The Bus Stop

by Rafael Henry

Chapter 1

A story from the archive of Raphael Henry

'Hello! You must be Arlo?' 'Yes. I phoned you about the Saturday job. You said to come at ten past four?' 'Of course I did! Sorry. And I see you've brought your friend. You must be Kerry. Excellent. Do come in both of you. Let me show you around the place. The class will be finishing soon unless you'd like to see now? One of your tasks will be to clean the studio. I run photographic courses and life drawing and portrait photography classes in a purpose built building I put up a couple of years ago. I have students come here from quite far away. One as far as London. Come on in and I'll show you around. Are either of you interested in any art form or……….'

I've made a new friend this week. Kerry.

No, it's not a girl, it's a boy.

It's the first day of the new school year, and a new crop of customers at the bus stop. Our bus is called a contract bus because it's a private arrangement between the parents and the bus company which contracts to take us to our schools in the town some five miles away on the coast in the English county of Kent. Actually it's what we call a coach , a single deck thing, as opposed to the usual double decker, and superior to those ordinary service buses with numbers on the front, ours being operated by Wilkins and May. These things take people on trips to all kinds of places of interest all over the country, but ours is a regular every day journey from home to our schools; different schools. Mine is the boys' Grammar. I managed to pass, by some miracle, a thing called the Kent Test, the old 11+ exam, which offer us boys and girls the chance to exceed the pass mark in all three papers, Verbal and Non-verbal Reasoning, Mathematics and Numeracy and English and Comprehension. 108 is the pass mark, the cut-off point, the magic number, in each of the one-hour papers. So, if things go well for you, an aggregate mark of 324 will get you an offer to attend one of these very traditional establishments in England, one of approximately 163 selective schools in total, by far the most being in my county of residence, Kent, and 32 in number. At my lovely old bit of Victoriana, my primary school, years 5 up to 11, just eight of us took the Kent Test out of a class of twenty nine, and four of us actually got over the line. One girl who 'failed', appealed to a panel of Head teachers, and won her place at the equivalent single sex all-girls grammar. Mine is all boys, although there is a degree of swapping for the final two years of secondary education which over here is called the Sixth Form, after which we can trot off to waste tons of our people's hard-earned cash at one of the large numbers of tinpot universities, eventually emerging with a useless degree in whatever was easiest to 'study'; unless of course you were bright enough to read law, or medicine, a foreign language or some kind of science which would actually get you a job at the end of the three-year course. A bit of a tough call for most graduates, and virtually impossible if you are the proud possessor of a second-class media studies degree. You'll probably end up working on a supermarket checkout till. Anyway all that is a long way off for me.

I have a five-minute walk to my bus stop from my semi-detached 1930's house in the seaside town of Hythe, about a two-minute walk from the beach and conveniently close to a large park and the Military Canal, a defensive waterway built to stop Napoleon in his naughty tracks, but was never put to the test as that weird hatted French rogue never actually managed to get over the stretch of water between us and them. The next bad guy who contemplated an invasion didn't make it either.

The bus stop is a pole adjacent to the roadway with a tell-tale sign painted with the words BUS STOP on the top near which we stand, but not too close, to wait for our coach to take us to our respective schools. Mine is the 'Relief' coach, that's to say a second one on this route, required because the other one on our route is full up. So they are obliged to provide another one. It's called FS2. As luck has it all last year, my second year at the Grammar, there were only four of us on it, going and coming back at the appointed hour, and very cost ineffective for the coach company with just us four kids on it and seats for another 49 bodies. I'm at my stop by 07.55, five minutes before our luxury transport leaves, ours being operated by Wilkins and May, as I said. It's a beautiful bus, warm and comfortable, that glides over the appalling road surfaces we have to endure in Kent, as smooth as you like. There were three girls on my bus, and me. Like most boys, I headed for the back seat, a place that these girls would never choose to be, and as there are no dirty girls on board, I'm alone back there, while the nice girls in their snazzy green uniforms chatter away at or near the front. They wouldn't dream of sitting anywhere near a mere boy . Oh no. They don't even look at me as I make my way down the central aisle to the very far end of the bus, where I want to be, trying reasonably hard not to allow my rucksack to knock into one of those shoulders as I pass by. Being a proper gent I let them get on first, just like my mummy told me to. Let me say now that I don't do and certainly not think of doing everything my mummy tells me to do. She's dropped several hints about the girls on the bus, so far, in the hopes that I might bring one home for tea one day. No chance, but I haven't told her that yet.

'Mummy, I'm not interested in girls I'm afraid so it's no good dropping hints. I'm thirteen, and although not too young for it, I don't find them at all interesting. Sorry if that comes as a disappointment to you but that's the fact of the matter. I don't really like them and they don't seem to like me much either. So sorry.'

Oh dear. Mummy does look a tad disappointed. I expect she's thinking, is my one and only dear son one of those ?

But there's more.

'Oh darling, not to worry, yet. At least it's not the boys. That's a relief.'

I'm glad our conversation stopped at that point, but I know I'll have to divulge at some juncture, the fact that in bed at night I think about the last attractive boy I've seen somewhere or other, and then invent scenarios where we can see each other in our cute white pants, and then a little later, naked, and have a nice fiddle together, the whole thing to coincide perfectly with the event that most boys strive for in bed each and every night; the boygasm as I heard it called recently.

This morning there is a fifth member of our club. Kerry. He was the first there, me being the second, and then the girls deigned to turn up, all three together, nattering as usual and looking utterly immaculate as ever in their dark green skirts and lighter green blazers, all with tanned legs which showed little signs of wearing off. Lucky sods, they've all been somewhere nice and warm in the summer hols just passed. I had to be content with Hythe beach, it's shingle and a smattering of shiny wet sand at low tide; not really that good for the bucket and spade. It's not actually that bad; if you wait long enough. There are other people to catch one's attention, and contrive to sit near. Oh yes there are.

Kerry was already at our bus stop waiting. What a nice surprise on the first morning of a new non-critical year for me, I do hope.

This is my third year of marking time before I decide on what subjects I want to be half-way serious about. There are two really, art and music. I scraped into the Grammar by the thickness of my pants, in other words, just, by four marks, so I was never going to be a high-flyer, at least not in the four principal areas of study the powers that be think are the most important. Not to me. English, yes. I enjoy that. But it's the other two 'peripheral' subjects that really engage me.

And now we appear to have Kerry. Things are definitely looking up, bus travel-wise.

The girls gave him a good looking over as he stood there in his short grey trousers and deliciously attractive powder blue blazer. Whoever thought of that colour? It's truly fabulous! As usual the grey school shorts are too long, right down to the kid's knees. That's a disgrace. He was undoubtedly aware but didn't return their dismissive inspection of the figure in blue blazer and silver and yellow striped tie, hair parted in true English schoolboy mode, rucksack on his back which told of his destination. First year boys often go for the school branded version, but reject the concept shortly thereafter, preferring the Addidas product, or some other more peer-friendly alternative. Kerry stood close to the bus stop, so I stood next to him with the girls a couple of yards away, yacking away as usual.

The boy didn't look at me, fearful of retribution before he ever got to his fucking school, the name of which I did recognize. St. Judes, a small Catholic prep school. He looks nervous, so I really ought to speak to him. Or should I not? I wonder. Mum would want me to be friendly to a new face, so I shall.

'Hello. I'm Arlo.'

The boy turns to face me.

'Hi. I'm Kerry. Pleased to meet you.'

He half held out a hand for me to shake but thought better of it. What a shame. That would have been rather nice. A first touch of his flesh. His actual flesh, part of his actual body, in my hand. Yes, that would have been good.

Kerry managed a nervous smile, but his mind is probably in a state of distraction over……something. I suspect it's a new school for him. He looks too new .

We let the girls get on the bus first as usual, then it was Kerry and I. I watched the boy climb the four steps up to the deck. I noticed something unusual about him which made me do my raised-eyebrows expression, privately. Now that is interesting.

Kerry sits half way back on the left-hand side, swinging what looked like a quite heavy rucksack off his back and placing it in on the seat next to the window. I make my way to my usual seat that goes right across the back of the bus, but not next to the window, nearside, but towards the middle so I can see Kerry, just.

As the bus moves off Kerry turns to look behind him. A quick glance, but he sees me looking at him. I managed a lightning smile before he turns away again. A few seconds later he does it again and I'm ready for him. His glance is longer this time, but he looks away once more. He's about ten feet up the bus and I'm watching him. He looks around again, the third time, and this interaction between us lasts longer and with a question mark hovering between us. So I take a risk. I pat the seat, the space to my right. He turns his body towards me. I gesture to him with my face that he's welcome to join me. He gets the hint and stands holding his luggage and joins me, but not beside me. I've moved next to the window so he sits two spaces away from me, and with his luggage next to mine and between us.

The driver calls out…..'The new one. This is your stop mate. St. Judes.'

Hurriedly, Kerry turns towards me, smiles, grabs his luggage and scurries up the bus, and he's gone. All in all, an interesting start to the new year.

The next day.

He's there before me again despite my arriving at our stop earlier today; at 07.50. Five minutes earlier. The girls are not here yet.

'You're early today……..sorry I've forgotten your name?'

'Kerry. What's yours again?'

'Arlo.'

'That's a nice name.'

'So is yours. How did it go yesterday? I think it was your first day, always a bit of a trial. How did it go?'

'Alright thanks. I was a bit nervous though.'

'That's very understandable, and I did notice. I felt a bit sorry for you. Is it a new school for you?'

'Yes. We've just moved down here.'

'Right. So you probably live close to bus stop?'

'It's a five-minute walk.'

'Oh good. Not too far then?'

'No. Do you?' he asks, as my tummy flips over.

'Do I……what?'

'Do you live near our stop?'

'Yes. A five-minute walk, funnily enough, just like yours.'

'Which road?'

'Napier Gardens, just off Stade Street, towards the park. Where are you?'

'Lynton Road. Where's Napier Gardens?'

'From you, cross over Stade Street turn right and in a few yards turn left. Up there towards the end of the road just a few metres from the park. On the left. Number 75. What number are you?''

'32. We've only just got there. Last week.'

'Oh, not long to find your way around then.'

'No. It's all a bit new.'

'And a bit scary too. You've got rather a lot to cope with haven't you?'

'Yes. Everything is a bit scary.'

'So can you deal with it alright?'

'I think so.'

'Do you know anyone?'

'No.'

A pause while we both take stock of the situation. I'm interested but must not show it, or give this boy any idea that I do find him interesting. That would be a disaster. He's just another tedious kid who happens to travelling on the same bus as me. Oh that blazer! Pale blue? Now that is something. I've seen another one like it somewhere, at some stage, but not ever actually spoken to one. I'm mightily impressed. He threatens to surpass all others in my line of fantasy candidates. Short ankle socks too, and nice calf muscles. That's quite rare, legs like that. But no visible thigh.

I've seem photos of my dad in his school uniform. Short trousers that came way up the kids' thighs. They looked so……..nice. Longer hair in those days too, like mine is, and Kerry's too. That unites us. I asked mum if she wouldn't mind shortening my school short trousers by about six centimetres, or two inches in old money , as dad says. The good old days before decimalization of most things. We run the 1500 metres these days, not the traditional mile like he did. I think she thought it a bit odd that I wanted shorter trousers. Thinking back I remember my excuse for asking. They itched my knees and I couldn't concentrate properly on my work. Not a bad reason so she did. I felt much better walking around showing a lot more leg. She says I have nice limbs. All the more reason to let the world see them. It's the same with football short, but not rugby ones. They are way shorter.

Day two and now the girls are here, and shortly after, our bus appears. We all board it, Kerry following me to the back of the bus. I leave room for him and he sits next to me, our bags occupying the rest of the back seat. There's room to stretch out our legs under the seat in front, and it's comfortingly warm, and Kerry is close to me, something we are both very aware of so we don't talk. We are both thinking about this. Lots of empty seats but we are sitting together, close. I am absolutely loving this. The closeness of it. He is so unutterably near me. I know he is near me in other ways too. I can sense it. He wants someone. I would too, in his shoes. Who wouldn't? He's Billy no mates right now. No problem dear boy, I'm here.

We didn't speak at any time during the entire journey, not because we didn't have anything to say, we would have, but the present seemed like something we wanted to last and not be interrupted by anything else. That's it. That's how it was. Just like that, a kind of contentment, a hurdle hurdled, a hill climbed; a warm comfort, a door opened, a barrier just swept away. How weird is that? Knowing things that have not been spoken of?

I look at him and he pretends not to notice, but he has noticed. Then I do it again and still he pretends not to notice. I'm excited.

His face is pale, unlike mine, simply because I've had the summer holidays outside, mainly. That's what you do if you live close to the sea. You get outside in the sea air, and sunshine if we get any, and if we do, you don't miss it. You bare your body and lie in it. It might not appear again until October.

The sun has bleached my hair, according to mum, the hair I won't have cut. My freckles reappear too, which I like. It worries mum a bit. She looks a them suspiciously.

'Darling you must remember to wear that hat I gave you.'

She's right, I should.

I watched our new boy get off the bus, stepping carefully down the steps onto the pavement. He puts his bag down, opens it to find something he needs to check is there and he hasn't forgotten it. I can see more of him as he does so. Suspicions confirmed. I could ask him back to ours for tea, but not yet. Too soon to declare an interest; or is it?

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The Bus Stop

by Rafael Henry

Chapter 1

A story from the archive of Raphael Henry