On the Yankee Station: Stories Read online

  “Everything okay, Quentin?”

  He sat up abruptly, banging his knees sharply on the bottom of his desk. It was Bowler, his housemaster, his round, bespectacled face peering at him concernedly, his body canted into the study, pipe clenched between his brown teeth. Why couldn’t the bastard knock? Niles swore.

  “Trying to write an essay, sir,” he said.

  “Not that difficult, is it?” Bowler laughed. “Got the team for the league?”

  Niles handed it over. Bowler studied it, puffing on his pipe, frowning. Niles looked at the sour blue smoke gathering on the ceiling. Typical bloody Bowler.

  “This the best we can do? Are you sure about Grover at scrum-half? Crucial position, I would have thought.”

  “I think he needs to be pressured a bit, sir.”

  “Right-ho. You’re the boss. See you’re down for Pinafore.”

  “Sorry, sir?”

  “Pinafore. HMS. The opera. Didn’t know you sang, Quentin? Shouldn’t have thought it was your line really.”

  “Thought I’d give it a go, sir.”

  Bowler left and Niles thought about the opera. Holland had said it was a sure thing with the girls: they only came because they wanted to get off with boys. Niles wondered what they’d be like. Scottish girls from the local grammar school. He’d seen them in town often. Dark-blue uniforms, felt hats, long hair, miniskirts. They all looked older than he—more mature. He experienced a sudden moment of panic What in God’s name would he do? Holland and Panton would be there, everyone would see him. He felt his heart beat with unreasonable speed. It was a kind of proof. There was no chance of lying or evading the issue. It would be all too public.

  They gathered in the music room behind the new chapel for the first mixed rehearsal. There had been three weeks of tedious afternoon practices during which some semblance of singing ability had been forcibly extracted from them by the efforts of Prothero, the music master. Now, Prothero watched the boys enter with a tired and cynical smile. This was his seventh Gilbert and Sullivan since coming to the school, his third HMS Pinafore. Two sets of forms faced each other at one end of the long room. The boys sat down on one set, staring at the empty seats opposite as if they were already occupied.

  “Now, gentlemen,” Prothero began. “The ladies will be here soon. I don’t propose to lecture you any more on the subject. I count on your innate good manners and sense of decorum.”

  Niles, Holland and Panton sat together. Whispered conversations were going on all around. Niles felt his lungs press against his rib cage. The tension was acute; he felt faint with unfamiliar stress. What if not one of them spoke to him? This was dreadful, he thought, and the girls weren’t even here. He looked at the fellow members of the chorus. There were some authentic tenors and basses from the school choir but the rest of them were self-appointed lads, frustrates and sexual braggarts. He could sense their crude desire thrumming through the group as if the forms they were sitting on were charged with a low electric current. He looked at the bright-eyed, snouty, expectant faces, heard whispered obscenities and saw the international language of sexual gesticulation being covertly practised as if they were a gathering of randy deaf-mutes. He felt vaguely soiled to be counted among them. Beside him Holland leaned forward and tapped the shoulder of a boy in front.

  “Bloody Mobo,” he said quietly and venomously. “Didn’t you get the message? No queers allowed. What are you bloody doing here? It’s girls we’re singing with. Not lushmen, Mobo. No little lushmen.”

  “Frig off, Holland,” the boy said tonelessly. “I’m in the choir, aren’t I?”

  “Bloody choir,” Holland repeated, his face ugly with illogical aggression. “Bloody frigging choir.”

  Then the girls came in.

  No one had heard the bus from town arriving, and the room, to Niles’ startled eyes, seemed suddenly to be filled with chattering uniformed females. He heard laughter and giggles, caught flashing glimpses of cheeks and red mouths, hair and knees, as the other half of the chorus sat itself down opposite. The boys fired nervous exploratory glances across the two yards of floor between them. Niles studied his score with commendable intensity. He noticed Holland brazenly scrutinising the girls. Cautiously, Niles raised his eyes and looked over. They seemed very ordinary, was his first reflection. Dark-blue blazers, short skirts, some black tights. There was one tall girl with a severe, rather thin face. Her hair was tied up in an elaborate twisted bun and at first he thought she was a mistress, but then he saw her uniform. He scanned the features of the others but their faces refused to register any individuality; he might have been staring at a Chinese football team.

  Holland bowed his head.

  “Mm-mm. I’ve seen mine,” he said in a low voice. “The blonde in front.” He gave a whimper of suppressed desire. Some boys looked round and smiled, complicity springing up instantly, like recognition.

  “Right, everybody,” Prothero shouted, banging out a chord on the piano. “Page twenty-three, please.”

  “And I’m never ever sick at sea,” Prothero sang.

  “What, never?” boomed the chorus of sailors.

  “No, never,” replied Prothero.

  “What, never?” the chorus sceptically inquired again.

  “Hardly ever,” Prothero admitted.

  “He’s hardly ever sick at sea.…”

  “Fine,” Prothero called. “Good. That’ll do for today. Thank you, ladies. Your bus should be outside. Scores on the end of the piano as you go out, please.”

  The bus was late and the girls had to wait for five minutes outside the chapel. Niles took his time finding his coat in the vestibule and when he went outside, Holland and Panton were already talking to four girls. “Niles, Niles,” they shouted as he emerged into the watery sunlight of a February afternoon. “Over here.” He walked over, the blood pounding in his ears like surf. Holland stood behind a slim blond girl with moles on her face, Panton by a cheery-looking redhead. Niles approached. One of the two remaining girls was the tall, sharp-faced one he’d seen earlier. The other was small, with wispy fair hair and spectacles.

  “This is Quentin,” Holland said. “Hero of the rugby field, captain of the squash team. Master flogger extraordinaire.”

  “Shut up!” Niles exclaimed, appalled at this slander. “You bastard.”

  “What’s a flogger?” Holland’s girl asked. Panton was doubled up with mirth. The tall girl looked on expressionlessly.

  “Never mind,” Holland said. “Sorry, Quent. Little joke. Now, this is Joyce.” He indicated Panton’s girl. “This is Helen”—pointing to his own. “And”—he looked at the tall girl—“Alison? Yes, Alison. And, um …”

  “Frances,” said the small girl.

  Niles had moved round to stand beside Alison. Frances was clearly on her own. She stood undecidedly for a moment before wandering off without a further word.

  Holland and Panton had instinctively sensed out the kind of girl they were after. Innuendoes were already being exchanged with a wanton suggestiveness. Niles looked at Alison. She was tall. In her high heels slightly taller than he. She appeared older, in her twenties almost, but the severity of her face was partly an illusion caused by her schoolmarmy bun. Her skirt was not as short as Helen’s or Joyce’s; it stopped two inches above her knees. Her legs were long and shapely. On the lapel of her blazer were numerous badges: three Robertson’s gollies, a small Canadian maple leaf, a yellow square, and a blue rectangular one with “monitor” written on it in plain silver letters. She wore a white shirt and a tie with the smallest knot in it Niles had ever seen.

  He had to say something. He cleared his throat. “Campaign medals?” he said, pointing to the badges. He realised his finger was two inches from her right breast and he snatched his hand away. He thought she gave the thinnest of smiles in response but he couldn’t be sure.

  “Cold, though,” he said, huffing and puffing into his cupped hands.

  She rummaged in her blazer pockets. “Cigarette?” she asked,
taking out a packet and offering it to him.

  Niles was taken aback by this unselfconsciously adult gesture. “Christ, no,” he said hurriedly. “I mean, we’re not allowed.”

  But she was already offering them to Joyce and Helen. Alison took out a box of matches and lit the others’ cigarettes. For some reason Niles was impressed by the capable way she did this—she obviously smoked a lot. Meanwhile, Holland and Panton aped nicotine starvation. When Joyce and Helen exhaled they chased the clouds of smoke about, beating it into their gaping mouths with their hands as if it were vital oxygen. The girls laughed delightedly.

  “What I’d give for a fag,” said Holland through gritted teeth.

  “Oh yeah?” said lissom Helen.

  “Now see what you’ve done,” Niles said to Alison with more accusation in his voice than he’d meant.

  Alison laughed briefly.

  Niles brushed his teeth, alone at the row of basins. He rinsed his mouth out and went to stand in front of the large mirror by the urinals. He looked at his square face. He rubbed his jaw. He’d need to shave tomorrow. He had to shave every two days now. Somebody shouted “virile!” through the washroom door. Niles whirled round but he didn’t see who it was. When he turned back to the mirror his face was red.

  He thought about Alison. Everything about her was maddeningly indistinct and ambiguous. All he’d heard her say was “cigarette?” and “bye.” It wasn’t much to build a relationship on. He had an image of the back of her long legs in their tan tights as she’d climbed onto the bus. He wondered what her breasts were like. Her “soft bosoms.”

  He sighed and belted his dressing-gown tighter around him. He walked through the quiet, empty house towards his dormitory. A junior came padding down the corridor in pyjamas.

  “Where are you going, Payne?” Niles said tiredly.

  “For a slash, Niles.”

  “Where’s your bloody slippers and dressing-gown then?”

  “Oh, Niles,” Payne moaned.

  “Get back and bloody put them on.”

  “Oh, God, Niles, please. I just want a pee. I’ll only be a second.”

  “Go on, you little shit.” Niles raised his hand menacingly. Payne turned and ran back up the corridor.

  Niles walked on towards his dormitory. It was a small one, only eight beds. He opened the door quietly. It was well past lights out. The long room was quite dark. He closed the door softly behind him.

  “Okay, folks,” came a voice. “Stop flogging. Here’s Niles.”

  “Shut up, Fillery,” Niles said. Fillery was fat and wicked. His mother was an actress who lived in Cannes.

  “What’s she like then, Niles?” Fillery said.

  “Who?”

  “Who? The bloody bird of course, that’s who. Pinafore. What’s your one like.”

  “Yeah, go on, Niles,” said another voice. “Tell us, what’s she like?”

  “Shut up. I’m warning you lot.”

  “Come on, Niles,” Fillery said wheedlingly. “I bet she’s all right. I bet you got a good one.”

  Niles got into bed. He lay down and put his hands behind his neck. “She’s okay,” he said grudgingly. “I’m not complaining.” There were soft groans of envy at this. “Not bad, I suppose,” he went on. “She’s got nice long legs.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Alison.”

  “Oh, Alison, Alison.” People tried out the name on their tongues as if it were a foreign word.

  “Tits?” Fillery asked.

  “You filthy bugger,” Niles said. “Trust bloody Fillery.” But Niles felt the lie rise unprompted in his throat. “They’re nice, if you must know,” he said. “Average size. Sort of pointy, if you know what I mean.” There was a chorus of groans at this, deep and despairing. Someone jiggled furiously up and down on his bed, causing the springs to creak and complain.

  “Shut up,” Niles hissed angrily. “That’s your lot. Now get to sleep.”

  He saw Alison at the next rehearsal a week later. Already people had paired off, Helen and Joyce making straight for Holland and Panton at the first break.

  “Fifteen minutes, ladies and gentlemen,” Prothero called.

  Niles wandered over to Alison. Again he was impressed by her mature looks.

  “Hi there,” he said, as casually as he could.

  “Oh … hello.” She smiled. “It’s, um, Quentin, isn’t it?”

  Niles hated his name. “ ’Fraid so,” he said.

  “Phew,” she said. “Any chance of us having a quiet smoke somewhere?”

  They picked their way through the small wood at the back of the chapel. It had rained heavily that morning and the stark trunks of the beech and ash trees were wet and shiny. Alison puffed aggressively at her cigarette. Niles had declined again. He turned up the collar of his blazer and remarked on the inclemency of the season. Alison looked suspiciously at him, as if he were making a joke. Her hair was mid-brown and her skin was very white. She had a thin mouth but her lips were well formed; there was a deep and pronounced dip to her cupid’s bow. Niles found this detail endearing, as if somehow this validated his choice of her. His heart seemed to swell with emotion. Their elbows touched as the path narrowed. Niles checked his watch.

  “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. Hele
n 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.