Part 1: Narrated by Dr Geller

I was daydreaming again, in the heat of the early afternoon, picturing myself back in my old practice. A year ago, or so, I was there still.

Two or three times a week, my appointment book would show entries like “Mrs Jones and Master B. Jones”. I recognised them at once for what they were. They were enquiries about neuterings. Castrations if you prefer.

In my consulting-room, I’d make the kid take off his jeans and underpants, and pulling surgical gloves on, I’d make a show of examining his penis. There were circumcised penises, short and stubby, like little acorns, or uncircumcised, long and slender, tapering to a point. Then I’d palpate the kid’s scrotum, locating the cords to his balls.

Nine cases out of ten I’d say to his mother “He’s just the right age, Mrs Jones,” and we’d go straight on to arranging a date for the surgery, to have the kid suitably pruned – to have his balls taken out. I once wrote about it as “making him a cherub.”

In the tenth case, nerves or embarrassment would have brought on an erection in the patient. In that case I’d vary my sales pitch to “You’ve left it a bit late, Mrs Jones, but if he has the operation without further delay...,” (implying he was oversexed and ought to be “cut” right away before puberty kicked in.). And Mrs Jones would nod, and agree at once.

More often than not, the kid would know what awaited him. He’d ask, in a whiny voice “Mommy, why must I have my balls taken out?” Mommy would say “Ask the doctor, dearest”. I’d explain to him that his balls were unnecessary, and best removed, because of one, or a combination, of the following:

 He would not be getting married, or having children (although this sometimes raised the question “Why not?”)
 He might have noticed, sometimes, that his willie (a familiar expression) became hard, stiff and hot, and that he had feelings “down there” that he didn’t understand. These feelings were harmful (a lie, but what the hell) and if he didn’t have balls, the feelings would end.
 (To be used following a rough game of football or whatever). His balls were in the way, when playing games, and hurt terribly if they were accidentally kicked. Wouldn’t it be better if they were not there? His body just didn’t need them anymore!

All that was last year. It seemed like a lifetime ago. Why?

If you’ve read “Dr Geller Goes into Partnership” you’ll know all about the events a few months back, which, for a time, landed me in quite a fix. Following the arrangements that were foisted on me, every other week I’d receive an intake of boys from the interior: waifs left behind as the tide of war ebbed and flowed. They had to be washed, re-clothed, fed, and examined for illness or injury.

On the fifth day I’d give them a sedative towards their bed-time, and when it took effect they were neutered. These days I did it with Neutersol. It took less than a minute to prick a boy’s balls and inject the drug, and there was next to no post-op care involved. The day after that, the boys were collected and taken away.

I didn’t care for the arrangement much, but at the time, there seemed to be no alternative. I’d been sailing too near the wind. A false move and they might shut me down, and really, I was too important to the locals for that to happen.

My solace during these months was Ricky. Ricky of the golden hair and cornflower-blue eyes – set in a Chinese face. Ricky the enigma. His castration scars were fully healed now, his scrotum no more than a tiny fold of skin. He was turning into the perfect boy-eunuch.

I only had to venture outside and he’d slip his slender hand into mine (“Dr Geller, I want to show you something”) and take me to see an Atlas moth, big as a bird, roosting under the veranda, or a new kind of orchid that had opened in the night. Or he might say “Dr Geller, can you explain...,”

Most of his questions were about himself and his future. Recently they were about his genital area. Following his castration, Ricky’s penis had at first been just like that of any preteen boy, slender, hairless - but permanently limp. But then, as I guessed it would, it had begun to retract into his body. “It’s quite simple, Ricky” I said. “Now that you can’t ever have sex with a girl, your body doesn’t need a long penis. Only as much as you need to pee through”.

Ricky had nodded. “Then that’s okay, Dr Geller”. He trusted me in this, as he’d trusted me from Day One, when I'd said that he’d have to be castrated, with no option. This was probably true. Never, never, never would the powers-that-be allow Ricky’s hotch-potch of genes to be perpetuated. But Ricky didn’t cry, or protest about losing his balls. His reply still echoed in my ears: “Take them right out, Dr Geller – take them out now!”

Not often did I get that kind of insistence from a "patient"!

So I’d done just that. Off with his pants, and up onto the table. Two cuts with a scalpel, two snips with the scissors, two soluble stitches – and Ricky’s scrotum was empty and his future sex life a non-event. No voice change, no facial shaving, no body hair, and all the other unpleasantries that boys encounter upon hitting puberty. 'Cherubic' is how I'd describe it.

What was to become of Ricky in the future worried me a lot. It worried him, too. Once again the wretched Jimmy, little tart, had been getting at him. It was on the same subject as before. Jimmy’s command of English was poor, and I could imagine him saying “I think Dr Geller make you bum-boy, like me. Maybe Number-Two-bum-boy. Me Number-One!” And then his face would light up with the same mischievous expression that used to drive me crazy, when his balls were still in. Cutting them out hadn’t really altered much in that area. It was obvious that he liked being "Number-One-bum-boy", as he called it.

Jimmy was well aware of his talents in that particular direction. Talking of which, that creepy Major Riche had stopped by one day, unannounced, and asked for Jimmy’s services. I’d named the highest figure I felt I could get away with. The Major winced, but paid up. By way of an insurance, I set the CCTV tapes running again. Afterwards, the first few meters of footage sufficed to show that it was working. When the Major began to fondle the boy’s tiny limp penis and empty scrotum, I switched the view off but recorded it all. It wasn’t necessary to watch the whole film.

It wouldn’t have been Ricky’s scene at all. I remembered him whimpering “Why must I learn to have men’s penises up my bottom, Dr Geller? I don’t understand!”

But then, more recently, something happened which put me back in control.

About the tenth of every month, my Medical Association journal arrives by airmail. It’s usually a good read. But this time there was an article that at once caught my eye. The author’s name was unknown to me. He was a Dr George Holroyd, MD (London) PhD (Cambridge) and he was Principal of a boys’ residential private school in Britain.

By definition, anything an honors MD has to say, must be worth reading. Dr Holroyd’s title, “The Education of Neutered Boys” made it a “must” and his opening paragraph made it compulsive!

“Puberty, for a growing boy, can be a minefield,” began Dr Holroyd. “This is the main humanitarian reason – though there are others - why the adoptive parents or guardians – even on occasion the birth parents – of a young boy should want to spare him this hell’s kitchen of emotions by bringing him up as a eunuch.” Fascinated, I read on.

“When I was appointed Principal of Southdown Hall School five years ago” wrote the doctor “I discovered that the junior school section, with a list of two hundred students, included a small number - fewer than a dozen - boy-eunuchs. I quickly learned that these included some of our most gifted pupils. All showed a wide range of talents both in the form room and on the playing field, and thanks to these boys retaining their soprano voices, the School boasts the best choir in the South of England.

“So far from being the spiritless creatures that some readers might imagine, boy eunuchs get into everything. Some of this original batch showed great enterprise and great initiative, uncovering crime waves and all kinds of improbable plots, some of national importance. At times it seemed very wearing, keeping a jump ahead of what they might do next. Some of my staff found it nerve-racking in the extreme, but I wouldn’t have it otherwise. These neutered boys have earned distinction for themselves and for the School.

“So the first point I want to make as an educator, is this. What a boy has in his head is of far more importance than what he has in his underpants. What he can do is of infinitely more significance than the one single physical act that he cannot”.

'Ball-less wonders indeed', I thought, and continued to read.

The Doctor gave a short outline of changes in UK law which had led to a much greater frequency of neutering boys than had been the case five years earlier. Unlike US law, UK law was less prescriptive and more permissive. In consequence, Dr Holroyd said, neutering boys might even be regarded as commonplace. Families with one son already would often arrange for the castration of one or more of the younger ones. “Researches” he went on, “indicate the growth of a culture among children in which castration has become trivialised, just as circumcision has already been for generations.

“I mention this” the Doctor wrote, “because it is my considered opinion that whenever, and wherever, neutering is carried out, it should be kept strictly low-key. Other schools of thought advocate a sort of bar-mitzvah, where relatives and friends come to celebrate the occasion. There has even been promotion of party-packs, fancy dress and all kinds of trappings. This seems wholly inappropriate. Young boys who are shortly to be neutered should be encouraged to pass it off as something of little account, that just happens."

“Similarly, little girls in the family will talk of "that operation that all boys have done”. The kid sister, taxing her memory, may recall that her older brother once looked a tad different “down there” and that he used to be told off for doing “rude things” at bath-time – namely running around with an erection. Only now he has grown up into a big strong boy with a tiny penis that never goes stiff anymore.

“If a boy’s classmates have all been neutered at about the same early age, it may be some time before he realises he has anything missing. In the pool, in the locker-room or on sleepovers with friends, they all look exactly the same. Only when a boy reaches 12 or 13 and puberty kicks in for his intact classmates, will he realise that he has been neutered and that sex – “doing it with a girl” - is off the agenda for good.

Then the Doctor reached his crunch lines.

“From the ages of seven to ten, there is very little physical or psychological difference between a boy who has been neutered and one who is still intact. But at fourteen or fifteen, things are very different. Removal of the boys’ testosterone source renders them more docile and less prone to outbursts of violence and mood swings. They seem to be attracted by quiet activities like reading, map making and stamp collecting. Some researchers have recorded that neutered boys have a tendency to burst into tears when under stress – similar to very young children. This behaviour is commonly put down to testosterone deficiency, but it needs to be researched further. Not all neutered boys suffer from this characteristic.

“ Five years from my appointment as Principal, from the original dozen or so, the boy-eunuch population of my school now approaches eighty (80). I no longer run a single-sex school.”.

The good Doctor had re-structured his school, I read. He knew that if he mixed boy-eunuchs with adolescent teenagers, he would be setting a match to gasoline – a tragedy waiting to happen. He had created an entirely new set of classes, in which boy-eunuchs could progress to school-leaving age without ever encountering the maelstrom of emotions that their intact contemporaries were going through. Of course, this separation of 'boy' and 'eunuch' was not 100%, and there was SOME interaction; but not very much.

'He knew something, this guy', I said to myself, as I put the magazine down. And a thought began forming in my mind. A very intriguing thought.

I needed to order more Neutersol. The requisitions had to go to Lord Manningham. With the order form I included a note - “Something important to discuss. Please stop by. K.G.(MD).”

As I hoped, it brought him round at a run - or rather on the next day and in a brand-new Land Cruiser, immaculate as ever, dressed as for a film about the tropics in the days when half the map of the world was coloured pink. I led him into my sitting room and offered him a scotch-on-the-rocks which he accepted.

“So, do we have some business to discuss?” Manningham asked, after the first sip.

“First, I think you ought to see this” I said, and started the CCTV tape replay. The feature was the first of the “Riche” tapes, and this time I let it run the full length, up to the point when Riche pulled his penis out of the boy’s bottom.

(I didn't bother to point out the satisfied smirk on Jimmy's face, the little tart!)

“I’ve a tape of the Major’s second visit” I said, while the first was still running. “And I’ve left copies at the Bank” (this was untrue but Manningham wasn’t to know) “so there’s nothing to be gained from stealing this lot, just in case you were thinking of that”.

Manningham was silent for a while. “I suppose you have a reason for showing me this?” He said at last, jerking a thumb towards the monitor.

I came near to losing my temper. “Lord Manningham, can we please stop pussyfooting around!” I exclaimed. “When you first came here, you made it quite clear that I had no choice in accepting your terms because of the ways I was implicated already. I suggest, now, that things have changed.

“Not so many miles from where we’re sitting, across this country’s northern frontier, or across its eastern frontier, the act shown on that tape is a capital crime. Anyone found guilty faces death by machine-gun, a full quarter-minute by the clock. It’s not a pretty way to go. I’d also point out that I have tapes of yourself and Miss Marcia, who at a guess is under eighteen. Yes?" (No reaction, so I went on).

“Your operations in this part of the world could become very curtailed, not to say highly dangerous to yourself. Who can be sure that there might not be a “snatch” operation by border police, doing a bit of bounty hunting?”

Manningham said nothing, so I continued. “By contrast, the only charge that I might face is “being a party to the procurement of an illegal act with a minor” and that, I suggest, would never stick. My time is spent on three sites, my consulting room, the hospital, and the orphanage. Who knows what rackets my domestic staff might be running when my back is turned?

Another long silence from Manningham. Then “Mind if I smoke?” he asked, taking a briar pipe from his pocket. I could have thrown the Scotch bottle at him, but refrained. Manningham lit his pipe and took two or three long puffs at it.

“I take it, Dr Geller,” he said at last “that you want to set up a bargaining counter. May I, in my turn, ask what you have in mind?”

I knew exactly how to reply to that.

“There’s a boy,” I said. “A mixed-race boy. He came in with the first batch of boys you ever brought me. His name is Ricky and I’ve mentioned him before. He has potential, I’m sure of it. So I want to give him an education – in the West.”

“A very laudable aim,” Manningham commented. I wasn’t sure if he was being sarcastic, until he went on, and then I knew. “Do you have any school in mind? Ivy League, no doubt!”

Again I somehow refrained from hitting him. “I’ve been reading an article about a boys’ school in Britain, by a Dr Hol-something, Holbrook, no, Holyroyd. He seemed to have all the right ideas…,”

“Do you mean George Holroyd? And was the school called Southdown Hall, by any chance?”

I nodded. “Yes, it was”. To my amazement Manningham burst out laughing. “My dear Dr Geller!” he said, when he’d recovered. “You couldn’t possibly have made a better choice! I know George Holroyd personally, and most of his Governors. I know the district, I have a house there, I run a company that is based there. I agree with you, totally!”.

“But the fees” I said, stupidly, taken aback. “They must be enormous?”

“There are bursaries” replied Manningham. “And a boy of mixed race, from a deprived background, would be a firm candidate, in George Holroyd’s book, for a foundation scholarship. Dr Geller, consider it arranged!”

(It was only afterwards that I guessed that Manningham’s enthusiasm was a mask for his relief at escaping so lightly.)

“If you’ve finally decided on Southdown Hall,” he continued “there’s a boy there, who will gladly take Ricky in hand and show him the ropes”. From the briefcase he always carried, Manningham took a pocket-file, and extracted an 8x10 portrait photograph of a boy. I’d had a quick glimpse at this photograph once before, on Manningham’s first visit. Now I took a good look: a very handsome boy with a somewhat round face and a neat Ivy-type haircut for his fair hair. He wasn't smiling, though, which boys are usually made to do for formal portraits. I noticed, in my quick glance, the crest on his jacket. Obviously the Southdown Hall crest. I wondered at his age, his peaches-and-cream complexion; it was a mystery; he could have been ten, twelve, or fourteen. “This is my nephew” said Manningham. “His name’s Simon Scott”.

“Good-looking kid” I said. Manningham nodded. “Yes. But you should have seen him when he was ten. A nastier, more vicious little monster would have been hard to find. I had him neutered”.

I looked a question. I know I must have.

“I had him neutered when he was 11½, or 12, something,” explained Manningham. “By that time his sex life, young as he was, was going every which way, and there were complaints. It was only a matter of time before he ended up in a Young Offenders' institution, where he’d probably have been neutered anyway. You can see the result – the visible result – for yourself. Castration has been the making of him”.

“Simon is a boy-eunuch. Apart from the obvious and basic consequences of being neutered there have been many side-effects that I needn’t bore you with. All you need to know is that his Headmaster – George Holroyd that is – has a high regard for him. You can keep this picture if you like”.

I took the picture; most proud parents pass out wallet-sized prints. Manningham passed out 8x10's, it seemed. This good-looking boy was a boy-eunuch. He would never know the thrill of going with a girl, taking off her jeans, pulling down her knickers, making her open her legs, putting his penis in, shooting hot sperm up her. “So, do we have an agreement?” I asked, my head in a whirl.

“I think we have” said Lord Manningham. “You’ll be hearing further”. And that seemed to be that.

I saw him to his car, and went to find Ricky.

Ricky was kicking stones along the patio when I found him. I took him into my office. “How would you like to go to school in England, Ricky?” I asked.

“England, Dr Geller? Is that near Australia, where they play cricket all the time?”

I laughed, and took down the big atlas, guiding Ricky’s finger from where we were, to the tiny jagged islands at the top of Europe, one of the few places on the map still colored pink. “Gosh, it’s a long way, Dr Geller” breathed Ricky. “Will you be coming too?”

“Not at first, Ricky” I said. “But there will be vacations when we’ll meet up”. (Please God, I prayed, make this possible, somehow or other).

“But who will look after me, Dr Geller? Where will I live, and have my food and everything?” His chin had begun to wobble and I feared the worst.

“You’ll live in the school” I said. “You’ll have your meals there, and you’ll sleep there, and everything will be provided. You’ll learn how to play cricket, and football (I didn’t specify what version of the game) and perhaps go boating. And most importantly, from the minute you arrive there, you’ll have a friend.”.

I produced the picture of Manningham’s nephew Simon. Ricky studied it closely. “Shall I have to wear clothes like that, Dr Geller?”

"Haircut?" I asked, noting that Ricky's hair was all one length and fuzzy. He almost looked like a blonde dandelion puff. Ricky nodded again.

The remaining things were somehow crammed into his grip and we left the shop to locate a barber. “Just one more thing” I said. “Wait here a minute”. I dived into the shop next door, which was “Contessa” – the well-known place for lingerie. Ricky may have wondered what I was doing in there: the window was full of bras, garter-belts and knickers. I was in and out in a few minutes, with a small packet, which I shoved into the grip with the other things.

“What was that?” Ricky enquired. I explained to him how, a long time before, the school nurse had suggested that I should abandon wearing underpants and try a girl’s thong instead. I’d found it a success from the start. “Boys like us” I said “often find that a thong is much more comfortable. I’ve bought you two, and I guessed you might take a size eight”.

Ricky nodded. “There’s a lot of things to get used to, aren’t there?” he sighed, as we headed for a barber's. When asked what style, Ricky pointed at me and just said, "Like his?" I was flattered.

There was, indeed, much to learn for Ricky. Boy-eunuchs have a whole new culture. Ricky had only been “cut” recently, and hadn’t quite been able to let go of all the ideas and thoughts that intact boys have. It took me about a year to accept that I had a space between my thighs at the top, where I once had two balls in a little bag, and my penis retracted right in instead of hanging limp, except in very warm weather. Between his legs, a boy-eunuch is more like a girl. Thongs are therefore much more sensible than Y-fronts.

My idea had been to take Ricky to the Lemon Tree Café adjoining the bus station, where I’d arranged for Roddy to meet us. Roddy was nearer in age to Ricky and was therefore more able than I was, to make certain that Ricky settled in, day to day, and had everything he wanted.

“This is where we usually meet, boys like us” I told him, as we finally arrived and walked in. “And this is Roddy, who wants to get to know you, and this is Paul”. (If you’ve forgotten Paul Abbott and how he was made a boy-eunuch, read “Simon’s Revenge”). I was a bit surprised to see Paul. Roddy must have brought him along, but it was still good to see him out and about again.

Roddy and Paul introduced themselves and at once began asking Ricky if he’d had a nice flight (unlikely; he looked pretty exhausted), if he was looking forward to school, what sports he enjoyed most. A barrage of questions though all with the best of intentions.

But Ricky was looking all around. “Something smells good!” he commented. It occurred to me that he might be feeling hungry. “When did you last have anything to eat, Ricky?” I asked.

“I don’t know” he said. “Sometime in the night, I suppose”. I chipped in. “Well, they’ll do anything you fancy, here” I said. “You name it, they’ll do it. So let’s make a start. Sausages? (Nod). Fried eggs? (Nod). Tomatoes? (Nod). Hash browns? (Nod). Sweet corn ….here, what’s the matter?”

Ricky had dissolved into tears and was sobbing his heart out. “So many friends! So many friends!” was all we could catch. Clearly it was all too much for him. (I know, because the same thing happens to me when I’m stressed out. One of those eunuch things I guess. Or in Ricky’s case, it was possibly because for the first time in his life, people were being nice to him.) The tears didn’t last and he was soon drying his eyes and telling me what he wanted for breakfast.

A huge fry-up arrived and between mouthfuls Ricky chattered away quite happily. “We like you very much, Ricky” I heard Paul say “and whatever you want, we’ll do all we can to help”. Paul always talks too much. But at least the course of psychiatric treatment he’d had, following his castration and nervous collapse, had put paid to the “gay” tendencies that at one time seemed to be ruling his life.

Ricky finished his meal and we all trooped outside for the bus. Once again Ricky was glued to the window, everything that we took for granted being a novelty to him. I’d something I wanted to point out. “We’ll be in there next Autumn” I said, indicating a building sheathed in scaffolding. “If the conversion’s finished in time”.

“There” was the Archdeaconry. Huge and ugly, it abutted onto the school field. Dr Holroyd had persuaded the Governors to buy it and have it converted to form rooms and dormitories for boy-eunuchs over the age of 16. (The present archdeacon lived in a modern bungalow out on the city limit, and we were getting quite cozy.)

And then we were there: the old familiar entrance-door. “We’ll go straight up” I said. “Mr Carter will be teaching till twelve-thirty”.

Paul stopped on the second floor. “Mr Trefusis said that Ricky should come in here with me” he said. “The other two are Barclay Minor and Meadows” – these were two 12-year-olds I scarcely knew.

“What’s Mr Trefusis got to do with it?” I asked. “He’s a music master”.

But before I could get an answer out of Paul, Ricky had discovered his cubicle: the divan bed with a red tartan rug for a bedspread, the bedside table -lamp, the cupboard for his things and little wardrobe.

“Is all this for me?” Ricky asked, eyes shining. “For you and no one else” I said.

“Gosh!” said Ricky. “Oh, gosh!”

And he dissolved into tears again.

What wasn't a closed book to him was the san, though, and he wasn't at all terrified of Nurse as some boys are. Having been raised by a doctor, though, I guess it follows that he'd know about all that medical stuff.  When I took him down to check in with Nurse after he'd settled, Ricky didn't even bat an eye. He just took off his clothes and hopped up to be examined.  Nurse was ecstatic, and promptly fetched her favourite enema kit. I shivered; Ricky didn't seem bothered. Nurse was concerned with past poor diet, the long flight, and what we'd already fed him at the Cafe. Ricky explained that Dr Geller gave 'her boys' enemas every week.  Nurse asked him if he was incontinent, then had to explain it. Lucky for Ricky, she decided to forego wrapping the tight elastic band around his tiny penis to keep him from peeing during his enema!

"Every week, if not twice, too!" Nurse scheduled him.

The other two "mentors" for Ricky, Barclay Minor and Meadows, could be depended on not to say 'Boo' to a goose. They had both come to the school last autumn, after getting neutered the previous summer at their prep school, where they’d had their balls pricked on admission. The Head had told them it was “healthier” – whatever that was supposed to mean!

But whatever Ricky lacked academically, he made up for on the sports field. The athletics season was just starting and Ricky soon showed what he could do. His strongest event was the 400 meters hurdles, which is really, really tough, a quarter-mile sprint, almost, with hurdles thrown in. Everyone admired him, and the under-14 athletics captain put him in the house team right away. A few boys took to calling him “Spider” Silva, because when hurdling he seemed all long legs – but it didn’t catch on. With his very fair complexion he wasn’t at all spider-like.

In the gym, too, he was a “natural”, at anything to do with climbing: ropes, poles or whatever. Of this particular skill, I’ll have more to tell you later. It turned out to be very important.

We shared one thing in common: we both loved sketching and making maps. Ricky told me about the things he used to draw, in the country where he used to live: the amazing flowering trees, swallowtail butterflies with huge dark velvety wings, strange birds. Mapping and sketching expeditions took us out into the country a lot, but I’ll come to that presently.

And, of course, there were the confidences. One day in the shower, I saw that Ricky had the remains of a scrotum. (Mine has totally disappeared and after getting circumcised I had the smallest penis in the third year, smaller than Ricky’s. That doesn’t bother me.) “Ricky, when were you “cut”?” I asked.

“About four months ago” he replied. “How about you?”

“Nearly two years back?” I said. “They used Neutersol on me. You know Neutersol? It’s injected into your balls and they dry up. The effect’s just the same as taking them right out”.

“So you’ve never done anything with a girl?”

“No, never” I said. “But I like to think about it. Want to see some pictures?”

In the deserted dormitory I turned on my lap-top. The pictures were, in fact, a strip cartoon, but very well drawn. They showed a boy and girl meeting in a bedroom: very young teens I guessed, with just a smudge of pubic hair, although the girl had well developed boobs and the boy’s cock was big for his age. The pictures began with the couple meeting in a state of high excitement – need I explain? – and went on with the boy on top, the girl on top, the girl sucking the boy off – and ended with them lying side by side on the bed holding hands and totally spent, the boy’s cock limp and floppy after his exertions, the girl’s love-lips wide open and wet.

“We won’t ever be able to do that” whispered Ricky as the disk came to an end “but it’s nice to look at, isn’t it?”

Boy, was he right! I loved looking at pictures of boys fucking girls, although it was something I’d never do. (For how I was neutered, and later circumcised, and why, you’ll have to read “Simon and the Professional”. I had no balls or scrotum, only a radically circumcised little-boy penis that never went stiff, and I couldn’t make sperm. But I still wanted to have a girlfriend of my own, even though I’d never be able to service her in the ‘knicker department’).

Simon, who actually had a girlfriend, called Melanie, also had a favourite video which I’d once watched with him. It showed a bunch of boys and girls – either Japanese or Filipino, I wasn’t sure which – who were all over one another, having a good time. The girls were nude, with nice big boobs and shaved fannies; the boys were nude too, but had all been castrated. Simon explained to me that these boys had had their balls drilled out – a type of keyhole surgery developed in the East, to make pre-teen boys sexually harmless – unable to fuck girls.

Neutersol shrinks a boy’s cock to nearly nothing, but after this other treatment, the effect was different. The boy’s penis remained like that of an intact preteen boy, in other words it grew to about three inches maximum, giving girls more to play with during sex fun than just a little acorn. His cock stayed limp, though, making him unable to fully satisfy his longings. Kissing and sucking were on the agenda, though. I guess this is what Simon and Melanie used to do on sex sessions. But as usual I’m digressing: it’s time to move on.

A year before, the School had introduced Geography as an alternative to Latin. I’d always found Latin difficult as well as boring, so I’d made the switch. Ricky as I said, had never done Latin at all, so it was reasonable for him to choose Geography from day one.

The school’s approach to geography in the third year was very broad, and their philosophy was “Start with your own country before bothering with anyone else’s, and your own area first of all”. So we were encouraged to look at contours, sub-soils, crops, trees, building materials – you name it – and to take as weekly projects, one small district at a time. It was permissible, natural really, for boys to tackle these in small groups or even pairs.

By late May Ricky and I had gone all over the South Downs and explored several points along the Sussex coast. For our next Saturday afternoon foray, I proposed we should go to the village of Ditchling, which looked, from the map, to have potentialities (listen to me! I said a bit ago that I was supposed to be brainy but ‘potentialities’ – I ask you!)

I guess you have to blame me for what happened next. I knew – or thought I knew – where to pick up the bus for Ditchling. We showed our passes to the bus driver as we climbed aboard, and sat down. These days there are no conductors selling tickets, and our passes were valid for the whole of the bus company’s network.

Anyway, we seemed to have been going a long time, and I’d seen no signs for Ditchling, when the bus reached a crossroads and stopped. The driver switched off his engine. By now, Ricky and I were the only passengers left. “Doesn’t this bus go to Ditchling?” I asked the driver. “Naow, it don’t” was his unhelpful reply.

“Isn’t this the 34a service, then?”

“Naow, it’s the 21d, Sat’d’y’s only”.

“Where’s this place?”

“Sheffield Park”.

“When do you start back?” (Better go back to school, I thought, if we can’t go on).

“I don’t. I go to the depot and sign off, abaout time too. Naow, are you two gettin’ orf, or not?”

Leaving this unhelpful man we walked back to the crossroads. There was nothing much: a few cottages and what appeared to be a train station, so we went to take a look. We could see at once that it wasn’t a regular train station. It was the sort you see in very old movies, with women in dresses down to the floor, and men with beards and stovepipe hats. There were old-fashioned milk churns, and barrows with luggage, like a film set. There were old-fashioned signals too, with painted arms. Everything was very clean and smart.

But this unlikely place also boasted a train, which looked as if it was about to go some place. “Ricky, is that a timetable?” I asked him (he was looking at a notice-board). “Where do they go to, these trains?”

“A place called East Grinstead” he said. “Where’s that?”

Now East Grinstead was a good bit nearer London. From there, we could probably either find a bus to take us back, or link up with another train. “Okay” I said. “East Grinstead it is. Let’s get aboard”. We climbed in, finding an empty compartment, and moments later, with a toot from the engine and a lot of huffing and puffing, the train started.

Looking around us, there were lots of funny old advertisements for things I’d never heard of, like “Parkinson’s Pills” and “Vapour Rub” and a notice in the toilet which said “In frosty weather water may be obtained from a can in this compartment”. It was like being in a time warp, jogging along at a smart twenty miles an hour or so.

We’d stopped at one station already, when the train drew into another, just a bit further on, and stopped. A fat old man in porter’s uniform walked up and down the platform shouting “All change! All change!”

I leaned out of the window. “We want to go to East Grinstead” I said. “Can’t we go on this train?”

“No, you can’t” the old guy replied. “This ‘ere train’s reserved – for THEM – over there”.

He indicated a roped-off area higher up the platform. There was a crowd of very smartly-dressed people in there, including some in dress uniforms. I could see a trestle-table with champagne bottles, and food set out on trays. “In about a hower from now” continued the old man (he meant “about an hour”) “all them VIPs will board this ‘ere train, WITH a Pullman car attached, for East Grinstead, for the Grand Re-openin’ ceremony. In about a hower, if they’ve finished noshin’ by then. Which I very much doubt”. He turned away, grumbling.

“What are we supposed to do?” I called after him.

“If yer look sharp” came the answer “there’s a bus. H’outside in the forecourt”.

We didn’t look sharp enough. As we reached the station exit, the bus, tired of waiting, drove off up the road. Ricky and I were left staring after it.

“If we’re still going to East Grinstead” I said “and I don’t think we’ve any choice, our quickest way is to follow the railway track. There’s sure to be a path. There always is”.

Taking care not to be seen by anyone at the station, we climbed the fence beside the track. At the top of a low embankment, sure enough, there was a path, and we struck out along this, one behind the other.

A lot of the way was through woodland. We’d been going about three quarters of an hour, perhaps more, when the trees ended. In front of us, the ground dropped away into a valley. The line crossed this on a viaduct of tall red-brick arches. “Look!” exclaimed Ricky. “Don’t you think we could somehow make this place our geog. project for the day? If I did a sketch of those arches, and add some notes about the trees and so on?”

“Good idea” I said. “Got anything to draw on?”

Ricky produced an old envelope and the stump of a pencil. “I need a pee first” he said.

“Make sure no one’s looking” I shouted after him as he made for some bushes.

(You may think I’m being sensitive but there were reasons. Right at the top of the school rugby field there was a clump of laurels and by tradition, junior boys were allowed to pee there instead of having to go all the way back to the locker rooms. Now one afternoon I’d been using the laurels for that purpose, when there came a loud female voice exclaiming “I can see that boy’s naked buttocks from here!” (I have to pull my pants right down these days; I can’t pee through the leg of my shorts anymore.) The woman, a spectator at a First XV match, had complained, and it had got as far as Dr Holroyd.)

In the few moments that I was alone, I became aware of something very odd happening. A kind of throbbing in the air – I might have said humming, although there was no sound. The leaves on the trees began to shake even though there was no wind at all.

Ricky came bounding back, his face white. “Earthquake!” he yelled. “This is how they start!”

Earth tremors are very rare in Britain, but they do happen at intervals, though usually they are too small to notice. The newspapers, a day later, said that this was one of the strongest ones for some decades, and its epicentre (if that’s the right word) was the Imberhorne Valley – which is where Ricky and I were standing. Sure enough, Ricky was right!

There was another sound – a rumble, followed by the noise of crashing and falling masonry. The parapet wall collapsed into the undergrowth. In front of us, the track lurched and sagged. A huge cloud of thick choking dust rolled up, blinding us and making us cough and sneeze. When this cleared, we could see between the ties of the track, to the floor of the valley. The first two piers of the viaduct had disintegrated into piles of shattered brickwork. For a horrible moment I thought that all the remaining piers would collapse too, like dominoes, but by some miracle they didn’t.

Dimly it dawned on us what had happened. The reality was brought home to us more sharply by the sound of a shrill whistle in the distance. Looking back up the line I could see a plume of white steam rising through the trees. Ricky and I stared at each other. It was Ricky who spoke first. “The train!” he exclaimed, in a hoarse whisper. “We’ve got to stop that train!”

Not really knowing what we meant to do or how to do it, we set off running back the way we’d come. It was Ricky who pointed out the signal; I don’t know how I’d come to miss seeing it. The arm was set at “Line Clear” pointing upwards at 45 degrees. “We ought to put that signal at “Danger” said Ricky. We stopped, looking up at the signal with its painted red arm.

How to alter the signal was something else entirely. Those sort of signals are usually worked by a long wire from the signal cabin. But I could see no wire. Usually, too, there is an iron ladder set against the mast, for the lamp-man. But the ladder was missing, and the mast was thirty feet tall, perhaps more.

“Roddy, hold my blazer” said Ricky, peeling it off. He went straight to the signal mast, wrapped his arms and legs round it and began to swarm up. (I told you he was good at gymnastics.) I watched him crawl through the steel loop at the top. “What can you see?” I shouted up.

“It’s all right, I think” Ricky called back. “There’s a piece of wood jammed through the pivot, holding the arm up. I think I can pull it out”.

Ricky was blessed with strong fingers. A few seconds later he’d freed the pivot. The signal arm dropped with a clang, bounced a time or two and settled in the horizontal position meaning “Danger – Line Blocked”.

The train whistled again, a lot nearer now. Leaving Ricky in his perch I began to run up the track towards the approaching train. The engine was in sight now, so I began flapping Ricky’s blazer like a flag, wishing it had been red instead of blue. I ran on past a big yellow sign, the figure “10”, no more. Would the engineer cut his speed to ten miles an hour? If he did, there was hope. I left the stony path and continued between the rails, doing a sort of hop-step-and-jump from tie to tie and continuing to wave Ricky’s blazer.

On came the engine, brave in its green paint and shining brass. When it was about ten yards off I jumped back on to the path and turned around. Obedient to the restriction sign the engineer was slowing down. He was making the engine let off steam. The noise was deafening, but he’d seen me. I was able to keep up with the engine now, and I kept shouting and pointing ahead. Would the engineer see the signal and would he take any notice?

The discipline of all his years on the footplate told off. He saw the signal and began to apply his brakes. The wheels ground on the steel rails. The train stopped. The engineer was shouting something to me but I couldn’t hear, or make myself heard. All I could do was puff and pant “The viaduct is down!” while pointing up the line.

The engineer clambered down from his cab and came over. Another face appeared – the fireman. “Keep the pressure up, Bert!” the engineer yelled back. The face disappeared and I heard the scraping of a shovel as more coal was piled on. Black smoke poured from the chimney. The engineer turned to me. “What’s this all about then?” he asked sharply. But I could only gasp “Come and look!” and beckon him to follow.

“It’d better be good” muttered this sceptical man out of the side of his mouth. “Yes, it’d better be something good”.

But then he saw the rails and ties sagging like an old clothes-line; saw the horrible void where there had once been arches; saw the piles of shattered masonry far below. His face turned the colour of dirty cheese. “Oh Gawd, oh Christ, oh goddamighty” he groaned. He lurched against the broken parapet and threw up. I turned away and looked towards the train, where something curious was going on.

The guard, or conductor, had climbed down from his van and placed a step ladder at the door of the Pullman car. Down the steps came a small procession of people, who advanced towards where I was standing. The first was a very tall, very old Army officer in full dress: scarlet tunic and blue trousers with a red stripe. He wore a lot of medals, and on his head a curious black fore-and-aft hat with a plume of white feathers. He had a bushy white moustache and an almost purple face – and he didn’t look the least bit friendly.

“Did you do that?” he demanded, gesturing towards the ruined viaduct. “Boy, did you do that?”

“Of course he didn’t do it, Cyril! Don’t be so silly!” This was from a very tall old lady, holding a slender black umbrella. I can’t adequately describe what she wore. She looked like a fashion-plate of about 1905. But she looked good-humoured with it, even amused.

The third person spoke. “This is one of my own pupils, General, and we should do well to listen to his account of what’s happened here”. I knew the speaker very well indeed. He was Dr Holroyd. Why he was there I couldn’t imagine but I was overjoyed to see him.

A fourth person came up. I took him to be a civil engineer of some kind. He had been to have a look at the damage. “The only two piers we didn’t reinforce” he said. “It makes you think, doesn’t it? Oh well, there’ll be no reopening ceremony today. Or for quite a few weeks. I’d better get on the phone to East Grinstead and tell them all to go home”. He turned back towards the train and I never saw him again.

All this time Ricky had been in his lofty perch at the top of the signal pole. I pointed him out to Dr Holroyd and explained how Ricky had climbed the pole and altered the signal arm. “I could never have done that, sir” I said. “Silva’s a much better gymnast than me”.

Dr Holroyd nodded. “Silva, you can come down now” he called. I watched Ricky wrap his legs around the steel mast and begin to slide down. He was almost at the bottom when his shorts caught on some projection. There was a sound of tearing fabric, and Ricky gave a yell of dismay.

Ricky came hobbling over, clutching his torn shorts in front of him, and trying to walk from the knees downward, his thighs clamped together. Enough of him was on display to show that he’d not been wearing any underwear. Dr Holroyd ignored the mishap.

“General, I want you to meet Roddy Fisher, who is one of my senior choristers, and this one, who’s been risking life and limb for us, is Silva, a new pupil this term. And, boys, this is General Sir Cyril Fenton, and Lady Fenton”.

The General made a noise like “Umph, jumph” which was meant to be “Good afternoon, gentlemen”. The old lady said “Delighted to meet you both” and smiled in a very friendly way.

Ricky said plaintively “Please sir, I’ve ripped my pants!” looking around piteously.

“Then perhaps you’ll allow me to mend them” the old lady said, surprisingly and very clearly. “We army wives always carry sewing materials with us, for when buttons come off” (she pronounced it “orf” - very upper-class I thought.)

But Dr Holroyd had turned to the engineer, who not long before had been spewing his heart up, over the broken parapet. “Smithers, are you fit to drive the train?” demanded Dr Holroyd. Smithers assured us he was “only he’d have to back-up all the way to Kingscote and then run-round; no turntable, see, guv?” With that, we trooped back to the Pullman car. The General disappeared somewhere. Dr Holroyd got busy on his mobile phone. Lady Fenton settled me in one corner seat and Ricky in another.

She was as good as her word and quickly found a sewing-kit in her capacious handbag. It was strange to think of this ramrod-straight old lady as an “army wife” who had ever had to deal with “buttons coming orf”. She took Ricky’s shorts and set to work.

What happened next was partly Ricky’s fault on two counts. First for not wearing a thong. Second for sitting, as they call it “inelegantly” – most commonly used about girls who open their legs and show their knickers. Anyway, it was just at that moment that the old General came bumbling into the car. “Any whisky left in the bar?” he asked. His eyes, roaming round the compartment, suddenly focused on Ricky’s genital area, his neatly-shaped, slender penis that lacked a boy’s usual twin underpinnings. His face turned a deeper shade of puce.

“That boy’s been gelded!” he spluttered. “Gelded, by gad! Is it possible?” (If he’d been able to see my genitals as well as Ricky’s he’d have had a heart attack, I thought).

“Not only possible but highly probable, Cyril” replied his wife. “They do it, these days, on some boys. Stops them bein’ a nuisance with gels! But it’s nothing to do with you, so just pour yourself a whisky and leave us to get on”.

The General made a noise like “Woof!” and went out.

Lady Fenton sewed deftly and fast. She soon had Ricky decent again, and then summoned-up the Pullman car attendant to produce tea and cakes for us all. Outside, the Sussex countryside trundled past, very slowly as Smithers propelled his train back to Kingscote, then rather more quickly after he’d run round on the passing loop.

The rest of the day passed in rather a blur, after that. We rode back to school in Dr Holroyd’s car, arriving towards six, and realising with a shock that we’d barely an hour to turn in our geography project. Dividing forces, Ricky got a sheet of clean paper and produced not a bad sketch of Imberhorne Viaduct, and I knocked up some notes. (“Soil, chalk” was a good assumption, as were “Grasses, fescue and rye grass”, “Meadow flowers, buttercups, knapweed, vetches, scabious”).

The project paper was supposed to end with “Other Comments” and I had put, quite truthfully, “First two arches of viaduct collapsed owing to earth tremor”. But the geography master, Mr Meiklejohn, a big blond Scotsman, lacked imagination, and wasn’t impressed. “If that’s your idea of humour, Fisher” he said “I don’t think much of it”. He awarded me a delta-minus, very unfair.

Next morning, however, I went to see him with a copy of the local paper – and the project paper. Mr Meiklejohn read the article about the earth tremor, said “Umph”, took the project paper, crossed out the delta-minus and substituted a straight alpha. Just as unfair in its way. Some boys who’d slaved for hours, classifying seaweeds at Shoreham Harbour, had not had their afternoon enlivened by an earth tremor. Definitely an unfair advantage!

And that, for the time being, was that.

I was glad to see Simon, really. I think he had a birthday that summer, sixteen, maybe, and he went somewhere with his Uncle Carl for a bit. But he managed to visit us, and it made Ricky very happy.

Another school year, another rugger season. Rugby Union was another “first” for Ricky but he soon became adept at handling the quirky, egg-shaped ball. Quick on his feet he was shaping up nicely for the mid-field. Autumn was here again, late autumn to be exact. We’d be practising Christmas carols in a few weeks’ time.

And then one Friday morning I got a summons to see Dr Holroyd.

I expected the worst. A day or two before, I’d borrowed one of Simon’s golf clubs (he’d just taken up the game) and gone down to the putting green. Only the club hadn’t been a putter but a No 3 wood, and the ball not a practice ball but an ordinary match ball. The ball had gone whining out of sight and there was a splintering crash in the distance. It sounded like a cucumber frame. Someone had identified me as the culprit and I was “for it”, no doubt of that.

I knocked at his door. “Come in” called Dr Holroyd. I went in. “Ah, Fisher!” said Dr Holroyd. “Come in, do. Have a chair”.

If I was going to be punished I was going to be lectured first!

“The Wealden Railway Society” said Dr Holroyd, and stopped. I’d no idea what he was talking about. But it didn’t sound like an errant golf ball.

“The Wealden Railway Society” began Dr Holroyd again “had to postpone their grand re-opening in May, for reasons that you’ll no doubt recall. It’s been re-scheduled for next Saturday afternoon- a week tomorrow.”

I said “Sir”. There didn’t seem to be anything else to say.

“For my sins I serve on the committee. The Chairman, General Fenton –remember him?- has written me a long letter. He and his co-Directors have made their minds up that if it hadn’t been for the prompt and courageous – that’s his word – courageous action by you and young Silva, there wouldn’t be any re-opening. There would be a memorial service instead. If he’s right, I myself – and the General - should be included among those to be remembered”. He smiled. I said nothing.

“And so” Dr Holroyd resumed “the Committee want to mark the occasion of the re-opening with a presentation to the two of you. They propose asking the Bishop of Guildford along, to do it. The General adds that the traditional token of esteem, given by a railway company for saving life, is a gold watch, and he, personally, is a great follower of tradition.”

This was terrible.

Terrible, because in some circles, I was pretty well known, because of my records. I kept in the background as much as I could – my agents had somebody to deal with the fan mail. Fisher of 3a, and “the internationally acclaimed boy soprano Roddy Fisher” had to be kept strictly apart. I would not – could not dare – make a public appearance. I’d probably get mobbed, and after that, life at school would be impossible. Journalists from music magazines would be camping out at the school gate. As for a gold watch I’d already got two, a Gucci and a Vacheron-Constantin. There was nothing I either wanted, or needed. I made four or five new albums a year and the royalties just poured in.

“What’s the matter, Fisher? You don’t look happy with the idea”.

Blushing furiously I explained why I wasn’t. Dr Holroyd looked thoughtful.

“It’s quite different for Ricky, of course” I said. “No one knows Ricky. He has no family – nothing. He arrived here with the clothes he stood up in and a few sea-shells. Besides, Ricky did everything, that day. It was his idea to change the signal, not mine. And lastly, I couldn’t have climbed up the signal pole like he did. All I did was rush around, shouting”.

“M-mmm” said Dr Holroyd. Then after a moment’s thought “I shall reply to the General and say that, with regard to the two boys concerned, overwhelming modesty prevents one of them from accepting any public recognition. He is, of course, very sensible of the honour done to him by the Committee’s proposal. That’s unbelievably pompous, but the sort of thing they like. I shall go on to say that the second boy had similar reservations but I over-ruled him. That’s a fib of course, but I don’t think we’ll tell Ricky. We’ll let it come as a surprise. If we told him I think he’d run a mile, don’t you?” Of course I agreed.

The Saturday arrived. “We’ll go in the school van” decided Dr Holroyd. “Meiklejohn can drive it. I’ve reserved seats near the platform. I’ll spirit you all away when the presentation’s over”. So that was decided on.

It was a grey blustery afternoon at East Grinstead. The General got on to the platform and said some well-chosen but inaudible words. Then he introduced the Bishop. There was clapping. The inaugural train steamed in; the Bishop cut a ribbon and the General’s wife broke a bottle of champagne over the front of the engine. There was more clapping, and the Bishop climbed back on the platform.

The wind blew most of his words away. “It gave him great pleasure….this auspicious occasion…..something, something, something” Then he got down to business.

“Earlier this year……sure and certain disaster…..all your Committee members and their invited guests…..prevented……..quick thinking………agility, above all, courage beyond his years……..something, something, something...Master Ricky Silva”.

“Go on, Ricky” I hissed, and shoved him towards the platform steps. More bewildered than anything else, Ricky climbed on to the platform. Here he met a familiar and welcome face – Lady Fenton. “Well done, Ricky!” said Her Ladyship, in a very audible voice.

Ricky beamed.

They took his slender wrist and fastened on a gold Rolex, which looked enormous. The BBC Regional News people brought their cameras close up, and suspended mikes on poles. Ricky was being asked for “a few words”. I was able to catch “the only sensible thing to do, really. Anyone would have done it”.

There was prolonged clapping and some cheering also. Ricky climbed down the platform steps, but his retreat was cut off by a horde of girls of 13 or 14 who milled round about him, asking questions and demanding his autograph. Eventually Ricky’s admirers drew themselves off and I was able to rescue him.

In the van, returning to school, Ricky showed me his new watch. On the back they had engraved his name, the railway company’s name, the words “For a gallant act” and the date.

(This is a convenient place to say that I didn’t escape with total anonymity. The railway company had a bronze plaque made, and cemented into the base of the first pier of the viaduct. The plaque mentioned the May 2005 earth tremor and the “gallant action of Roderick Fisher and Ricardo Silva” in stopping an approaching train. But the plaque was down in the valley-bottom and only the cows would ever see it.)

There was one closing sequel.

“What shall I do with these, Roddy?” Ricky asked when we were alone. I saw then that his blazer pockets were stuffed out with bits of flimsy fabric – white, pink, black, polka-dotted…..

“Some of those girls gave me their – their – their knickers!” squeaked Ricky. “What shall I do with them?”

“If I were you” I replied “I’d wear them!”