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    Right Life Left Life
    Right Life Left Life
    Right Life Left Life
    Ebook217 pages3 hours

    Right Life Left Life

    By S.D. Gripton and Sally Dillon-Snape

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    This is a novel about male homosexuality. It mostly takes place in 1962, a time when any sexual contact between men was a criminal offence and the participants could be jailed; it was a time when the police considered male homosexuals as being sub-human and treated them appallingly; it was a time when 'queer-bashing' was almost a national sport, a time during which most homosexual men chose to remain firmly in the closet. The main character of the novel is Robert Tennell, public schoolboy, war hero, and homosexual policeman who should have been prosecuting men such as himself who has lived hidden from view for almost 40 years. He would love nothing more than to openly life the Right Life with his secret live-in lover, Jonathan, but he is forced to live the Left Life as an upstanding police officer. When murders take place on his streets of the City, following a new campaign by the police to drive homosexuals from the City limits, Robert Tennell has to investigate during a time when he is suffering terribly from loneliness, from great guilt for betraying his police force, from the horrors of what he sees being done to other male homosexuals. Through it all, Robert Tennell stands tall, eventually deciding that the Right Life is the life for him. A crime novel with a difference from the imagination of S.D. Gripton

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherS.D. Gripton
    Release dateOct 7, 2019
    ISBN9780463156841
    Right Life Left Life
    Author

    S.D. Gripton

    S.D. Gripton novels and real crime books are written by Dennis Snape, who is married to Sally who originate from North Wales and Manchester respectively and who met 18 years ago. I work very hard to make a reading experience a good one, with good plots and earthy language. I enjoy writing and hope readers enjoy what I have written. I thank everyone who has ever looked at at one of my books.

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      Book preview

      Right Life Left Life - S.D. Gripton

      Right Life/Left Life

      When Kissing Was a Crime

      By

      S.D. Gripton & Sally Dillon-Snape

      © Sally Dillon- Snape & Dennis Snape (2023)

      The moral right of the author is hereby asserted in accordance with The Copyright Act 1988

      All characters and events in this publication other than those of fact and historical significance available in the public domain are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons living and dead is purely coincidental

      All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval systems, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publisher

      This novel is from our imagination and is not intended to reflect real situations or real people, whether they be living or dead

      ***

      Chapter 1

      Neathesfield School For Boys

      Monday

      5th October

      1935

      Fag!

      The shout came down from the top landing of one of the ivy-covered redbrick buildings that surrounded the school quadrangle, and Robert Tennell, a fresh-faced blonde-haired, blue-eyed slim boy, who was tall for his age and fully dressed in his school uniform of dark shorts, long monogrammed socks, highly polished shoes, white shirt, blue and red diagonally-striped tie and school blazer complete with the official crest sewn to the left chest pocket; scrambled out of his shared room and raced up a steep flight of stairs before knocking on his Fag-Master’s room and waiting to be invited in. Closing the door behind him when he did enter, he stepped smartly to the point on the scruffily carpeted and rugged floor where he was expected to stand, his body stiffly upright, his arms by his sides and his head up, staring straight ahead and not speaking until invited to do so.

      His Fag-Master was a dark-haired thin young man with a weak chin, full lips and brown rheumy eyes who lounged on his unmade single bed, casually dressed in brown corduroy trousers and a loose-fitting white silk shirt and silk blue slippers. He lay with one leg dangling onto the floor, the other stretched out along the single bed, his left hand behind his head lying on a high pile of pillows, his right lying on his belly with his fingers gripping the handle of a short brown leather switch-whip. The young man ignored Tennell for some considerable time before speaking.

      Rumour has it that today is your birthday, he said eventually.

      Tennell waited for a moment to guarantee that his Fag-Master had ceased speaking before answering.

      It is, Fag-Master.

      How old?

      Twelve, Fag-Master.

      The Fag-Master cogitated upon the information before speaking again.

      On the basis of the rumour that it was your birthday, Fag, I was going to invite you up to my room for a glass of port and mebbe a piece of cake…

      Tennell did not speak or interrupt, but his heart leapt with excitement though only for a very brief moment.

      …but now I may not even wish you a happy birthday, may I?

      Tennell remained silently disappointed.

      Do you wish to know the reason why I may not celebrate your birthday with you?

      Yes please, Fag-Master.

      The Fag-Master allowed a loud disillusioned sigh to emit from his full, soft lips.

      It was footy this after, was it not?

      Yes, Fag-Master, it was.

      Was it not the eagerly anticipated Inter-House cup-final?

      It was, Fag-Master.

      And was this House, our House, the one we are both members of, not in the final?

      Yes, it was, Fag-Master.

      The young man fell silent again whilst twitching the switch-whip that lay across his lap. His name was Tristran Severidge Kettlehulme and he was a pupil of the Upper 6th of Neathesfield Public School For Boys. It was a small school, never having more than one hundred pupils, though it had been in existence for almost one hundred years, and Tristran Kettlehulme was the wealthy privileged son of a Knight of the Realm and Politician who held a position close to both the heart of Government and to the Prime Minister, so another rumour had it, though Tristran never spoke of him.

      His mother was a beauteous raven-haired, long faced tall and sultry woman who was the cause of many a wet dream among numerous youngsters of Neathesfield School. She had once been a clothes fashion model for a famous French designer house and when she visited for parents’ evenings or other events in place of her husband, many a boy stood gawping until admonished. She glided rather than walked, the way other boys’ mothers walked, and always dressed as if she were still a fashion model for a French designer, and never appeared to be wearing underwear.

      Tristran’s father never attended of course, his life was far too demanding and precious to perform such menial tasks as attending parents’ evening; in fact, no one at the school; other than the Headmaster and two older tutors, had ever seen or met him, though the pupils could read about him constantly in newspapers if they wished to do so.

      Tristran, himself, had not seen his father in almost two years because his father chose to stay at his club up in Town where he was to be found if required when things ‘needed doing’. Events were building, he’d informed his wife upon a brief visit home, things were becoming tricky with those damned Germans, don’t you know. Not that Tristan would ever discuss his father, or seeing him or not seeing him, with anyone else. Family was one thing; school quite another.

      Following another considerable silence, he spoke again.

      "When I chose you for my Fag, even though you were only a commoner, what did I say?

      You said that if I showed loyalty towards you and you alone, Fag-Master, and served you rightly, you would reward me.

      And have I not rewarded you?

      Yes, Fag-Master, you have rewarded me royally.

      Yes, I have.

      The Fag-Master emitted another long, sad sigh, as if the weight of the world lay across his thin, bony shoulders and he was finding it an intolerable burden.

      Did I not protect you from the bully Anderson?

      You did protect me, Fag-Master.

      To the point of fisticuffs against the despicable one, Tristran continued.

      To the point of fisticuffs, Tennell agreed, finally realising why he’d been summoned; his happy birthday spirit and his heart falling into a deep dark hole of temporary depression. He’d promised never to let his Fag-Master down but, earlier today, he had done just that, he had let him down. His eyes filled with tears because he loved and adored Tristran Kettlehulme.

      Tristran didn’t notice, he was staring only at the stained ceiling of his room, swishing around the whip he held in his right hand.

      I was Captain of the House footy team, he said.

      Yes, Fag-Master, you were.

      And the House won.

      I believe so, Fag-Master.

      Tristran finally turned his gaze upon to the younger, though skinnily tall, boy.

      You believe so?

      Tennell was silent; he knew what crime he’d committed and there was nothing to say.

      You should have been there to know, not be saying to me that is what you believe, Tristran continued.

      I am so sorry, Fag-Master, but it was raining terribly and I was exceedingly wet and greatly cold. I did remain for most of the game.

      You departed before the end, considering yourself and your own comforts above me and mine.

      Once again Tennell had nothing to say; there was nothing he could say.

      And because of your sheer selfishness, thinking only of yourself, Tristran stated, his words colder than ice, I was the only Upper 6th boy at the celebrations without a fag to call upon; no one to bring me my towel or to hold the trophy whilst I spoke. My fag was missing and it became the talk of the celebration. You boy, became the topic of conversation at an event to celebrate a victory in which I scored the winning goal at footy in the final of the House competition. You became the topic of conversation. And you a commoner, barely even worth a mention.

      Tennell bowed his head. In this school he really was a commoner.

      Robert Tennell’s family; his father really, Ronald Thomas Tennell; owned Tennell’s Ladies and Gentlemen’s Department Store in the town of Waddingly in Suffolk. Though his father was now the owner and Manager, his own father and grandfather had been both those things before him, and all three had attended Neathesfield School. His mother Hermione was a homemaker, and his sisters Rosalind, known as Rose, and Charlotte, known as Charley, had not been offered the luxury of a Public-School education as they were only expected to spend their lives working in the store. To the toffs who made up the vast majority of pupils at the school, someone with Tennell’s background was a commoner, almost working class, coming from a family that actually had to earn its money.

      I am so sorry, Fag-Master, but I was very, very wet and extremely cold.

      You weren’t there boy; you were not there.

      Tristran’s voice was rising with temper, the source of that temper being the fact that he had not been the centre of attention at the celebrations for winning the football match for the House; his fag being the name on everyone’s lips by his absence. Tristran Kettlehulme climbed, with almost worn weariness, from the bed, standing tall, an Adonis in Tennell’s eyes, someone to be, literally, looked up to, to be admired and adored; all of which Tennell did.

      Have I ever thrashed you?

      No Fag-Master, you have never thrashed me.

      That is about to change, Tristran said. Remove your school blazer, take off your shorts and undergarments, bend forward with your hands flat on the floor and lift up your shirt.

      Robert Tennell took up the position exactly as ordered; fear and excitement pouring through his veins in equal amounts as he removed his blazer and laid it on the floor, followed by his shorts and off-white underpants and he bent forward, lifting the tail of his shirt as he did so.

      Tristran Kettlehulme stepped forward languorously and stood where he could swing the whip without knocking anything over. Once Tennell was in position Tristran wasted no time, he did not hesitate in carrying out what he thought was appropriate punishment. He whipped Tennell’s bare bottom quite hard with the whip. Tennell did not creep forward and neither did he cry out; he remained in exactly the same spot throughout the twelve quite severe whipping strokes. He knew what he had done, he had disappointed his most beloved Fag-Master and he’d disappointed himself; he deserved everything he was receiving.

      Twelve strokes later, Tristran Severidge Kettlehulme allowed Robert Tennell to stand and dress, advising the boy to take a bath and to administer oil, and he then allowed the boy to depart the room and continue with whatever birthday celebrations he had organised.

      Tennell though, only ran down the staircase into his room; flinging himself onto his bed and crying into a pillow. Not from the pain of the lashes or a humiliation he didn’t really feel, but from the rage he felt within himself for being so selfish as to leave the footy pitch and his Fag-Master without his fag. First of all, he cried, then he bathed before climbing nakedly into his bed and playing with himself as only a twelve year old boy can. He had never been as excited during his short life as he had been during the whipping. It was a birthday treat Robert Tennell would never forget.

      Following this one single event he knew, at the age of twelve, who he was and what he wanted from life.

      ***

      Egyptian Desert

      Monday

      October 5th

      1942

      The man was averagely tall, rangy and tanned and his uniform was definitely lived in. His face was clean-shaven, as was his head, with the latter having just the merest covering of new hair. He stood in the desert sand as grains swirled gently around his feet and, behind him, 20 tons of deadly armoured rolling thunder known as a Crusader MK III Tank loomed almost eight feet above him. He stood stiffly as his new Tank Commander strode across the desert in the uniform of the 7th Armoured Division; part of the 8th Army, Montgomery’s Army; marching towards both him and the smaller man with ginger hair, also clean shaven, who stood next to him.

      Jesus Christ, the older man whispered out of the side of his mouth, they’ve sent us another fucking child. As if the last one wasn’t bad enough. How many fucking gibbering heaps do they have to send us before they get the message that we need experienced tank commanders? We’ll never win this fucking war with kids in charge.

      The smaller man only grunted; he wasn’t one for conversation, especially not with the older man, not outside the tank in which they both served, not socially. It was different inside the tank of course; inside they had to speak to each other otherwise they wouldn’t have survived five minutes. He was right though, the taller man, the new Sergeant striding towards them, kicking up sand, looked to be even younger than the last one and he’d only lasted one action before he’d cracked and broken and run off into the desert from where he had to be rescued and returned home to mummy, probably never to recover. He’d been only twenty years of age. But at least the new youngster looked the part; he was tall and well-built with blonde hair visible beneath his hat and as he closed the distance the two men noticed that he had the coldest blue eyes either of them had ever seen. The new Tank Commander stopped in front of the two men, staring down at them from his slim six feet three inches of height. Even the men staring back at him had to admit that he was a big bugger.

      Sergeant Robert Tennell, the new man said. I’ve been appointed your new Tank Commander and I have no wish to know what happened to your previous one; not unless one of you shot him.

      Robert Tennell paused for a moment before smiling and was pleased to see that the two other members of his crew; the driver and the gunner; smiled back. They weren’t life-enhancing smiles, the kind of smiles that warmed a person’s heart, but any twitching of the lips would do just for the moment.

      Corporal White, Sergeant, the tall man stated.

      First name?

      Kevin, sir.

      "Do they call you Chalky?"

      Yes sir.

      Then that is what I shall call you if that’s all right with you.

      Of course, Sergeant.

      And you are? the Tank Commander asked the other, ginger, man.

      "Eric ‘Ginger’ Evans," the smaller man replied.

      "And Ginger will they do for you?"

      Yes Sarge.

      Glad to be acquainted with you both. You look as if you’ve been out here for some time, have I got that right?

      Army careerists, Sergeant, both of us; we’ve been fighting the Germans since the beginning.

      Good men; well served. And now you’re thinking you’ve got me, a child to take care of.

      No… Ginger began, except he was interrupted by Chalky White.

      Yes Sarge, we were thinking that. The last one didn’t fare too well…

      I’ve already told you, Chalky, talking about your last tank commander is an out-of-bounds conversation, Tennell interrupted. And I don’t blame you; if I was your age, with the experience you both have and I saw me coming towards me I would think it was crazy too. But this is war, the Field Marshall has called for reinforcements to expel Rommell and his Panzers from North Africa and I am one of those reinforcements. No service to speak of, I have seen nothing of war so far, but here I am and my main intention is to stay alive and, hopefully and by extension, keep you two alive, too.

      That would be most appreciated, Sarge, Ginger said.

      Good. Do you want to show me around?

      Chalky hesitated for just a moment before thrusting out his right hand, which Tennell grasped.

      Welcome to the Desert Rats, Tank Commander.

      Tennell smiled widely and shook Chalky’s hand graciously.

      Thank you, Chalky, and thank you Ginger. And I’m Bob, let’s keep things simple and survive. Shall we go and have a look around our mobile home.

      Tennell followed Chalky and Ginger around the Tank, Chalky scrambling around the deadly machine, pointing out and touching all the important bits, Tennell scrambling too, getting a feel of a machine he had only ever seen in mock-up whilst training. Eventually, the three men climbed up to the turret and dropped down into the dark hot depths of the tank, the three of them settling into their allotted seats. Chalky slipped

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