Date: Mon, 04 Sep 2006 21:51:51 +0100
From: Matt Buck <matt_v_jellicle@hotmail.com>
Subject: The Nurse, Part 15

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.