THENEWYORKER,SEPTEMBER14, 2020 59
“Shame,” William said, but he was
already looking at the rolled-up neckties
in a shuttered kiosk. “You have a strong
brow—when you are not scowling. You
would have been so photogenic.”
“Aye? I’m sorry to let ye down.”
“I can bleat like a sheep—I mean, if
that’s what you prefer?” He bleated then,
a loud hellish grumble. Several strang-
ers turned to stare at him. I stared at
him but he would not stop. I willed my-
self not to look away first. Eventually
his breath petered out and he stopped
his terrible braying.
There were three office girls run-
ning in impractical heels. Their shoes
made a clackety-clack on the hard floor.
They were dragging another girl be-
hind them, using an open coat as a sled
of sorts. Their friend was passed out,
a victim of some bottomless happy
hour. The pretty coat was filthy with
grime. There would be tears for it in
the morning.
William nodded toward them. “Does
that make you homesick?” I ignored
his jibe and looked at the departure
board again. The Englishman dug his
tongue into his back teeth. “I just re-
alized. I never checked your pockets
for silver.”
I didn’t turn to face him. “I never
meant to hurt your feelings.”
“And you never did!” He rocked on
his heels. “Most of my summer friends
realize this is a relationship that can
work both ways. One of the best qual-
ities of the Scotch is that they’re a prag-
matic bunch. That’s why I like them so.”
“’Tish,” I said.
“Pardon?”
“Scot-tish. Scotch is what fat Amer-
icans call whisky.”
We were both clearly relieved when
the departure of the Caledonian was
announced. William suddenly became
very formal. For all his lasciviousness,
for all the catalogues of indentured
boys, he was very brisk, very posh, very
English. “Thank you for all your won-
derful work. Shall I walk you to the
platform?”
I shook my head. “I’d better phone
my dad. He’ll be surprised that I’m head-
ing home.”
William took my hand in both of
his. “Well, don’t stay away too long. I’ll
see you soon enough, yes?”
I was tired. I didn’t understand what
he meant by this. He hadn’t even given
me time to pull my new cashmere
jumper down the sleeve of my jacket
and it was bunching uncomfortably.
“No. I don’t think so.”
“I will. This”—he circled the air with
his finger—“is just part of the tiresome
dance. You people have far too much
pride. But you all come back, sooner
or later. It just depends how long you
can put up with the shitholes you call
home.” He narrowed his eyes in ap-
praisal. “Think about where you want
to go for Christmas. I’m thinking Turks
and Caicos, but I’ll take you anywhere
that isn’t bloody Spain.”
With that, the Englishman turned
on his heel and headed, whistling, to-
ward the exit. I watched him go, his
slippers hushed on the station floor. I
gathered my bags and thought about
calling my father. Then I decided I
should wait—wait to see if I indeed
made it all the way home.
The platform was emptying. There
was an elderly Aberdonian woman
struggling to load her suitcase aboardthe train. She already had her hand to
her heart in thanks as I rushed toward
her. It was only a small case, but it was
heavy, as though it were filled with coal
and hardback books. I refused the pound
note she thrust at me as I swung her
case up into the carriage. In that mo-
ment I was grateful for the dead weight
of it, for the momentum that tugged
me aboard.
I found my sleeping berth and set-
tled in. The blue jumper was still bunch-
ing, so I removed my jacket and took it
off. I folded it carefully and placed it on
the overhead rack.
I hadn’t drunk enough lager to be
able to sleep. All the way north, the
jumper floated above me, as fluffy as a
summer cloud. In the morning, when
we arrived in Glasgow, I left it behind.
I would never be able to justify the ex-
travagance of it to my father. Besides, I
could not explain how it had come to
stink of lemons. “Do you know anything about fixing computers?”• •
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