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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.
   (c) 2003, Smilodon