William Boyd: On the Yankee Station: Stories

“Better not go too far,” he said, then paused before adding: “They might get suspicious.…”

“Sure,” Alison said, flicking her cigarette away. “Smoking like a chimney. I’ve got Highers in a few months.”

“Mmmm,” Niles sympathised. “I’ve got my A’s,” he said. “Then Oxbridge.”

“Are you going to Oxford?” Alison asked. She had a mild Scottish accent; she pronounced the r in Oxford.

“Yes,” he said. “Well, that’s the general idea.” He wondered why he’d lied.

“I’m going to Aberdeen,” she said.

“Ah.”

They walked slowly back to the music room. They were the last to arrive. Holland and Panton looked up admiringly at him as he regained his seat.

“Quent,” Holland whispered. “You bloody sex maniac.”

“Shagger,” Panton accused. “Bloody old shagger, Quent.”

“Quiet, please,” Prothero called. “If you’re quite ready, Niles. Now can we have the ensemble? Jolly tars, female relatives and Josephine: ‘Oh joy, oh rapture unforeseen, for now the sky is all serene,’ right? Two, three.”

“What happened next?” Fillery prompted.

Niles lay in bed. He could sense the entire dormitory waiting in quiet expectancy. Hands on their cocks, he thought.

“We went round the back of the chapel,” he continued. “Walked into the wood a bit. We sat down on a log. Chatted a bit … I could feel the atmosphere between us just building up. We were talking about work, but not talking about it, if you know what I mean. It was more just something to say.”

“Who made the first move?” Fillery asked.

“I did, of course. I was talking. Then I stopped, and looked up. She was looking at me … in that sort of way.”

“Oh, God.”

“She was looking at me, as if to say … and we just sort of moved close together and kissed.”

There was a pause.

“Get your tongue down?”

“Jesus , Fillery. One-track bloody mind … Yeah, yeah, if you must know every detail. Not at first — the third or fourth kiss. But it got pretty passionate. Frenching just about all the time.”

“Stop it! Stop it!” somebody called. “I can’t stand it any more.”

“What else happened?” Fillery implored. “Did you … you know?”

“We kissed mainly. Hell, we didn’t have much time. She was just sort of running her hand through my hair. I got a bit of a feel but not much. I’ll have to wait until next week.”

Fillery was quiet. “God, you bastard, Niles,” he said. “You lucky bastard.”

On Saturday, after lunch, Holland and Panton bicycled the three miles to the coast. Helen’s family kept a caravan on the caravan site by the beach. Helen and Joyce had arranged to meet the boys there. Niles was playing in a first XV rugby match. He heard all about their exploits later in the afternoon. He was in his study changing out of his rugby kit — the school had lost and he thought he’d pulled a muscle in his thigh — when Holland and Panton burst in.

“Oh, my God, Quent,” Holland crowed. “I don’t believe it. It was incredible. They had booze too. I’m pissed.” He held up his middle finger. “Sticky finger, Quent. First time.”

Niles plucked at his laces. An irrational hatred and resentment for Holland and Panton festered inside him. Holland he didn’t mind. Pete was screwing all the time by all accounts. But Panton? He was short-arsed and had spots. Why should he have any luck?

“Get your rocks off then?” he asked without looking up.

“Not this time. They wouldn’t let us. But, my God, Nilo, we could, you know, we could. We’ve got to fix something up.”

Niles felt a vast relief. Just feel-ups then. Big bloody deal.

“Here,” Holland said. “Almost forgot. A message from Alison. Wey-hey!” With a flourish he handed over a lilac envelope. Niles felt his throat contract. He opened it carefully.

“Any clippings?” Holland asked with a snigger.

“Hardly,” Niles said. Holland had a French girl-friend who used to send him cuttings of her pubic hair. They were cherished and passed round like sacred relics. This fact had single-handedly boosted Holland’s reputation to near-legendary heights.

“ ‘Dear Quentin,’ ” Niles read. “ ‘I was wondering if by any chance you would like to come and have tea tomorrow (Sunday). I realise this is short notice but if I don’t hear from you I’ll expect you at four. I hope you can make it. Sincerely, Alison.’ ”

Niles felt his pulled muscle twitch spasmodically in his thigh. “I hope you can make it.” That was good. But “sincerely”? Really!

“What is it, for Christ’s sake?” Panton asked.

“Tea,” Niles said. “Tomorrow afternoon.”

Holland shook his head admiringly. “You got it made, Quent boy. You are home and dry.… We must get something fixed up, though. For all of us. After the last performance maybe. Jesus, the bloody show’s over in a couple of weeks.”

Alison’s house was a grey sandstone bungalow at the better end of the small Scottish county town near the school. Niles cycled the six miles there through a fine rainy mist and arrived damp and chilled. He met Alison’s parents — Mr. and Mrs. McCullen — and her fourteen-year-old sister, Diane. They sat in a warm, immaculate sitting room and ate scones and pancakes. The family were kind and genial and Niles relaxed almost immediately and made them laugh with anecdotes of school life. He was a great success with Diane. Alison sat quietly for most of the time, occasionally passing round plates or pouring out more tea. She was wearing jeans and a tight pale-blue sweater that gave her a firm breasty look. It was the first time he’d seen her out of uniform and the first time he’d seen her with her hair down. It was long and wavy, dull and thick. It made her look less severe. He felt buoyant with lust and desire, as if he were over-inflated, as if his lungs were crammed with extra capacity of air. He had a sherry before remounting his bike for the long ride back. He reached the school in time for supper.

“I undressed her very slowly,” he told the dormitory. “As if she was, sort of fragile, or very weak. I unfastened her bra and I kissed her breasts gently. Then … then I pulled down her pants and I told her to stand there while I looked at her. She was very slim. Her breasts were firm with almost perfectly round nipples …” He swallowed, gazing up unblinkingly at the ceiling as he elaborated his fiction. Even Fillery was silent. “Then I undressed and we got into bed. I ran my hands all over her body. I wanted to make love but, well, we couldn’t because I … I didn’t have a johnny.”

“I’ve got dozens,” Fillery said. “If you’d only asked me.”

“How was I meant to know it would happen?” Niles protested. “That her parents weren’t going to be in? I thought it was just an invitation for tea, for God’s sake.”

Niles, Holland and Panton stood at the back of the assembly hall. They were wearing cadet-force naval bell-bottoms rolled up to mid-calf, singlets and red-spotted neckerchiefs. In front of the stage Prothero was trying to get the school orchestra in tune. On stage Mr. Mulcaster, the art teacher, was applying final touches to his backdrop depicting the poop deck of HMS Pinafore . Mulcaster’s initials were T. A. M.: Thomas Anthony Mulcaster. He was known as Tampax Tony.

“Christ almighty, look at Tampax,” Panton said scornfully. “It’s pathetic. I think he’s actually painting in a seagull.”

“Ah, now that’s an original touch,” Holland confessed. “Almost as good as his rigging and halyards.”

“A seagull,” Niles said. “What’s it supposed to be doing? Hovering in one spot for the entire course of the play?”