“Geoffrey,” Angela shouted for the umpteenth time over the roar from the unsilenced exhaust of my classic four and a half litre Bentley as we drove from London to Aberystwyth in the usual light drizzle of the English summer. I knew what she wanted, she wanted to stop and put the hood up but I liked the feel of the wind in my hair.

“Hush,” I said, “I think it is mis firing again.”

“Ohhhhh!” she wailed as she always wailed, “You are impossible!”

“It’s this damned pool petrol,” I said, “Damned rationing, it’s all right for lorries and the like but too low octane for the Bentley, keeps fouling the plugs, do you hear?”

“No!” she snapped, “And why must you drive this, this, this relic!”

“It’s not a relic, it’s a Bentley four and a half litre!” I reminded her, “Nearly raced at Le Mans in 1929.”

“Oh my god not again,” Angela gasped and then finished my sentence, “Except it had a mis-fire!”

“Yes,” I agreed, “Exactly, there did you hear it?”

She shrugged and sulked, lord knows how we got engaged, Mummy said I must have been drunk, I don’t remember, I came home on leave from France in ’44 and next thing I found I was engaged to be married.

Mummy said she was a very decent catch, Cheltenham Ladies college and then the WRNS as a HQ telephonist, ‘Lovely gel,” Mummy said and I didn’t mind fighting the Hun, quite enjoyed it really, going against Mummy was a different thing entirely!

Suddenly Angela bellowed “Aggghhh, stop the car!” so I slammed on the brakes, the left front tyre locked and skidded and the car swerved horribly.

“Damn, the brakes need,” I said, but she was already climbing down from the car, “Angela?” I queried.

She stared at me from the roadside, “It’s me or the car, you choose!” she snapped.

“Angela!” I protested, “Mummy’s expecting us for dinner, we will be late, get in.”

“No!” she said, “I wont, either you get a proper car or you can find yourself a new girlfriend!”

“But Angela, how will you get to Mummy’s?” I asked.

“I won’t, I’ll go home!” she said angrily.

“But how?” I asked and it suddenly dawned on me that we were outside Shrewsbury railway station.

“Carrier Pigeon,” she snapped, “How do you think!” and she grabbed her case from the back seat and stormed off.

“Cripes,” I opined as I watched her go, “We’ll be one short for whist.”

“Excuse me!” someone said, “You can’t stop there sir!”

I looked round into the ruddy face of an ageing policeman, “Sorry?” I said.

“Can’t stop there sir,” he said, “It being the main road and all.”

“Cripes,” I said, “Girl just walked off,” I added.

“Yes sir,” he agreed, “I saw her, pretty little thing.”

“Says I need a better car,” I said.

“Cor lumme sir!” he said, “Bentley three litre, what could be better!”

I held my tongue, this was a four and a half, “Said it was the car or her.”

“Plenty more fish in the sea sir,” he said, “Girls I mean, got a taste for it when the GI’s were about, ten bob would get you quite a tasty number for the night.”

“Ten bob?” I thought hard, she could make up a hand at whist.

“Indeed sir,” he said, “Young Doris is in the waiting room now if you get my meaning sir.”

“Right,” I agreed.

“Can’t park here sir,” he said.

“Right, oh and thank you.” I said.

I decided to risk it and parked the Bentley, by the Taxi rank and went to the waiting room.

I saw a lady in a fur coat, “Are you Doris the prostitute?” I asked.

“No, I most certainly am not, I am Lady Fry,” the lady replied to my intense relief as she was as old as Granny P

“I’m Doris sir,” a young girl replied.

“Oh, will you spend the night with me only we need a fourth for cards,” I asked.

“I don’t do kinky sir,” she replied.

“No, not kinky sex,” I explained, “Whist.”

“A complete imbecile,” Lady Fry opined.

“All night sir, that’s a pound I’m afraid and a Taxi home,” she insisted.

“I’ll drive you, come along.” I agreed and she followed me out to the car.

“Oh sir, its a racing car!” she said when she saw the Bentley.

“Nearly raced at Le Mans in twenty nine,” I explained, “Bunty Brabbinger had her tootled up and couldn’t stop her pinking, then Argy Ardiles, Argentinian you know, filed the pistons down to reduce the compression ratio and.”Blam Pa Blam Pa,” the unsilenced exhaust drowned my explanation which was a shame as I told her everything even about when “Benson” Hedges had her and was shot down over Germany in his ‘Spit’ and when he came home in forty five he started her up and she kept misfiring so he advertised her in the Gazette and I bought her.

She was trying to say something as we left the town, “I can’t hear,” I said, “We lose the exhaust noise at seventy, hang on.” I put my foot down.

“Slow down sir for pities sake!” she wailed.

“Oh!” I replied.

“Look, why don’t we stop somewhere and have a fuck now, you’re all tense?” she said.

“No thanks,” I said, “Chap tried to do that to me in the army, not my cup of tea I’m afraid.”

“Then what do you want?” she asked awkwardly.

“Make up a four at Whist.” I explained, she cowered in the corner of her seat after that while I concentrated on making up lost time.

We hurtled into Wellington I think it was at nearly ninety, it seemed a shame to slow down when she was running so beautifully so I didn’t, poor Doris went a ghostly shade of white and then when we came to the hills I went down to third gear and charged up the inclines with a deafening roar from the unsilenced exhausts.

“You’re mad!” Doris opined.

“Yes Angela says the same,” I agreed.

“I need to stop for a pee,” Doris announced.

“Oh for cripes sake!” I said, “We’ll be late, can’t you pee in an empty petrol tin?”

“No!” she said abruptly.

“Why not?” I asked, “I do.”

“Well it’s easier for you blokes,” she suggested.

“How so?” I asked, and she looked at me in a most peculiar way.

“What with you having willies and that,” she explained.

“With having willies?” I said, “How do you mean?”

“You’re joking right?” she asked as she stared at me incredulously.

“What do you mean?” I asked in turn.

“Haven’t you seen a girl pee?” she asked.

“No, of course not!” I replied.

“Never seen one undressed neither?” she asked.

“Cripes no!” I explained, “Not the done thing.”

“Never seen a girl’s cunt?” she asked.

“What?” I asked.

“Cunt, vagina, twat, fuck hole,” she added.

“Not exactly, but Ginger Longhirst had some photos once.” I explained, “Some girls out in Burma.”

“Didn’t they show her cunt?” she asked.

“No, they showed her willy,” I explained.

“A girl with a willy?” she asked.

“Yes showing her willy, in Burma after the war,” I explained.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“Oh yes with a group of sailors,” I confirmed

“Oh” she said, “I think you’ll find those were really men dressed as ladies.”

“Possibly,” I agreed, “But why?”

“Takes all sorts,” she said.

“But how can you know?” I asked.

“Proper girls don’t have willies,” she announced, “Didn’t you know?”

“Oh, gosh!” I said, “Cripes!” and I nearly forgot to swerve round a chap pushing a bicycle who fortuitously dived into the hedge to avoid me.

“They have cunts like mine,” she paused, “Haven’t you ever seen a cunt sir?”

“Fraid not, no,” I confessed in confusion, as the speed bled away as my mind reeled.

“Do you want to?” she asked.

“Not really,” I replied though my mind was spinning with the immensity of her revelations.

“That’s a cunt,” she said and she lofted her skirt and pulled her pants down revealing, well nothing for as I gasped in amazement, there was just this slit where her willy should have been.

I stared fixed at it for far too long, only the thumping of the wheels against a roadside drain that brought me back to reality and I stamped on the brakes to skid to a halt with the nearside front wheel locked up.