New series Suitable for all readersSexual innuendo


I Sent a Letter to my Love

A ‘New Captain Scarlet’ and ‘Thunderbirds’ crossover

For Valentine Day

By Cat 2


“Oh No, oh no, oh no.”

“What’s the matter?” Caroline Foster-Finch, known to Spectrum as Rhapsody Angel, stared around the crowded room, trying to figure out what on earth could have upset Melody that much. But she could see nothing, only the usual mix for one of these Honours dinners of Air Force Generals, commission officers and Industrialists.

“No one told me he was going to be here. I knew Jeff was, but…” Melody seemed to be getting more and more distressed as her eyes darted around the room like a trapped rabbit.

“I’ve got to get out of here.”

She bolted for the door.


In spite of everything, in spite of joining up at virtually the same time, in spite of their nationalities, in spite of similar patterns of service, they won’t meet until 2055, at Duxford, England.

The base had been reclaimed by the US Air Force, primarily to take advantage of flat planes of East Anglia, to test their newest craft. The E46L3 Mark one (codename Eagle) was designed as a multipurpose aircraft, which use would be essentially in time of war.

It would, however, require the best of the pilots to test it.

Sometimes, Esther Jackson wondered what would have happened if she hadn’t seen Scott as a pilot first, if she’d only learnt that information later. As it was, the first thing she fell in love with about Scott was his flying.

She’d arrived at Duxford, hot tired and sweaty after two days of travelling, but still eager to see these top secret crafts.

The day was fine, and as she headed across to briefing, she saw one of the Eagles.

Looking back, compared to the Falcon, the Eagle was heavy, and unyielding, but under this pilot’s hands, she looped like a jet engine, easily reaching 1200mph.

 She watched, as the pilot, apparently aware he was under observation, took the craft in a barrel roll, before up righting her and landing just a few feet from Esther. She watched as the hatch opened, and a figure dressed in a green flight suit clambered out.

“Hi,” he said, grinning at her. “I’m Scott.”


“Melody.” Rhapsody’s voice came to her from behind the stall door, and she hugged herself closer, suddenly ashamed of her tears. “It’s me.”

Like she couldn’t tell that from her voice.

“I’m sorry.” The voice echoed slightly around the corners. “We all thought you and Scott…” She paused, apparently suddenly unsure of herself. Taking pity on her, Melody unlocked the door and stepped out.

“I am over Scott,” she lied, surprising herself at how easy it was. “It’s just… particularly after spilling my soul about my last… relationship; I don’t especially fancy spending an evening stuck at the same table as my ex.”

And she would have been too, she’d realized that as soon as she arrived and saw the seating plan. This was her old college, so it would be assumed that she would be taking the position normally assigned to Harmony as second-in-command of the Angels. She had actually being looking forward to it, the annual dinner, where Defence contractors, like Tracy Industries, mixed with their customers. She knew Jeff was going to be there, had seen the Tracy Industries logo on the invites, but she hadn’t expected telling the other Angels about the last time she’d seen Scott – she as Melody Angel and he as the pilot of Thunderbird One – dredge up all the old feelings. Or for Scott to be here.

Rhapsody nodded, sympathetically. “Harmony’s swapped with you. There are no names on the assigned seating, only codenames, so the colonel is the only one who realized and he won’t ask. You’ll be sitting with Alan Tracy…” Her voice trailed off. Melody forced herself to smile.

“That’s alright. Alan and I got on O.K. the couple of times we met.”

Beyond that, the last time she’d seen Alan, he’d been fourteen or fifteen, and extremely scared. It was highly unlikely he’d be any more eager than she was to remember their previous meeting.

She headed over to the mirror and splashed her face, trying to rid herself of the tears. She was, however, very aware of the eyes of the English Angel on her back.


Rhapsody moved to stand beside her.

“When this is over, you’re telling us what happened between you and Scott. Because ‘We both got transferred’ doesn’t explain this.”



Esther always thought she’d been happiest at Duxford.

The Eagle was the first craft of its kind, with its joystick control and multi pulse burner engines, that she’d ever flown, and she was hooked almost immediately, revealing in the power beneath her feet and hands, and in the plane’s speed and agility.

Compared to the Falcon she flew now, the Eagle was a clunking mess, too heavy and attempting to be too versatile, but at the time it was cutting edge and wonderful.

And out of the air, she had Scott.

There were three other pilots beside him and her for the Eagles, from all sections of the Air Force, but she and Scott had bonded almost immediately as the only Eagle jet pilots – the best there could be to fly them.  They were the ones who pushed the machines to the limits, competing with each others as to who could make their craft go the fastest, turn the sharpest, perform the most complicated manoeuvres, generating huge amounts of adrenaline and admiration from both their fellow pilots and the engineers.

Out of the craft, they were friends, at least to start with. Scott was like most fighter pilots she’d met, cool, and collected, almost impossible to faze.

That had been why she kissed him, the first time, wanting to see if she could break through that calm exterior.

She hadn’t been expecting him to kiss her back.


It startled Melody as she sat down to realize how much time had passed.

In her head, she still pictured Alan Tracy as a teenager: lean-built like all the Tracys, but with puppy fat still clinging to his frame and his blond hair mussed with gel.

But that had been nearly ten years ago.

Alan Tracy had grown up tall. Shorter than Scott and Virgil, but just a couple of inches taller than John. The puppy fat had gone, turning a teenager into a Tracy man.

The others had changed too.

Jeff’s hair was grey now, and slight wrinkles had mellowed his stern face, though the brown eyes still narrowed dangerously when he caught sight of her, giving her the distinct impression he was well aware of the reason behind his son’s late return from the rescue mission to Malta, a few months back.

Virgil’s red hair was still its true colour, but it looked lighter somehow. Then again, she thought ruefully, the last time you saw him he was in the middle of studying for finals and hadn’t slept in three days, jacked up on coffee and sugar. He was explaining something to the guy sat next to him in Air Force blue, sketching on a napkin.

Gordon Tracy was on sticks. That surprised her, more than it should, and even though she expected it. She knew how serious the Hydrofoil accident of some years ago had been, had known that Gordon had been lucky to survive it, but at the hospital, Scott had told her and Alan that Gordon was going to be O.K. and she had believed him. She had never really stopped believing him. Even when she knew how bad the accident really was. Even when she learnt that Scott lied, and that Gordon was never going to be properly O.K.

There was no sign of John, Scott’s fourth younger brother, third in terms of family positioning, but she wasn’t surprised. Someone had to stay on duty. She wondered if they’d drawn lots, like the Angels and the Captains did before deciding this. She wondered that, because it was easier than looking over to the second table. And to Scott.

Scott’s hair was starting to turn at the temples, but so subtly so that you’d have to look closely to tell.  His skin was tanned to a light brown; almost the same colour as well-baked cookies. Suddenly, he turned his head, blue eyes meetings hers and she was lost again.


War was coming.

They all knew it. The signs were all around.

The British pilots slowly vanished, recalled to their own squadrons. Walking around the perimeter of the base you could see the Imperial War Museum evacuating their most precious exhibitions, while the runaways were reinforced to take the new fighter jets.

More posters went up, reminding people to be vigilant against terrorists, to report suspicious actions, that careless talk cost lives.

In spite of that, just as in the days building up to a thunderstorm you can have the best weather, Scott and Esther’s relationship had flourished.

The war felt remote to them, wrapped and isolated as they were in their bubble of testing. They knew and accepted rationally that it was coming, but like storm clouds over the hill it seemed very far away.

If she closed her eyes, Esther felt she could remember every detail of those days. The soft warmth of the English sun on her skin.  The smell of ripening corn, mixed in with sun-baked earth as they walked along the edges of the fields around the base.  Scott’s eyes nearly as bright as the clear skies above them, his lips stained with the juice of the raspberries that they’d brought at the market. The feel of the parched grass tickling her back as they made love in the fields, far from prying eyes.  But in truth there was only one incident she could pinpoint with any certainty.

It had been in early August; the second, she was almost certain. They had had the day off from testing and wanting some privacy, had caught the bus off base and out into the country side. They’d wandered around until they came to Lyveden New Bield. The remains of the uncompleted house were deserted, in spite of the heat. Even the National Trust’s volunteers were gathered in their small hut around the radio, too busy to pay attention to a couple of Yanks.

They had walked around the unfinished walls, ignorant of their meaning, instead looking at the graffiti that covered them. Collapsing in the heat, and leaning back against the stone, Esther remembered tracing the words of one piece that caught her eye.

S. Robinson 2 August 1914.

It had been exactly 150 years since S. Robinson sat where they were sitting and carved his name, but it wasn’t that which affected her so strongly.

In the chapel on base, where they dutifully filed into every week, more out of a sense of respect for their hosts than any real belief, there was a tablet bearing a list of the parish lost in the wars. Esther had probably read that list a thousand times instead of listening to the preachers reading and could recite it by heart. S. Robinson was the third name on the list. Killed 2nd August 1916.

She looked at Scott; she saw in his face that he recognized it to. That he knew a young man had sat where they were sitting on the last day of sanity and had died two years later in the madness of the trenches.

Their lovemaking that day was tender and gentle, as though S. Robinson had reminded them both that this couldn’t last.

The next day they were informed they were returning to America.


She could feel Scott’s eyes on her, almost boring into her back. It should have felt uncomfortable, instead it was reassuring.

That was one of Scott’s great talents, one of the reasons she’d heard their superiors groan that he was going to be wasted in business.

Scott could naturally put anyone at their ease; have you trusting him within a few minutes of meeting. She’d trusted him and –

She forced her mind away from him, forcing herself to speak politely to the guy sitting next to her. She managed about five minutes of conversation about the new library at the Academy, before she had to abandon it.

She had felt Scott’s eyes on her in many situations. They were probably the only honest method of communication he had.

Scott could turn on the charm, slipping easily between his roles. Test pilot out with the guys. USAF pilot in a foreign land and having to win over the native. Jeff Tracy’s eldest son and heir apparent.  Big Brother/Mother Hen Scott, keeper of secrets, big and small. Thunderbird One pilot.

He had told her once, in a what she now recognised as a rare fit of honesty, that she was the only person he felt safe being just Scott around. No labels, no complications.

Maybe that was why that summer stood out in her memory as well. She hadn’t been obliged to lie or to be something she wasn’t. She had been Esther, and that was enough.


She had known who Scott was, of course.

Scott had never lied to her about his surname, never tried to hide his family from her, but in England it had seemed so different.

The English papers were too full of war and the latest royal scandal involving the king’s younger brother, to even care about the son of a rich American industrialist and the dark-haired girl he’d been seen with. The RAF had its own strict rules about photography around the bases, and anyway, the nature of the Eagle project pretty much guaranteed privacy.

Scott wrote to his family once a week, video-called his brothers when it was allowed, and kept a photo of his family in his quarters, and that was the extent of their contact.  Of their existence, it felt like.

In the US, things were different.

Leaving aside the gossip rags, which would have probably always turned them into a cute picture, the more serious press was desperate to report anything that wasn’t about the worsening situation in Europe and the Middle East.

A romance between a former Olympic gymnast turned Air Force pilot and Jeff Tracy’s eldest son was just the sort of thing they were after.

Things probably would have gone better if Scott had actually mentioned to his father that he had a girlfriend, but the first Jeff Tracy knew about it, was when it was splashed over the front of the LA Times.

And the first time Esther met him, she was in Scott’s bed.


The dinner was progressing smoothly.

Esther forced herself to ignore Scott’s eyes on her back and Alan’s from across the table, and made polite conversation through the starter and the main course of the dinner.

It was evitable, she supposed, a room full of pilots and of aircraft designers that the conversation would eventually turn to the Thunderbirds.

“But truly fantastic, especially that bit of flying in Singapore, don’t you agree?”

The man to her left at the table turned to her.

Esther licked her lips avoiding Alan’s eyes. “Spectrum is grateful for the assistance and aid of all services during a crisis,” she said, carefully reciting the official stance of Spectrum on the Thunderbirds. “We are grateful for the aid of International Rescue in the incident in question, though we disapprove of their secrecy.”

“Yes, yes.” The man, an Air Force colonel and a skilled pilot in his days if Esther remembered correctly, waved her comments away. “But I was referring to that landing. Thunderbird One setting down in the centre of that crowded square, with no casualties and minimum damage."

 “An impressive book of showing-boating,” Alan muttered. Feeling the eyes of everyone on the table, he flushed slightly, adding, “That’s what my Dad said, at least.”

“I thought it showed a pilot who was secure in his flying skills and his craft and knew the limitations of both,” Esther said forcibly.  Part of her wondered why Alan would be so critical in public of his brother’s skills. Jeff’s reaction, she didn’t worry about it. Colonel White would have said the same thing if it had been one of the Angels.

Of course, it could just be a cover, or a baby brother’s reaction to his older brother.

But Alan had always seemed fond of Scott.


“Well that went well.”

Scott laughed. “O.K., my dad was a little much.” He shrugged. “He’ll come around.”

“Really?” Esther raised an eyebrow. “You think your father is going to forget that he found me in your bed? That we were having sex?”

Scott flushed like a kid. “Alan liked you,” he muttered. “When you met with him. But I guess you were more presentable then." He grinned, trying to turn it into a joke.

Esther nodded. “And I like him.”

Thirteen year old Alan, home from Whelton Academy, still wearing his school uniform, had been the one reassuring things about the whole encounter, chatting quite happily with her about school, about space  and about racing cars. In fact, if she had to, she’d credit Alan with actually getting them all through the dinner. He seemed a sweet kid and obviously adored Scott with a mixture of the hero worship of a baby brother and something almost parental.

“Dad’ll come around,” Scott promised. “He just needs some time to get used to the idea.” He ducked his head, blushing slightly. “This is the first time he’s met anyone I’m seeing.”

“Not the first time you’ve been seeing anyone.” She remembered rumours from the base about some of Captain Tracy’s previous conquests.

“No,” Scott agreed. “But you’re the first person I want my family to meet.” He hugged her. “Dad’ll come around. And the others’ll adore you.”

Scott sounded so confident, that she let herself believe it.

And to be fair, other than for Jeff Tracy, things had gone smoothly.

She had met John Tracy, freshly returned from a stint on the space station. He had hugged her carefully and then begun talking to Scott. He wasn’t rude; he just seemed to accept her presence by Scott’s side automatically, treating her as though she was a friend, rather than a girlfriend, or a potential sister in law.

They had called in on Virgil at Yale, bringing with them home-baked treats from Grandma Tracy. Virgil had been jacked up on coffee and sugar and it was the first look she had at Mother Hen Scott as he nagged his brother into taking a break and showing them around campus. Virgil had done a sketch of her and Scott together in one of the cafés around campus. She still had it. He had been nice, but distracted.

Gordon Tracy was in the WASP then, and she had met him when her and Scott’s leave coincided with Gordon having a twenty-four hour pass between missions. She had liked Gordon, the practical joker of the family, almost immediately, and it had seemed to be mutual. Gordon had hugged her hard when their time was up. “You’re good for Scott,” he had told her. “He’s a lot less grouchy with you around.”

Esther wished she could agree. Scott felt more distant, more separate to her, as they navigated through the press and his family. Once or twice, she caught him looking at her desperately, almost as though he was pleading with her to save him.

She shook her head mentally.

To save someone, they have to want to be saved. An experienced rescuer, Scott should have known that.


 “You’re being very rude.” Alan leant across the table as dessert was served, to smile at her. “You’ve talked to everyone on the table except me. I’ve got a reputation as a ladies’ man to keep up here.”

Melody couldn’t help it, she raised an eyebrow. “I dated your brother.”

Alan shrugged. “All’s fair in love and war.”

He began tapping a rhythm against the table, a seemingly random rhythm, but Melody froze as she recognised it. Morse code.

I know about Malta.

Melody flushed. Casually, she began tapping out her own rhythm.

I don’t know what you’re talking about.

There was a pause, and then Alan tapped carefully, not here.


When had she first realised that things were going so badly wrong? That she and Scott were drifting so far apart that they weren’t together anymore?

It had been gradual, or as gradual as these things ever were.

Scott had always been senior to her, but at Duxford, it hadn’t mattered. They were both pilots, both in the air.

Once they were back in the US, the differences became more apparent, as they both received promotions. Esther was given command of a squadron and Scott… Scott’s promotion had involved more desk work.

She knew Scott was still a fantastic pilot and she tried to tell him that, but… she knew how hard it was for any pilot to not be able to fly. Particularly when their father was talking about an opportunity to fly again.

Perhaps they could have spoken more, being more together, but the US was gearing up for entry into the war and she felt like every spare moment was spent with that.

He didn’t even tell her about the accident.

She was changing in the locker rooms when one of the other pilots had referred to a big hydrofoil crash and “Jeff Tracy’s son killed.”

She had just flung her shirt on and shoved shoes, forgetting socks, and run out to find Scott just about getting into his jeep. She had flung herself in beside him, frightened that he would leave without her, frightened of Scott, who looked as grim and as dark as she had ever seen him.

Neither of them had spoken on the drive and Scott had turned off the radio. She hadn’t known that the initially reports were wrong, that Gordon was alive until they got to the hospital.

The Tracys had been just sitting on the horrid orange plastic chairs that the hospital provided. John looked like a man who was sleepwalking. Virgil was completely still, not even tapping out music that only he could hear. Jeff’s face was as white and as drawn as a dead man. And Alan, sixteen year old Alan had just sat there, staring at everyone and looking so young that she had broken away from Scott and hugged him. He’d clung to her, like a little boy and they’d stayed that way until it was nearly dark and Esther had realised she was starving.

No one else had been really hungry, but she’d taken Alan with her more out of a sense of giving the older ones some space to break down more than anything. And once away from his brothers Alan had actually been hungry. They’d split a plate of fries, neither of them talking, until Scott came down. His eyes were red and she had instinctively braced herself for the worst news, especially as he knelt down next to Alan so that they were on a level.

“Alan, Gordon…” Alan’s face crumpled and Scott had suddenly gathered him up, muttering, “He’s O.K., squirt. He’s going to be alright.”

She had never felt more like an outsider than at that moment.


“Here’s the thing.” Alan drew a deep breath. “I know Scott and you re-hooked up on that mission from Malta that was a bust, so you know, or have guess about everything –”

“If this is a warning to keep my mouth shut –”

“It’s not,” Alan continued. “I know you and Scott used to date, but that you broke up – for good reasons I suspect, and that you’re both slightly hung up on each other, but you won’t go back to him for those good reasons and he won’t approach you for those same good reasons.”

Melody sighed. “Alan, I don’t know what Scott’s said.”

“He hasn’t said anything,” Alan interrupted. “Gordy and I had to piece it together ourselves.” He sighed. “Look, in both our businesses, you’ve got to have something outside of the industry, or you’ll go nuts. So John’s got his stars and Virgil’s got his music and painting and Gordon’s got swimming and his jokes, and I’ve got racing and Tin–” He stopped himself, blushing slightly.  “But Scott hasn’t got anything. I’m not asking you to get back together with him,” Alan continued, beginning to dig in his pockets. “But you guys used to be good friends.” He handed a folded sheet of paper over to her. “Dad doesn’t know about this: it’s one of the hundred letters that Scott’s started since he got back from Malta.”

“So he did ask you to speak to me,” Melody said, flushing scarlet.

“No,” Alan said. “He threw it out the window and it nearly hit Gordon.” He shrugged. “It was addressed to you, so we thought you should have it. Just read it,” he added, shoving the folded piece of paper into her hands. “And think about what I’d said. And… there’s an address there of a postal box. If you should want to reply…”

He turned to walk away, shoving his hands into his pockets as Rhapsody came out to warn Melody that the speeches were about to begin.


The world exploded with a bang as her heart broke with a whimper.

Esther almost wished that they’d fought or even that they’d just said something. But instead there was a note in her pigeon hole and a final interview on the beach.

There were a resignation and a transfer order and two green duffle bags.

There were well-wishing, silence and both of them wanting to somehow reach across the gap that existed between them and save the other.

And it was ten years until a Mysteron plot was defeated and Melody Angel saw Thunderbird One fly in.


“Destiny’s with Scarlet,” Harmony said by way of explanation, placing four mugs of hot chocolate down in the Standby Lounge.

“But the rest of us are here for you and want to help,” Symphony offered.

Rhapsody nodded. “We want you to tell us what really happened between you and Scott Tracy.”

Melody shrugged. “I told you.”

“And then proceeded to flee an important dinner as though twenty Vampire fighters were on your tail,” Rhapsody observed.

Melody was about to say that she would have preferred the Vampires when Harmony asked: “Did he cheat on you?”

“No.” Melody flushed.

“Did you cheat on him?”

“No!” She could have accepted, she realised that now, the soft offers of other pilots, but strangely the idea had never occurred to her.

“Melody.” Symphony’s face was suddenly very serious. “Were you… did you have a miscarriage?”

“No.” Melody sighed, reaching for a mug. “Look, I told you the truth. We both got transferred.”

Rhapsody regarded her from over the top of her own mug. “You didn’t request it.” It was a statement, not a question. “But it wasn’t unwelcome.”

Melody sighed. “Scott and I had been having problems before I transferred, yes,” she admitted, softly. “His family… Scott was someone different when he was with them. Someone whom I didn’t know.” She bit down on her lip, tears suddenly welling up. “I love him,” she whispered. “I loved him, but he wouldn’t fight for me.”

“And you need him to do that,” Symphony asked.

Melody shrugged, wiping at her eyes with her hands. “I needed some sign he’d fight for me.” She bit down on her lip. “He wouldn’t fight for himself. His father…”

Her voice trailed off. They would all remember Jeff Tracy withdrawing his sons from the services as the count down to the terrorism wars began, the comments in the press, accusing him of cowardice and draft-dodging, even though it wasn’t true.

“Scott wanted his brothers to have a normal life,” she admitted softly. “He chose them over me, and I let him.”

She began searching in her pockets for tissues or a handkerchief, even though she knew she didn’t have either. Her fingers ran over the letter that Alan had given her.

“You said you love him.” Rhapsody’s eyes were serious. “Did you mean that?”

Melody nodded. She loved Scott, she knew she did, else she wouldn’t put up with this much junk and this wouldn’t hurt so much.

“If he reached out to you,” Rhapsody asked her eyes still serious, “what would you do?”

Slowly, Melody reached out and held out the letter Alan had given her.

“Guess I’d better find out,” she said, trying to smile.


Dear Esther

Dearest Esther


I’ve been thinking a lot about us, about what happened between us. About everything I wanted to say, should have said, could have said. I think the others have guessed. Alan keeps asking me about you, if I knew where you were. You always did have a fan there!

What do I want to say? Firstly, that I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you, please believe me on that, I wanted to tell you more than I wanted anything else, but I was scared. Dad’s plan… even today there are mornings I wake up and don’t quite believe it, don’t believe that we could, can actually pull this off.

If it had gone wrong… you were meant to fly Esther, I’ve known that from the first moment I met you. But Tracy Industries… if anything happened to my dad, If anyone had found out what he was planning, I’d have to run it. It’s not fair. I don’t expect you to It’s just what I’d have to do.

I told you right at the beginning. I know Dad didn’t I know we both made some mistakes. That I should have talked to you more and maybe you should have asked more But there’s something about being out here that puts things in perspective.

I guess Malta made me realise that I still have

 I never stopped.

 I can’t lose you. It was good to see you again. And I don’t just mean because of what happened. I want to I hope we can still be

Can we try

The rest of the letter was crumpled and covered with scores of lines through illegible words, some of them so deep that the paper was torn. A violent blot of ink seemed to mark the moment where Scott had reached his limit and flung the paper out of the window.

She wondered how many other letters there had been, which his brothers hadn’t found – how many over the years.

Melody sat, staring at her hands.

A relationship with Scott Tracy, even one they were both keeping secret would be a bad idea. There would be secrets on both sides, things he couldn’t tell her, stuff she couldn’t tell him. The odds of them actually managing to have a proper date were astronomical.

Even if by some miracle they did manage to get together once in a blue moon, the date could be interrupted. By some disaster, by the Mysterons, maybe by both.

She then thought of the couples she did know on Skybase. Scarlet and Destiny, Blue and Green. Plus the thousands of others who hooked up occasionally.

“No relationship is easy,” she said to the room. And would it honestly be any harder than this?

This churning, throbbing pain that was always at the back of her mind, the feeling that something was drastically wrong, but with no real idea of how to fix it. She was older now, so was he. They were both more secure, maybe more able to fight for what they wanted.

At least, she should return his letter to him; let him know how she felt.

She pulled a pad of paper towards her; this was too personal to do by email.


I thought you should know, Alan found this letter and gave it to me at the dinner. Don’t be too mad at him, he’s just trying to look out for his big brother.

She swallowed a vision of that date. A restaurant’s table with two plates and two glasses abandoned in front of a sunset, and the soft whirr of her Falcon blending into the roar of Thunderbird One.

She smiled.

Suddenly, it didn’t look so bad.

I feel the same way, and I think we need to talk.






Thanks to Chris Bishop for betaing this so quickly and to Gerry Anderson and his wife for creating both series. This story is a sequel to my earlier story THE FUTILITY OF DUTY

Lyveden New Bield is an unfinished Elizabethan Garden House, built by one of the gunpowder plotters. More information on it can be found on the National Trust Website. There genuinely is some graffiti saying S.Robinson 1914, but the 2nd August date is the author's invention. The author is also not advocating outdoor or public sex, particularly not on National Trust properties.

 I own nothing, just the words I type.