The Nurse, by mattbuck Part 15
All comments, good or bad, are appreciated - email matt_v_jellicle@hotmail.com
Other stories I've written can be found on my website, in the fiction section http://mattbuck.sixwinter.com
The previous 14 parts to this story are at http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/the-nurse/
Usual disclaiming sort of stuff, I don't know McFly, I don't know their sexualities, this story is not in any way based on real life events. Oh, and it contains gay sex, so please make sure you're 18.
We'd spent the Thursday visiting the Great Orme, a big hilly-peninsula adjacent to Llangollen (Clang-goth-len), and riding the trams there up and down... oh, and taking photos of a sign asking in Welsh "have you paid and displayed your ticket?" Don't ask why, I don't know either. Still, there was some quite nice ice cream. We'd gone on to the beach afterwards, and I learnt an important lesson - it doesn't matter how old you are, always always always pack a spade in the car. You never know when you may need one, and diverting a stream is very hard with just your hands and feet.
Even with a willing and gorgeous helper.
No, I am not talking about Debbie McGee.
The Friday was much less strenuous - we had a picnic in the little garden outside the house, sitting on the patterned carpet that had been coming on holiday with us... forever. Come to think of it, that carpet's probably older than me. There always used to be Christmas puddings like that in the kitchen cupboards... took me years to convince my mum to chuck them.
Don't get me started on the National Geographics.
So, after finishing up a gala pie, various rolls and four hard boiled eggs, we set off into Porthmadog. We eventually found a parking space and walked half way back through the town to the tennis courts... not that anyone played tennis. We were there for the crazy golf. It was rather a disappointing course to be honest. There were two sorts of hole - the stupidly easy and the virtually impossible. I hate it when it's like that. We gave up after seven shots on any given hole. Now, in the usual course of things, my dad wins any sort of golf game, with me narrowly beating my mum. This time... she got lucky. Hole in one where I took seven. Damn Swedish prefab golf courses. Still, at least I had someone to hug me in consolation.
Even if he beat me as well.
Five days into the holiday, and there was one very important thing we hadn't done. Well, sort of, but that didn't really count. Not for me anyway. In fox hunting, there is a practice known as blooding, whereby blood from the kill is smeared on the face of the new hunters. The rite is barbaric, as is the "sport", but the idea of blooding exists in many places, just usually without actual blood. What I wanted was to get Danny blooded on the Ffestiniog Railway. I suppose I could have just smeared engine oil or soot on his face, that that would reduce his kissability. Instead, we took him to Tan-y-Bwlch.
Tan-y-Bwlch (tan-e-ball-k) is without doubt the best station on the Ffestiniog. It's about two thirds of the way to Blaenau, in the middle of nowhere, and really rather picturesque. It's one of the points where an "up" train can cross a "down" train (one of three - Minffordd (min-four-th) at the bottom of the line, Tan-y-Bwlch in the middle, and Tanygrisiau (tan-e-griss-i) near the summit), and it also has a caf‚, which makes it even better. My dad likes it because the station is a bit bendy, so looking down from the bridge the trains have a nice wiggle. We were rather early for the next train, so we sat and had ice cream and coffee (two staples of the holiday diet - I'm not sure I want to know how much we spent on those two throughout the holiday fortnight). Finally, we heard a toot from the valley, meaning the train was anywhere between one and ten minutes away. Sound carries a long way in that area. Still, we trooped up onto the bridge and stood looking past the sheer rock face, round the bend and along to the bend over the road bridge. All one hundred yards of it, which, on the Ffestiniog, is a long way to see ahead. Or behind I suppose. Most of the track runs behind extreme tree cover around tight corners hugging the side of the mountains, which all reduce visibility of the track ahead. Not that you really need it anyway.
Finally, we heard the chuff-chuff-chuffing that meant the train had to be pretty close. Mum & Dad aimed their cameras, I wrapped my arm around Danny's waist, leaning into him. Another piercing whistle shrieked through the air as the engine finally appeared round the bend in a cloud of white smoke. Green, slightly rounded... not a Double Fairlie - there was only one plume of smoke gave that away. My knowledge of Ffestiniog trains is very limited beyond the three Double Fairlies, so I didn't have a clue which engine it was. Embarrassing. The chuffing slacked off as the train passed the station speed limit sign, then the train passed under the bridge, surrounding us with steam. Beside me, Danny laughed as we both rushed to the opposite side of the bridge, the smoke dissipating, allowing us to see the innumerable (well... ten probably) carriages go past below us. We went down the steps and walked along the length of the station as the guard walked the opposite direction, yelling, "Taaaaan-y-Bwlch. Taaaaaan-y-Bwlch." Turned out the engine was Blanche. We watched it refill its tanks by the water tower, then wandered back up the station as we heard the down train coming. Another green one - Double Fairlie - therefore it was Earl of Merioneth (Iarll Merionydd in Welsh). We stood on the bridge again to watch it leave, but found more interest in using the smoke screen for a good snog. By the time the smoke cleared both trains had left.
Oh well.
We spent the rest of the day chasing the trains to Minffordd and back, before finally calling it a day and going home for... well, for me and Danny, it was for hot passionate sex, then dinner. I really hope the floors are fairly thick... we were making a bit of noise.
The Saturday, we went north to Caernarfon, intending to go round the castle there. Which we did - we went one way, my parents went the opposite direction, refusing to go up all the towers that Danny was intent on climbing. Climbing up.
And down...
And up...
And down...
You get the idea. We made it (slightly breathless) up the tallest tower, known apparently as the Eagle Tower, because of the stone lumps on it that used to be carved eagles in time to see a ferry go through the swing bridge into the harbour far below. It was amazingly quiet - apart from the slapping of the water and the occasional cry of a seagull, the castle was almost silent. We looked out over the Menai Straits towards the sunnier climes that Anglesey appeared to be that day. That was for tomorrow. The warm hand holding mine, scraping against the rough stonework of the crenulations, was today.
I looked at my boyfriend and smiled, my heart skipping a beat when he smiled back at me, squeezing my hand ever so slightly. We'd probably have kissed, but a couple of American tourists appeared from the stairs, and while performing for sexy teenagers is kinky...
Home again - because the Ferris Wheel we spotted in Caernarfon town centre wasn't working, much to our disappointment - a gondola gives a sort of privacy you can't get on top of a tower. For the minute or so that you're at the top anyway. That and it was a rather nice colourful wheel that looked fun.
Anyway, home. Dinner, and Doctor Who. My parents went for a walk, leaving me and Danny in front of the TV. No friskiness - even though Billie Piper is, as Dougie might say, worth a squirt - Daleks just don't do it for me. We cuddled close together, and as that frankly brilliant music played as the rift closed, I pressed my face into his chest, tears stinging my eyes, not wanting to let go, reminding myself that I still had someone that special.
Russell T Davies sometimes writes a story too well.
I know this part all seems a bit fragmented, but I'm trying to get through the bits of the story that while a bit boring when taken together, have little gems of love in them. I'm not sure if there's really any need for you all to listen to me ramble on about exactly where in Caernarfon Castle we went round, where we got lost, which coffee shop we visited and whether the Bara Brith was any good (the answer to all those questions is "I can't remember". It's my dad who eats the Bara Brith anyway - I tend to go for chocolate cake). I try to pick out the bits that are more interesting, though that's not always possible.
As you've probably guessed, I'm a big motor racing fan. Sure, the only stuff I watch on TV is F1, but that's mainly because anything else either flits around the schedules like nobody's business or is on Sky. Fact is, there's nothing like actually being there. Well, if you care about what's going on, then it's probably best to watch it on TV, but if you just want to watch cars going round, smelling the engine oil, the burning rubber... then you just can't beat actually going to a circuit. There is often surprisingly good racing at the club level. Back when I was in the lower sixth at school (more than three years ago now), my parents took me out to racing at Castle Combe - it was the first year that the British Formula Three championship visited, I think. The next year the F3 racing took place during my exams, and last year we were in the Lake District on holiday. This year, when I could have actually got to it, there was no "big meeting" due to council-imposed noise restrictions due to complaints by the neighbours.
They moved there knowing there was a race track - am I the only one who things they should put up and shut up?
Last year, we travelled across the country to visit the race track at Croft in North Yorkshire. Beautiful sunny day, walked right through the paddock and had great fun watching the racing in a much more open and relaxed atmosphere than we'd ever had at Castle Combe.
So, the Sunday of the holiday, we went to the Anglesey Racing Circuit (Trac Mon, in the Welsh, which stems from the Welsh for Anglesey which is Ynys Mon). Due to... well... due to me not taking enough trouble to find out, we arrived at lunch time, having missed four of the seven races and with two hours without any racing to wait.
They actually had a church service. I know that Wales is meant to be terrifically Christian, but... church services at a race track? That's just ridiculous. Do they pray "Dear God, please let me win the race like Michael Schumacher at almost any race in 2000-04, and not lose like Damon Hill at Hungary in '97." If they do, it certainly worked for the winner of the first race we saw - he started, then he disappeared off into the distance with second place trailing by almost a lap.
Now, there's something very odd about our support for cars at race tracks. We go there, and we don't have a clue about any of the championships, so we therefore support the prettiest cars - usually the ones that are predominantly yellow. In the first race, I started supporting a car I think I saw at Croft last year - it was black, but with a yellow front bumper. Sure it was fairly near the back, but I had hopes. I watched it go past on the first lap and I cheered it. I watched it go past on the second lap and I cheered it.
It never came past again.
Instead we transferred our affections to a yellow/green Ford Capri, which promptly did a pirouette in front of us.
Note to racers: if you want to win when we're at the track, you should make sure your car is in no way yellow.
I should probably point out that Anglesey has a very nice circuit - it's right by the sea, and the day we were there, it was howling a gale, driving huge breakers onto the beach not two hundred yards from the track. We split up during the second race - my parents going down to the beach, the two of us wandering over the hill to see what we could see. Not quite as much as we could see from where we were as it turned out. It was also a bit cold out of the lee of the car, so the two of us cuddled together as the Yorkshire-accented commentator declared dourly (for the third time that race) "just one more race and we can all go home."
The last race... well... there were five cars in it. One of which blew up in a big cloud of smoke about six laps into the race. It also had the very incongruous sight of a Metro leading several much bigger cars (Renault Laguna was one of them I think). Racing really is odd sometimes. We got into the car as soon as they'd finished driving past on the slowing down lap, and headed back through the pits. It really did feel odd driving between Caterhams and numerous modded saloons with an estate car with a roof rack.
Still, I got to try some racing of my own on the way back along the A55 to Bangor. Gotta love dual carriageways...
I was only doing seventy. Honest.
That time.