William Boyd: On the Yankee Station: Stories

“Oh, no. He’s painting in a ship on the horizon. A three-master, me hearties, ar.”

“We’ve got to work something out,” Holland said seriously. “We must have something arranged for after the cast party. Think of something, for Christ’s sake.”

“I’ve already told you,” Panton said. “It’s got to be the squash courts. They’re ideal.”

“Not a chance, mate,” Niles said. “Do you know what would happen to me if we got caught?”

“Yes. You’d lose your squash colours,” Panton said with heavy sarcasm.

“Jesus, Nilo,” Holland pleaded. “You’re captain of squash. You’ve got the keys. We can lock the doors behind us. No one’ll know.”

“It’s all very well for you. I’ll get the bloody boot.”

“Come on, Quentin. Think of the orgy we can have. I’ve got blankets, booze. Look, I promised the girls we’d have a party. They’re expecting one. We haven’t got much time. It’ll all be over after Saturday night. Gone. Finished.”

Niles was pondering Holland’s use of the word orgy .

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll think about it. But I’m not promising anything, mind.”

Alison wore a long, flouncy dress that looked as if it were made out of mattress ticking, and a bonnet. Niles stood beside her in the wings. He could hear the audience taking their seats.

“Like the costume,” he said. “Nervous?”

Alison cocked her head. “No, I don’t think I am, actually.” Niles looked more closely at her. She grew daily more inscrutable. They had seen more of each other during the final run up to the play but he felt that the bizarre intimacy of their first encounter had never been approached. The prospect of inviting her to the party seemed an awesome task.

“Listen,” he began. “Some of us are having a little ‘do’ after the cast party on Saturday night. Wondered if you’d fancy coming. You know, select little gathering.”

“Saturday night? After the cast party? Yes, okay.”

“And I want you lot to think about me this time tomorrow night,” Niles told his cowed and quiescent dormitory, “because”—he paused, exultation setting up a tremor in his voice—“because this time tomorrow night I shall be making love. Got that? Making love to a real girl.”

Niles gazed transfixed across the stage at Alison. The final performance of HMS Pinafore was almost over. Mr. Booth, the physics master, as Captain Corcoran sang to Buttercup — a pre-pubescent boy called Martin — that wherever she might go, he would never be untrue to her.

“What, never?” Niles and Alison and the company wanted to know.

“No, never,” asserted Captain Corcoran.

“What … never?” the cast repeated.

“Well …” ad-libbed the Captain. “Hardly ever.”

“Hardly ever be untrue to thee-ee-ee …” the cast echoed at full volume.

“I mean, be honest,” Holland said to assorted members of the cast. “It’s pretty bloody, really. I mean, how these people turn up year in year out and pay good money to see that crap I’ll never know.” He ate some more of his cream bun and put his arm around Helen. “Ah, Quentin, old son,” he said as Niles came into the dressing room with a paper cup of Coke for Alison. “A word in your ear.” Niles came over. “I think we can make our move now. Discreetly, though. See you outside the squash courts in five minutes.”

“Be careful,” Niles said to Alison. He held her arm supportively. “Watch out for these paving stones.” Alison’s high heels seemed to ring out with unpropitious clarity as they walked across the courtyard to the squash courts. It was cold and dark and their breath hung in the air long enough for them to walk through the thin clouds before they dispersed. Alison’s hair was down and Niles thought she had never looked so beautiful. Her proximity to him and the thought of what was waiting suddenly seemed to make the simple act of walking hideously complicated. He felt as if a sob were lodged in the back of his throat, ready to spring from his mouth at any moment.

“I’m okay,” Alison said, and he released her arm.

Holland and Panton were already there with Helen and Joyce.

“At last,” Holland said. “What’ve you two been up to? Couldn’t wait, eh?” Everyone giggled. Niles bent his head more than he needed to unlock the door into the squash courts.

Inside number three court they spread rugs on the boards and sat in a circle round a solitary candle placed in a jam jar. Holland unpacked the picnic. There was some Gouda and Ryvita, a piece of Stilton, slices of salami, gherkins and two long, knobbled Polish sausages. From his coat pockets Panton produced a bottle of South African sherry and half a bottle of gin. Paper cups were distributed and the drinks passed round.

Niles drank some neat gin. “To Gilbert and Sullivan.” He toasted the company.

“Ssh,” Holland said. “Keep it down, Quentin. Your voice, I mean.” There were sniggers at this. Niles didn’t dare look at Alison’s shadowy face.

They ate their meal with a certain urgent decorum, conscious of the fact that it had to be got out of the way — but in no unseemly rush — before the night’s real business could commence. Eventually, after a prearranged nod from Holland, Panton said, “Quiet. I think I can hear someone outside.” Then he leant forward and blew out the candle. This act was followed by a muffled squeal from Joyce and a flurry of whispered instructions, scuffles and collisions as Holland and Pan-ton, Joyce and Helen, gathered up rugs and paper cups and groped their way out of the door to their respective squash courts, leaving number three to Alison and Niles.

Niles sat in a darkness so total it seemed solid and shifting, like deep water. He realised he was holding his breath and let it out slowly. He peered intensely in front of him, a screen of blasting mental supernova and arcing tracer bullets exploding before his eyes, brightening the absence of vision. Only the unyielding firmness of the court floor beneath his buttocks anchored him to the dimensional world.

He heard Alison move. How close was she?

“Are you all right?” he whispered. He stretched out his hand, encountering nothing.

“Yes,” she said. “Is there anyone?”

“I don’t think so. False alarm. Just Panton panicking.” His hand touched her shoulder. “Sorry. Can’t see a thing.”

“I’m here.”

“Oh.” The darkness began to retreat. He sensed rather than saw Alison. He moved across the rug, closer to her.

“Bloody dark.”

“Yes.”

He moved his head towards her, gently, almost blindly, like two docking spacecraft. After some soft bumps and readjustments, their lips connected tenuously, then sealed. Niles felt his heart swell to inflate his chest as he felt her thin cool lips beneath his. This was the fifth girl he had kissed properly. It remained as thrilling and exciting as the first time. He wondered if he would always feel this way. With little grunts and discreet pressures he managed to lie Alison down on the rug. Her long hair caught across his face, strands filling his mouth which he had to pull free with his fingers. They kissed again. Niles felt enormously humble and reverential. The accumulated sensations of triumph and release in a kiss were almost enough for him really, but he promptly banished such heretical thoughts from his mind. He managed to get both his arms round Alison and he felt her hands move on his back. His head was resting comfortably on his own left shoulder, Alison’s head nestled in the crook of his left elbow. Their knees were touching; her face was perhaps three inches away from his. Some faint source of light picked out a curve on a cheekbone, a glimmer in an eye. The warm breath of her exhalations grazed his cheek. What should he do now? he wondered. Had he much time? What would she like him to do? What was she expecting? Perhaps she wanted to make love too? The novelty of this last idea came to him as rather a shock. He felt suddenly vulnerable and insecure; he sensed the alien presence of her femininity descend on and enfold him. He became immediately aware of his vast ignorance about Alison — the person, the girl — separating him ineluctably from her. Despite the fact that they were lying in each other’s arms, they might have been facing each other across some great river estuary. The figure on the far bank was a girl’s, yes, but that was all he knew.