, and then back.
Beatrice sat very erect, her face devoid of any expression. He felt, rather
than saw, Bethan wince beside him and he responded to the pressure of her
hand in his with a gentle squeeze of reassurance.

William roused himself and cleared his throat.

"Congratulations, old man. I must say this isn't entirely unexpected, at
least to Beatrice, what? Um, we will need to talk about the boy, of course.
He is now the only heir to this place and we would both hate to lose touch,
if you see my point."

"Of course, William. Bethan and I discussed this very point. I intend to
take a house in the village, or, at least, close by. I have been fortunate
enough to inherit a modest amount of capital. It seems the war was good for
business and I am now in the position to start a firm of my own."

"Oh? What sort of thing do you have in mind, if you don't mind my
 inquiring?"

"Not at all, it's only right that you should know. Motorcars, they're the
coming thing. I'm considering premises in Dorchester."

"Motorcars? Well, if you say so. I don't think they are much more than a
novelty, myself, but I expect you know best."

"I think the novelty days are long gone. Without motor transport, I believe
we would have lost the war. One day, every family in the land will have a
motorcar. I want to be on hand to sell them, repair them and all the rest. I
'm an engineer. Things mechanical are what I understand. I'd be hopeless at
farming and there is really nothing else I know."

"So be it, old chap, so be it. I say, I imagine this calls for a
celebration. I think we still have a few bottles of the 'widow' about in the
cellar."

They toasted the engagement with Veuve Clicquot from the 1908 vintage but it
was no more than a formality. Conversation was stilted and there were heavy
silences. The impression was more that of a wake than a joyful celebration.
Peter and Bethan were glad to slip away after an hour or so.

"My God! Wasn't that excruciating? Beatrice looked like a Hanging Judge and
William gave a fair impression of the condemned man. I'm sorry they're
taking it so hard."

"I didn't expect any different, Peter, did I? They'll come round. Anyway, it
's only Michael that they're really concerned with, isn't it?"

"I suppose you're right, my love. Still, I thought they might have put a
better face on it."

"It's Phillip, see. Beatrice still can't really accept that he's gone."

"And what about you?"

"I know he's dead, Peter, and there's sad I am because of it. I loved him
very much but he's beyond anyone's reach now. You mustn't be jealous of the
dead, you know. I will always love Phillip but that won't prevent me from
loving you, too. It will be. different, that's all."

"I'm not jealous of Phillip. Really, I'm not. How can one envy a friend like
that? I never realised how fond I was of the old thing myself until he was
gone. I don't mind your talking about him either. Of course you must always
love him. As long as there is a little room in your heart for me, I'll be
perfectly satisfied, I promise."

Bethan and Peter married in a quiet civil ceremony at Caxton Hall in
Westminster. They honeymooned in Italy. As the train sped down through
France they couldn't help but notice the fields of neat white crosses that
marked the graves of the fallen. Both found it a sobering experience.

"I never realised there were so many, Peter. How does anyone find their
loved ones?"

"I think they are setting up a register. One can enquire and they will tell
you which cemetery, which row and which plot. Of course, there are tens of
thousands who simply disappeared, vanished in the mud or literally blown to
bits. It doesn't bear thinking about, really."


"I'm so glad Phillip isn't somewhere like that, aren't you?"

"I'm told they are very special places with a great air of tranquillity
about them. I don't suppose they care, one way or the other, but I'm glad
Phillip is where he would have wanted to be. Can we talk about something
else, please?"

Bethan saw the look of bitterness on Peter's face. He had explained to her
his feelings of guilt at having survived when so many others had perished.
Now, seeing the sheer scale of the Imperial War Graves Commission's
cemeteries, she began to understand.


The Roaring Twenties

Bethan gave birth to a son, whom they named David, in the summer of 1921.
Two years later, a daughter was born and they called the little girl
Phillipa. Peter's business prospered and soon he had not one but four
garages throughout the county. They bought a bigger house in a nearby
village, honouring Peter's promise to William and Beatrice that Michael
would remain within easy reach. Michael, now aged five, reacted badly to the
arrival of his younger siblings and this worried Bethan. There was something
in her eldest son's character that bothered her. He seemed to have a cruel
streak and more than once she suspected him of hurting the younger two when
her back was turned. Beatrice, of course, could find no fault with her
grandson and claimed Bethan was imagining things. Michael was always on his
best behaviour in the presence of his grandparents and appeared to sense the
friction that he caused and revel in it.

"I don't understand the child and that's a fact. I just don't know what to
do about it, Peter."

"Oh, it's probably a passing phase. He's used to being the centre of the
Universe and now he's got a couple of other claimants. It's a little
jealousy, he'll grow out of it."

But he didn't and Bethan felt a sense of guilty relief when William
suggested, and Peter agreed, that Michael should attend the same Prep School
as had Phillip. Bethan had expected tears and tantrums when the decision was
announced to a seven-year-old Michael. She was surprised that he responded
with something like glee to the news.

"Good! That means I get away from rotten old David and that smelly baby"

"Michael, that is not the way to talk about your brother and sister!"

"Not my brother and sister!"

"Yes they are!"

"Grandmama says they aren't, so there!"

Life was considerably easier once Michael had gone away to school. Beatrice'
s constant interventions all but ceased and Bethan was able to enjoy her
children in her own way. She was an uncomplicated young woman and her
approach to child rearing was similarly down-to-earth. In Bethan's view,
children needed a combination of love and firm guidance. What they did not
benefit from was over indulgence of their every whim and this was a major
source of friction between Peter and Bethan on the one hand and William and
Beatrice on the other.

It was a constant source of disquiet that Michael would be, by turns, sullen
or rebellious at home and exude sweetness and light in the presence of his
doting grandparents. By contrast, David was a happy child and Phillipa was a
placid little girl with her mother's huge eyes and dark colouring. The two
younger children held no interest for Beatrice and it was difficult to
explain to someone so young why this should be. Bethan found herself
increasingly confused. She loved Michael dearly. He was all that remained of
her love for Phillip but she was not so blind as to fail to see he was
atrociously spoilt and possessed a very pronounced mean streak. It was easy
to lay the blame at Beatrice's door and it was equally easy to understand
how it had come about. Peter did his best but was constantly reminded in
ringing treble tones that he was not Michael's father; something for which,
he confessed to Bethan after a particularly trying day, he was heartily
glad.

In September of 1925, with Michael ensconced at Prep School, Peter was
invited by one of the motor manufacturers that he represented to attend a
day's motor racing at Brooklands. The former RFC flying school had reverted
to its pre-war use as one of the premier venues for auto sport in Europe.
The banked oval track was the scene of many time trials as well as circuit
racing. It attracted the leading names in European motor sport and not a few
from the USA and the British Empire. Quite a number of the drivers were
former RFC pilots and Peter knew a number of them, if not personally, at
least by reputation.

The event was to change his life. The day consisted of speed trials and he
was drawn to the thundering machines like a magnet. It was not so much the
sheer thrill of the thing, more it was the engineering challenge that held
him in thrall. He knew he lacked the finesse to be a racing driver in a
competitive, wheel-to wheel situation but his mind buzzed with the
possibilities of making a car go faster - faster than anyone had ever been
before. That very summer, Malcolm Campbell had raised the land speed record
to over 150 miles per hour and was now reported to be preparing a new
'Bluebird' with his sights set firmly on the 200 mph mark. Also in the
running were Henry Segrave and John Parry Thomas in the UK and Ray Keech and
Frank Lockhart in the USA. Peter decided that he, too, would join the fun
and spent a restless night in the Angel Hotel in Guildford, planning the
outline of a strategy.

He decided he would need a driver but reckoned there would be no shortage of
volunteers. He would oversee the engineering side and he thought that he
knew just the person to assist him. He made some telephone calls and was
able to track to down someone who might know the whereabouts of one Albert
Armitage, a former corporal in the Royal Flying Corps and, to Peter's mind,
a mechanical genius. Peter's informant placed Corporal Armitage in a very
upmarket motor dealer in the West End of London. So, the following morning,
Peter motored north.

He located the place without too much difficulty. The line of Rolls Royce
cars was something of a giveaway. It also didn't take him too long to spot
the distinctive figure of Albert Armitage standing, arms akimbo and head to
one side as he listened intently to the purr of a straight six. Peter had
seen him many times in a similar pose in the grey dawn of some French
landing strip as Armitage would listen, consider and then pronounce his
verdict on an engine's health. He had an unique talent for being able to
identify a fault or a worn bearing just by hearing the sound an engine made.
Peter had never known Armitage to be wrong and no pilot or observer would
take a plane that Armitage had grimaced or sucked his teeth over.

Albert Armitage registered Peter's presence but his expression never
changed. His whole attention was on a very small sound - a bum note in the
orchestra. At length he was satisfied. He turned to a waiting mechanic.

"Change the timing chain, Chalky, it's on its way out."

Only then did he walk towards Peter.

"Mr Riley, sir, good to see you."

"Good to see you corporal - or should I say Mister - Armitage."

"Come about your motor, sir?"

"No, the car's fine. It's you I've come to see."

"Me, sir? What on earth for? I don't mean to be rude, sir, but it ain't
likely that one of the officers would come and see the likes of me for a
chinwag about old times. I've seen a few of the old squadron through here
and there's not one in ten that recognised me."

"I have a job for you, Mr Armitage. I have a little project in mind and you'
re the only man in England that fits the bill."

"Well, it's very nice of you to say so I'm sure, Mr Riley, but I'm quite
well situated here, thank you."

"It's Albert, isn't it? May I call you Albert?"

Armitage shrugged.

"Right-ho then Albert. I'll put it as plainly as I can. I mean to build a
car to challenge Campbell and Segrave for the land speed record. I would
like you to be the chief mechanic on the team. I can pay well. What would
you say to ten pounds a week?"

Armitage's slightly wizened face broke into a slow grin.

"I'd say you were bloody mad, Mr Riley, that's what I'd say but if you want
to pay me a fortune, I'd be happy to take it off you."

"Right then, that's settled, when can you start?"

"Two weeks from today?"

"Splendid. Here's a fiver. Catch the 8.40 train to Dorchester and I'll meet
you at the station."

Armitage's face fell.

"Dorchester? You didn't say nothing about being out in the sticks. What
would my missus say? We got a nice flat in Battersea, Mr Riley, and a sprog
on the way. I couldn't go leaving her in London while I gallivant off to
Dorchester, could I?"

"Nothing simpler, Albert old son. You bring the lady with you. I'll fix you
up with a nice cottage. What could be better than fresh country air for her
and the young Armitage?"

"Well, I don't know, Mr Riley. She's a London girl, born and bred here like
meself. I ain't too certain that she'd take to the country, like."

"Well, you can but ask her, Albert. Ten pounds a week and a cottage, she
might like the sound of that."

They agreed that Armitage would telephone him the next day and Peter drove
back to Dorset in high spirits. He had totally failed to consider Bethan's
reaction in all this. She stood silently throughout his exposition of the
great project, the hiring of Albert Armitage and the welter of technical
details he threw at her. He looked, she thought, like an overgrown
schoolboy. His face shone with enthusiasm and his expansive gestures
threatened to knock over the ornaments on the mantle. Part of her regarded
him with fondness but another part felt icy cold. How dare he jeopardise
their life together for the foolish, meaningless pursuit of speed? She was
just about to launch into a tirade of truly grand proportions when she heard
him say:

"Of course, I'll have to find a good driver."

She felt as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Her greatest
fear was to lose Peter in some ghastly accident. Losing Phillip, she had
once confided to Beatrice, had felt like the end of her life as well. Now,
and it had been a slow, gradual process, Peter had insinuated his way into
her heart, the thought of another death was too much for her to bear. She
grasped one of Peter's flailing arms and pulled him towards her. Raising one
hand, she placed her finger lightly on his lips to silence him then drew him
into a deep and passionate kiss. Deep down, she recognised that they had
grown too comfortable in their marriage. It was not so much that she did not
love him, she truly did. It was more the case, she now realised, that she
had never really let herself go with Peter in the way that she had with
Phillip. The ghost of Phillip had always accompanied her to their marriage
bed. It was time, she decided, to change all that.

She led an uncomplaining but somewhat puzzled husband up the stairs to their
bedroom. She sensed that something that she had believed dead inside her
had, at last, sprung back to life. He started to ask about the children but
she silenced him with another kiss, her hands already busy removing his
clothes. He gazed at her in wonder. Peter felt his brain had stopped working
sometime around the point she first seized his hand. He co-operated in the
process of being undressed but didn't seem able to grasp precisely what was
happening to him. He yelped in surprise when her hand gripped his tumescent
penis and squeezed gently. Her eyes never left his face as she stood and
slipped the dress from her shoulders, stepping out of the pooled white
cotton at her feet like Aphrodite from the foam.

Still holding his somewhat stunned gaze, she stripped herself naked,
standing in front of him with huge eyes and a half smile on her face. She
felt deliciously wicked. Peter looked at his wife's nakedness and felt his
breathing constricted. His heart hammered at his ribs. He was stunned.
Bethan had never acted like this - not even on their honeymoon. His shock
was complete when she knelt beside him and took his rigid erection gently
into her mouth, sliding her tongue over him and sucking very softly at the
head. Bethan nibbled at him, savouring the slightly salty taste, she felt
herself grow wet. There seemed to be some direct connection between the
jerking prick in her mouth and her own flowering desire. She bobbed her
head, sliding him in and out of her mouth, alternating swirling her tongue
around the contours of his prick with more vigorous sucking. She heard him
groan and felt his hips pushing himself back at her.

She felt powerful and fulfilled. She sensed he was close to climax and
speeded up her efforts, one hand snaking around to knead his balls. His
breathing was rapid, harsh. Her sex was now dripping; she could feel the
juices running down the top of her thighs. She squeezed her legs together,
rocking her pelvis to increase the delightful sensations that flooded her as
she sucked him. Then, unbelievably, she felt her own orgasm welling up
inside. Now she needed him to come, to make it perfect. Her hand left his
balls and pumped at his shaft; she sucked harder, slowing the movement of
her head as her hand picked up the tempo. She heard him gasp. His prick
seemed to swell momentarily between her sensitised lips and then she felt
the first powerful spurts hit the roof of her mouth and she moaned, a deep,
guttural sound that sent Peter wild. He thrust at her, undulating his hips
frantically and pumping his seed into her mouth. She swallowed convulsively
and her own climax hit her like a thunderbolt out of a clear blue sky. She
spasmed, her body shook with the fierceness of her orgasm. A hand flew
between her legs and she pushed her fingers in her sopping sex, squeezing
her clitoris between her palm and her pubic bone and rocking against the
sweet pressure as wave after wave of white fire seared through her veins.

At last the super-heated sensations began to recede and she became aware of
Peter's softening penis still within her mouth. She sucked at him gently and
licked away the last of his semen. It seemed to Peter that she purred as she
did so. His head spun in a mixture of love and confusion. Bethan had never
shown such passion before. In truth, it was something that had bothered
Peter. He loved her dearly and, although she had never been frigid, their
sex life had previously been, well, not that exciting. Now something had
been released in her and he wasn't sure why or even quite how to respond.
Her eyes were deep pools of brimming mystery and he felt himself drawn into
them. He leaned forward and kissed her, tasting himself and he did so. He
found it strangely arousing and began to stiffen again. She wriggled in his
arms, her nipples tracing fire across his naked flesh and he slid into her.

This time it was slow and gentle. Peter revelled in the sensation of liquid
heat that clasped him and the slow undulations of her hips in time with his
deliberate thrusts. He bent forward and sucked gently on her nipples,
catching first one and then the other between his lips. Bethan giggled; a
delicious, wicked sound that spurred him on. He picked up the pace and she
matched him thrust for thrust. Her hair was a dark storm of sex and thunder
against the white of the sheets. Peter felt suspended in time and space,
linked to reality only by the sweet muscles that grasped his erect cock and
drew him deeper inside.

"Oh, God, Bethan, I love you so much!"

She heard his voice from far away as she voyaged among the stars, floating
free, liberated from her past and her grief for the first time. Orgasm
lapped at her in wavelets, each one higher than the last until she could
stand it no longer and it swept her away her, crashing into the ocean of
fulfilment. Lost in her own passion, she was only vaguely aware of Peter's
sharp cry and manic pumping as he reached his own climax. The dim awareness
of his pleasure warmed her; reaching through the fog that wrapped her and
bringing her gently back to the shore of misty contentment.

Peter felt the change in her and in a vivid flash of enlightenment, saw that
she had been freed at last from the long shadows of their past. He stopped
himself from speaking with difficulty. He suddenly realised that to
acknowledge the change would also be to acknowledge the problem. No words
were necessary. It was sufficient that she had finally come out of the ice
that had trapped her heart for so long. He knew that from that moment
onwards, their life together had changed, become richer and more intimate.
There was nothing to say that could add one iota.


1928 The Record Breaker

It took Peter two years to build the car. Parry Thomas died in a crash at
Pendine Sands and Lockhart perished at Daytona Beach. Campbell had raised
the record yet again and all the while Peter and Albert Armitage suffered
setbacks and frustration. At first, they had followed the fashion for using
giant aero engines. They fitted a 350-horsepower Rolls Royce engine onto a
reinforced and stretched Mercedes chassis and found a madcap young Irishman
named Connor O'Driscoll to drive for them. The tests at Pendine were
disappointing. The car couldn't seem to get past 140 mph, for all Albert's
loving ministrations. They took it home and fitted a supercharger but while
this increased the power, real speed eluded them.

O'Driscoll soon lost interest and went off to join the 'Bentley Boys,' where
his dashing style and ability to party for days without a break soon made
him a popular member of the racing team. Peter and Albert, meanwhile,
slogged on. It was Albert who changed their fortunes. He had settled into
country life as if born to it and his wife had become a sort of unofficial
nursemaid to David and Phillipa while looking after their own child, a boy
named Peter, in honour of their benefactor. Albert always claimed that it
was his wife who had given him the idea. She had told him one evening about
the children playing together and how Phillipa could always ride a tricycle
faster than her older brother.

"It's cos he's so much heavier. She ain't nothing like as strong but she
wins every time."

Something clicked in Albert's fertile mind and the next day he approached
Peter.

"The problem with those bloody great motors, Boss, is the all the rest of
the gubbins that you have to reinforce to take the weight. Look how much we
had to put into the chassis and the drive train. Now, how would it be if we
could build a really lightweight car that still had enough grunt to fly? Let
them others keep getting bigger, I say. We haven't got Campbell's money to
throw around so I reckon we need to come at it a different way."

Albert's revelation became the plan for a new car. The huge Rolls Royce
engine was ditched and a much smaller car emerged. They acquired a
200-horsepower Hispano engine and married this to a custom-built chassis.
Peter then decided on an aluminium body to further reduce weight. Albert
worked his magic on the Hispano and extracted an increase of almost 50% in
the power output without any increase in the weight. The resulting car,
named 'Bethan II' was about half the size of Campbell's Napier-powered
'Bluebird' and about a quarter of the weight. No driver was available so it
was Peter who climbed into the cockpit on 4th March 1928 to test the new
machine.

The body of the car was narrow, so much so that Peter's legs straddled the
prop shaft, but the overall design was entirely new. The aluminium fairing
was formed in a series of graceful curves that enclosed the widely spaced
wheels before sweeping into a body shaped like an elongated teardrop. A low
fin swept back from behind the driver's head to blend smoothly into a
boat-shaped rear end. The radiator had been angled back to a 30-degree
incline to allow a low-slung front and their one real concern lay in the
propensity for overheating that this might cause. There was no battery or
starter motor so the engine had to be fired by a huge crank that took two
men to swing, such was the compression. The real breakthrough was in the
fuel system. Between them, Albert and Peter had come up with a direct
injection system that did away with the need for carburettors.

Peter sat quietly, repeating the starting drill to Albert who stood by the
cockpit as two burly mechanics grunted at the starting handle. His mind was
racing and there was a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach as the engine
crackled into life.

"Take it easy on the first couple of runs, Boss, get the feel of her before
you open her up."

"Right-ho, Albert."

"Keep a weather eye on the temperature gauge, we don't want her seizing up
on you."

"Will do."

"Right, Boss. Ready when you are."

Peter eased the car into gear and slowly let out the clutch. The car snapped
forward and threatened to stall. He depressed the clutch pedal slightly and
fed it some more gas. This time it picked up smoothly and accelerated out
onto the test area. Somewhere out there, Parry Thomas's car, 'Babs,' was
buried under the sands. The long sweep of the huge tidal beach at Pendine
stretched out before him and Peter began to concentrate solely on the
machine around him. He moved swiftly up through the gears, keeping always
below 3000 revs - the figure agreed with Albert. As the car moved faster the
vibration increased and he could barely read the dials that seemed to dance
in front of his eyes. He hit the marker post for the measured mile and gave
her three quarter throttle. The car seemed to leap forward, rushing towards
the horizon. The quarter mile markers flew by and then he was braking
gently, easing off to turn for the return run. 'Bethan II' had touched 180
mph!

He was more confident this time and pushed a little harder on the way back.
The speedometer climbed, 180, 190, 200! Then it was time to brake again and
he brought the car back gently to the waiting Albert.

"By Christ! I think we've done it this time, Albert. She absolutely flies!
What a beauty!"

"Wonderful drive, Boss, I reckon you must have hit 210 at the back end. All
we got to do now is hit that at the front and we got the record!"

The mechanics were busy stripping off the bodywork encasing the front end
and Albert listened intently to tick over of the Hispano.

"Sweet as a nut, Boss, sweet as a nut."

"When do the scrutineers arrive?"

"Day after tomorrow, so we still got some time to get her perfect for the
big day."

At 10.33 am on 7th March 1928, Peter Riley became the fastest man in
history. 'Bethan II' clocked 218.6 mph on the measured mile on the first run
and 216.2 mph on the return, setting a new world record at 217.4 mph,
eclipsing Campbell's mark of almost 206 mph set the previous month. The
press photographers clamoured around them and the reporters shouted
questions as Peter and Albert hugged each other and danced a circular jig on
the Welsh sand.

The newspapers the following day were full of it. There was even a gracious
quote from Malcolm Campbell and a more robust and frank admission from Henry
Segrave who was reported as saying 'Good God! In that little runabout?'
Peter and Albert returned to Dorset in triumph and were feted as heroes by
all but Bethan, who was beside herself with fury that Peter had actually
driven the car. The hero was soon reduced to a tongue-tied wreck, shifting
uneasily from foot to foot in the full glare of his wife's wrath.

Worse was to follow. Two weeks after the record-breaking attempt they
received official notification that their record would not be ratified.
'Bethan II' lacked a reverse gear - something that had recently been
introduced as a requirement by the FIA for all cars attempting speed
records. They were crestfallen. Albert was drunk for two days and refused to
come out of the garage where he sat, nursing a bottle of whisky. Bethan
relented and comforted Peter who had simply sat in stunned silence after
reading the letter. He felt cheated. He was the fastest man on land in the
world and he had lost all official claim to that title on a technicality.
'Bethan II' had been completed a scant three days after the new rule came
into force.

Peter and Albert had one further try at Pendine at the end of 1928 and a
modified 'Bethan II' was timed at 221.65 mph on the first run. Disaster
struck on the return. The engine overheated and a radiator hose blew. Peter
had the presence of mind to put the car into neutral and coasted to a stop,
his dreams in tatters. Twice he had broken the world land speed record and
twice he had been denied. Also, if we was honest with himself, it was simply
too expensive to compete. It was over. He had promised Bethan he would quit
after one last attempt and now he had to honour that commitment. The
following year Ray Keech officially claimed Campbell's record but that was
soon eclipsed by both Henry Segrave and later, Campbell himself, who pushed
the mark up to 246 mph.

The one good thing to come out of all the frustration was the publicity that
 Peter Riley and Albert Armitage received. The garage business boomed as
people came from far and wide to buy their cars from the world-famous
driver. Other racing enthusiasts started to bring their own cars for Albert'
s magic treatment and soon, the preparation of racecars was a lucrative
sideline to the thriving sales side. So it was something of a bombshell
when, in early 1929, Peter announced to Bethan that he was selling out the
car dealerships. He had received a very tempting offer from a major London
firm and had accepted it.

"But why, Peter? The business is really doing well now, isn't it?"

"Yes, my love. Profits have never been better. I don't know why but I'm very
uneasy about the state of the economy. Everything is going mad and yet it's
only a couple of years or so since the General Strike.  I have a nasty
feeling about things and this offer is just too good to pass up. We'll clear
about half a million after settling with the banks and I really think I'd be
a fool not to take it."

"But what will you do?"

"Part of the agreement is that I become of a director of their firm. They've
offered a good salary and I only have to work for them twelve days a month.
The rest of the time, well, Albert and I have some ideas and, no, they don't
involve driving, before you ask."

What they did involve was the design and manufacture of a brand new racing
engine and the Riley Armitage engine, with its revolutionary direct fuel
injection system, was to become the power plant of choice for racing teams
from all over Europe for the next decade. The great crash of 1929 left Peter
and Bethan unscathed. They had cash in the bank and the rest they invested
quietly in Government Stock. Peter lost his directorship when the big London
firm went bust but he found this something of a relief. His job he had
likened to that of a performing seal. He'd been trotted out at receptions
and promotional events and been asked to say why the latest XYZ Tourer was
the best car he had ever driven and so forth. He also disliked the time he
had had to spend away from Bethan and the children.


1933 Shadows at the Margins

The small party on the hilltop shivered in the freshening breeze. Two graves
of amber marble lay before them. One was weathered, the gold lettering
dulled; the other, obviously new, bore the words:

William Augustus Worrell Welford-Barnes
1861-1933

Peter stood silent. He glanced around at the little family gathering. Beside
him was Bethan, holding his hand tightly. On the other side was his
daughter, Phillipa, the image of her mother even down to the way she gripped
his other hand. His son, David, tall and fair-haired like himself, although
lately there had been more and more silver among the gold in his own case,
was standing a little apart. Next came Beatrice, leaning heavily on her
grandson, Michael, but determinedly dry-eyed. Michael; Bethan's son from her
marriage to Phillip; Michael, who on learning that Peter's world land speed
record had not been recognised had said, ' well, of course, you can never do
anything properly, can you?' Michael, whom, Peter suspected, was behind the
bullying that David had to endure at Stowe School where both were boarders.

Peter sighed inwardly. He caught Michael looking at him through lidded eyes,
a look of faint curiosity, almost of appraisal on his face. With William
dead, Michael was now the owner of Pitton House and all that that entailed.
Of course, he would not inherit in his own right until he reached the age of
twenty one but, like it or not, Michael Jonathon Welford-Barnes was a
wealthy young man of almost sixteen.

Despite Peter's best efforts over the years to build bridges with Phillip's
son, he had failed utterly. Their relationship now was one of open dislike
on Michael's part and strict neutrality on Peter's. Wherever possible, Peter
avoided his stepson's company. Even Bethan found Michael a trial. He was an
extremely good looking boy, fine featured with his mother's dark colouring
and piercing blue eyes; eyes that always struck Peter as being far too cold
and calculating for one so young. Michael excelled at sports, something that
David found difficult, and was sufficiently bright to do reasonably well
academically. With his money and family connections, he had set his sights
on a place at Oxford when he finished at Stowe in two years' time. By
contrast, David was clumsy; still at the gawky stage of puberty where his
feet seemed too big for him and co-ordination impossible.

David excelled at school. He was always top of his class, the perfect target
for the bullies. Peter could never prove it, of course, but he was certain
that Michael was the instigator. Michael was too clever to ever be directly
involved. He knew only too well that Peter could deliver a sound thrashing
when called upon to do so, something Michael had experienced on one or two
occasions, the last only recently for calling his mother a 'Welsh cow.'
Peter still believed the problem lay largely with Beatrice. She indulged
Michael totally; would hear no word spoken against him. It was Beatrice, now
the grieving widow, who supplied the expensive presents, who insisted on
taking Michael on holidays to France and Italy. Peter felt powerless to
intervene. Had it not been for David's obvious unhappiness, he would have
been heartily relieved to see them back to school at the end of Easter.
Something would have to be done.

Once the little ceremony at the graveside was over and Beatrice had been
escorted back to Pitton House, Michael took the opportunity to slip away
while the rest stayed for tea. He was glad to get away from the stultifying
air of gloom and that bastard Riley and his precious brats. Besides, he had
a rather interesting appointment; at least, he hoped it would be
interesting. The girl was a trollop, of course, but she was pretty enough,
for all that. What was her name again? Meg, yes, that was it. The daughter
of one of the estate workers with artful, knowing eyes and a fine set of
tits that just begged to be squeezed. And he was just the very fellow to
oblige.

Perhaps he might go further, get his hand into her knickers and finger her
juicy cunt. He felt himself becoming aroused as he imagined it. She wouldn't
be the first, of course. That privilege belonged to his housemaster's wife
who had initiated him into the mysteries of sex last term. Christ, she was
hot - even if she was old enough to be his mother and her tits sagged down
to her belly. That had given him the confidence to try elsewhere and Meg
Horniblow - Christ, what a stupid name - seemed a likely sort.

He met her at the back of the orchard, as arranged. She simpered at him -
silly little bitch. He pulled her roughly to him and kissed her, forcing his
tongue into her mouth. She spluttered a bit at first but soon got the hang
of it. His hands moved to her coat and he almost tore the buttons off in his
rush to undo it. She squeaked a bit when his hand found her tit and muttered
something like 'not so hard, Michael, you're hurting me.' He exulted in her
pain and squeezed some more, rubbing his thumb roughly over her nipple as he
felt its firmness through her blouse. He sensed he was losing her and
panicked for a second or two before easing off just a little and she settled
down and accepted his kisses once more. He'd have to be more careful if he
was to get what he wanted.

She wriggled a little in his arms, her back against a gnarled old apple
tree. He was gentler now as he eased her blouse out of the waistband of her
skirt. Damn! She was wearing some sort of bodice. He pushed it up to expose
the skin of her stomach and the underside of her breasts. She was mumbling a
protest of sorts into his mouth but he knew it wasn't serious, as she didn't
push his hands away. At last! He had freed her breasts and he feasted his
eyes on them. They were gorgeous! Perfectly conical, jutting towards him in
their pink-nippled glory. He swooped and took one into his mouth, sucking
hard on the perky little tip and teasing it with his tongue, just as Mrs
Swainson had shown him, back at school. Meg's tits were much, much nicer
than old Mrs Swainson's. Meg's were firm and weren't ruined by stretch
marks. Meg was beginning to enjoy it, he could tell. He switched breasts,
sucking on the other while rubbing the slick, wet nipple between his finger
and thumb. This was better. The silly little tart was begging for it!

He relinquished his hold on Meg's breast and his hand dived under her skirt,
forcing its way between her thighs. She clamped his hand for a moment then
gave way, letting her legs part as he insinuated a finger under the leg of
her pants. He caught the sharp smell of her sex and it intoxicated him. He
almost shoved her down onto the damp ground, only just remembering to spread
out his overcoat under her. He didn't see the look of alarm in her eyes; he
didn't hear her protests as he hiked up her skirt and tugged her panties
down to her knees. He half fell on her, pinning her down with his weight and
superior strength. He took her struggles for enthusiasm. Then he had his
finger sliding into her. God! She was tight; tight and hot and wet. He
jammed another finger into her, rotating his palm against her mons as he did
so. He didn't notice she was crying now.

He fumbled with the buttons of his trousers, shoving them swiftly over his
hips and letting his massive erection spring free. He didn't think his cock
had ever been so hard, not even when he'd buggered that pretty little first
year boy who liked to suck off the prefects at school. He pushed against
her. She lay still, eyes wide like a rabbit hypnotised by a poacher's lamp.
He wasn't looking at her face though. He leaned forward and bit her nipple
hard. It was a mistake. She screamed and somehow found the strength to throw
him off. Freed from his weight, Meg was suddenly able to move and move she
did. She stepped out of the restricting panties and ran for her life, away
from that cruel, thrusting hand, those sharp, hurtful teeth and most of all,
away from those mad, mad eyes.

Later that night. Michael faced Peter in his stepfather's study.

"I didn't do anything. We were just messing around a bit, I swear!"

"That's not what Mr Horniblow says. The way he tells it, Meg came in near
hysterics, yelling that you'd tried to rape her."

"Then she's a lying little cow. I admit that I felt her up a bit but she was
game for that, game as anything. On my honour, I swear to you that was all
it was."

"Her father tells me that she has a very pronounced bruise on one breast; a
bruise that looks very much like a bite mark."

"Well I didn't put it there. Anyway, who're you going to believe, me or some
common little skirt from the village?"

"Michael, is that really the best you can do? That common little skirt, as
you so delicately put it, is only thirteen years old. Her father wants to go
the police. You are in a lot of trouble, my boy."

"Sorry, stepfather. I didn't mean it, of course. It's simply that I'm upset
about being accused of something I didn't do. I bet Grandmama offered him
money, didn't she. There! You see? The whole things trumped up so they can
get their hands on some lucre. And I didn't know she was thirteen. She looks
a lot older and she said she was nearly sixteen, just like me."

"Do you still maintain you did nothing at all to hurt this girl?"

"Nothing. We were just messing about and she went along with it, loved it in
fact. She couldn't keep her hands off me. I bet it's not the first time as
well. You know what they're like, these peasants, at it like rabbits, I dare
say."

Peter shook his head. He knew Michael was lying but he knew also that was
absolutely nothing he could do. Mr Horniblow had been angry and apologetic
at the same time. Had said he didn't want to intrude at a time of grief etc
but he wanted some satisfaction for the hurt done his little Meg, who, as
everyone knew, was a good girl. Beatrice had harrumphed at this and he had
had the good grace to look slightly abashed. Beatrice had simply gone to her
room and returned with twenty crisp �5 notes. As soon as Horniblow saw the
stack of white paper, his demeanour changed. He'd tried to disguise the
avarice but confronted with something like five or six months' wages for an
agricultural labourer, he became conciliatory, suggesting perhaps it was a
misunderstanding after all and making no further mention of the police.

When he left, one hundred pounds to the good, Beatrice had been loftily
dismissive of the whole affair.

"I know that girl and she is trouble. I suspect that she was fooling around
with Michael and got found out; invented the rest to shift the blame, little
bitch. My grandson is a young gentleman and far too innocent in the wicked
ways of the world, Peter. I have no doubt she lead him on. Peter, you will
really have to a talk with a Michael - explain to him about the birds and
the bees - you know what to do. We can't have him getting trapped by some
little gold-digger, you know."

Peter had been rendered speechless and made his exit. He was fuming inwardly
but now, confronting Michael, he found he just felt tired. He got up from
behind his desk and moved closer to the offender. Stooping slightly, so that
their faces were on a level, he stared into Michael's eyes, saying nothing.
Michael blanched. Peter continued to hold his eyes until Michael was forced
to look away.

"I didn't mean to hurt her. You must believe me. I just sort of got carried
away. And she didn't ask me to stop. I was a bit clumsy, I suppose. I wouldn
't have raped her. Please, say you believe me! I mean, she lay down on my
coat, didn't she?"

Michael's voice trailed off in the face of Peter's silence. He looked at his
stepfather's face and saw the contempt written there. It made him shrink
inside. Peter slowly straightened, drawing himself up to his full, imposing
height. When he spoke it was in a quiet, matter-of-fact tone but his eyes
never left Michael's face.

"Michael, ever since I've known you, you've been a little shit. Now, it
appears, you have become a shit of the first water. There is little I can do
about that and less that I care to do. You must go to Hell your own way. I
would just ask you to consider this. Your father was the gentlest man I have
ever known. He was also one of the bravest. I am so proud to have known him
and to have had him as my friend. If he was alive to see what he helped
bring into the world today, he would be ashamed. I am ashamed for him. I am
ashamed for your mother and your grandparents but, most of all, I'm ashamed
for you. For whatever reason, the Good Lord alone knows why, you have been
blessed with more than your share of advantages in this life. Yet,
continually, you choose to abuse them.

"How do you think your father would react to learning his son was a little
animal who cannot control his more beastly urges? Do you think he would
approve? By God, I think not. I believe he would have wept, as your mother
is doing as we speak. Does that make you proud of yourself? That's two women
you have reduced to tears in the space of one afternoon. What an
achievement, eh, Michael? What a hero, what a tough lad you are.

"It is high time, young man, that you stopped acting like a spoilt brat. You
may be able to pull the wool over other people's eyes but not mine. I know
you for what you really are: a despicable little shit with no saving graces.
Once again, you have appeared to get away with it. Now, mark my words, if
there is ever a next time, it will be curtains. I won't hesitate to go the
authorities myself and see you put away as, I believe, you richly deserve.


"And while we're having this little chat, let's just talk about your brother
for a moment. I know you're behind the bullying and ragging he suffers at
Stowe. It stops now. Do I make myself understood? Good, because tomorrow, I'
m going get a signed statement from young Miss Horniblow and I am going to
keep it as an earnest of your future behaviour. Now get out of my sight and
stay there for the rest of the holidays. Your very presence makes me
nauseous."

Michael stood in stunned silence for a moment then ducked his head in brief
acknowledgement before fleeing from the terrible presence of his stepfather.
He was staggered. It was the total lack of anger in Peter that had impressed
Michael above all else. His stepfather had stood there and judged him,
coldly, dispassionately. No one had ever done that before. And it was really
unfair to bring his father into it. Part of him wanted to scream 'I'm sorry!
I won't do it again!' while another part was burning with anger. How dare
that big bastard speak to him like that, how dare he threaten him?

He spent a sleepless night, wrestling with himself. It was light before he
reached a resolution. Let them win for now, he thought. I'll play along. I'
ll toe the line. But just you wait! Revenge is a dish best eaten cold. I'll
have my revenge and savour it, just wait and see. And as for David, I'll
leave the little brat alone and tell my pals to do the same. Much good it
would do! I'll be gone in a couple of years, thank God, and a whole new lot
of seniors will find David Riley an irresistible target. And even if they
don't, my chance will come. I'll have them all, one day.

Michael wasn't the only thing occupying Peter's attention that year. On 30th
January, Germany appointed a new Chancellor. His name, although few people
outside that country knew it, was Adolf Hitler. By May, the rest of Europe
was looking quizzically at the new German regime. Book burnings, the
ostracism of German Jews and the ruthlessness with which political opponents
were dealt with were widely reported in the newspapers of the time - in some
cases, not entirely unfavourably. Peter felt a strange sense of despondency
as he read of what was happening. A vague sense of unease, almost of alarm,
pervaded his thoughts although in this he was very much in the minority.
Peter's unease solidified later in the year when he read in Flight that the
German government had ordered the formation of a new air force and had plans
for an air fleet of 1000 aircraft. In Britain the government did nothing and
military spending was reduced further.

Peter found himself drawn to the views of the maverick politician,
Churchill. He read a piece in The Times reporting Churchill's speech to the
House of Commons and nodded in accord at the words:

"The rise of Germany . . . to anything like military equality with France,
Poland or the small states, means a renewal of a general European war."

Worse was to follow when Germany withdrew from the League of Nations. He
confided his fears to Bethan one evening:

"It's all starting over again, my love. I fear for the future, for our
children."

Bethan, too, caught some of Peter's unease. After his prescience in selling
the motor business, she had come to regard his feelings as well founded. She
started to take a more active interest in what was happening in the world
and what she read confirmed her husband's gloomy view.


1934-1936 The Shadows Lengthen

Paul von Hindenburg, war hero and President of Germany, died on 2nd August
1934. Hitler took the opportunity to unite the offices of Chancellor and
President, a move approved by 88% of German voters. Winston Churchill and a
few others, Peter and Bethan among them, looked on in dismay. German
re-armament gathered pace; in Britain, there was little response. Fascism
was on the rise throughout Europe. Anti-Semitism was socially and
politically acceptable everywhere. Hitler echoed the pronouncement of Henry
Ford that '75% of communists are Jews' and still managed to reconcile this
with an assertion that Germany was the victim of a Jewish/Capitalist
conspiracy.

At home, things seemed to have settled down. The bullying that David had
endured at school had ceased and Phillipa started at Cheltenham Ladies'
College. Peter celebrated his 40th birthday with a party. Beatrice was too
frail to attend.

The last Bristol Fighter was withdrawn from Royal Air Force service.

In March the following year, Germany repudiated the arms limitations imposed
by the treaty of Versailles. Churchill urged the British government to rearm
more vigorously. France completed the Maginot Line. The National Government
fell that year and the Conservative Party won the 1935 General Election.
Stanley Baldwin became Prime Minister and re-armament appeared on the
political agenda. Encouraged by this, Peter and Albert spent a fruitless
period trying to sell the idea of using direct fuel injection for aircraft
engines to the Air Ministry. The proposals were referred to a committee and
vanished without trace.

Michael completed his education at Stowe. There had been no further hints of
scandal but Peter was left with the feeling that the school were not sorry
to see Michael leave. His Housemaster appeared to be particularly relieved.
It was agreed that Michael would go up to Oxford that autumn and Peter was
pleasantly surprised when Michael sought his approval to join the University
Air Squadron and learn to fly. David was green with envy.

David spent every moment of his spare time and every penny of his allowance
on model aircraft. He built and flew model SE5s, Hawker Harts and even a
Bristol Fighter, which he painted in the colours of 48 Squadron. He
constantly badgered Peter to take him to air displays and could recognise
every military aircraft silhouette. A copy of Jane's All the World's
Aircraft was the birthday present of choice. His bedroom was covered in
pictures and posters of aeroplanes of every nation. His joy knew no bounds
when Peter arranged a Christmas treat to see the new Hawker Hurricane
monoplane fighter that made its first flight that year.

Now aged 15, David had outgrown some of his previous clumsiness. Peter
recognised that his son had a strong engineering bent and encouraged this as
much as possible. Albert would spend hours with the boy talking about
compression ratios and even helped to build a miniature aero engine to power
the model Supermarine S6 that was David's pride and joy.

Pinky Harris showed up during the Christmas holidays. He had remained in the
Royal Air Force and was now a Group Captain on the staff of Bomber Command.
David spent every waking moment in Pinky's company, demanding details of the
geodetic construction of the new Wellesley Bomber. Pinky confessed to Peter
and Bethan that David seemed to know more about the arcane mysteries of
Barnes Wallace's new design than he did.

Conversation turned to more sombre subjects as they discussed the prospects
for peace in Europe.

"At least we're getting some proper funding at last."

"Too little, too late, Peter, old fruit. The Huns are well ahead of us in
both Bomber and Fighter construction. OK, I grant you that we have some good
new machines on the drawing board and on the stocks, but I still have my
doubts."

"Don't you think that bombers make another war unthinkable? I mean, all that
destruction, any country would flattened in days, wouldn't it?"

"In theory, Bethan, but it's only a theory. I don't think it takes account
of just how difficult it is to aim with any accuracy. And then, of course,
there are air defences. Peter and I both know how bloody Archie can be, not
to mention all these new fighters."

"I heard, Pinky, that the Huns have a new machine, a Heinkel or something,
that is faster than any fighter in the world."

"Possibly, but we have one of our own, don't forget. The new machine that
Rothermere had built is a real greyhound. I shouldn't really be telling you
this but we've placed an order for several hundred type 142s. I believe it's
going to be called the 'Blenheim' - that should make Winston smile, what?"

"What do you think of him, Churchill I mean?"

"Sound man. He's only the one who really seems to see what's going on out
there. What with the Eyeties invading Abyssinia, that bloody man Hitler and
his laws against the Jews, we are in bloody mess old man, and heading for a
worse one!"

"So you think it will come to war?"

"Bound to, Bethan, I'm sorry to say. Of course, it'll be a bugger's muddle
at first, just like the last one. The Top Brass are like a bunch of
ostriches. Remember, Peter, when they wouldn't use aircraft for
reconnaissance? Then they wouldn't arm us or give us parachutes. The real
problem is going to be that we don't have enough trained aircrew. The RAF
has been cut back so much that no matter how many new planes we build, we
won't have the chaps to fly them."

"Michael has joined the University Air Squadron at Oxford. He says they're
all frightfully keen."

"Phillip's boy? Good show. We need more like him. Unfortunately most of the
redbrick universities don't have air squadrons and the Auxiliary Air Force
is largely a bloody private flying club. Still, not to worry, it may never
happen."

"But you think it will?"

"Me and a few more like me, yes. We're convinced. Germany is building an air
force second to none. It pains me to say it but we're miles behind. The only
positive thing I can say is that at least the Air Ministry has begun to wake
up, even if the War Office and the Admiralty are still sleeping soundly. The
bloody Navy think they got what they want when Hitler agreed to limit the
size of the Kreigsmarine to 35% of our fleet. What's the betting it's all
bloody U-Boats? Still, like I said, the Air Ministry is on the ball."

"Are they? I've been trying to get the Air Ministry interested in direct
fuel injection. Do you remember how the old carburettors used to flood when
you chucked a kite about too much? Our system stops all that. You can even
fly upside down for hours without missing a beat."

"Really? What did they say?"

"It went to a committee. That's the last we are ever likely to hear about
it."

"Hmm. I'll have a word in an ear or two. If your system is what it's cracked
up to be, we should at least be trying it out."

Peter had no doubt that Pinky would be as good as his word and felt entirely
more cheerful when they celebrated the New Year of 1936 together.

Less than three months later, he was considerably less heartened. German
troops reoccupied the Rhineland on Saturday, March 7th. France dithered and
Britain did nothing. Things got worse in July with the outbreak of a civil
war in Spain. Peter was instinctively opposed to socialists but found
himself agreeing with Churchill once again when the politician said that
Britain should not intervene; whichever side won the result would be a
period of 'iron rule.' He was less surprised when Hitler came out openly in
support of the Spanish fascists under their Generalissimo Franco.

Churchill continued to warn of the dangers of Nazi Germany throughout the
year and yet few seemed to take him seriously. Peter and Albert found their
motor racing business dropping off as the Germans and Italians dominated
proceedings with the massive Mercedes and Auto Unions of the one and the
Alfa Romeos of the other in the ascendancy. A small chink of light came when
the Rolls Royce Company contacted them and began discussions about
incorporating the fuel injection system into their design for the new V12
engine to be named the 'Merlin.' Then came a real breakthrough. An American
manufacturer bought a licence for the Riley Armitage system and Peter and
Albert travelled to the USA to finalise the deal. They travelled on the new
Cunard Liner 'Queen Mary.' On the voyage back, Albert remarked they were now
both set for life. If only the politicians would find a solution to the
problems besetting Europe, their worries were over.





To be continued.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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