Kissing the Dragon - 1. The Disappointed Duck

Through the comforting hubbub and clink of glasses in the saloon bar of the Disappointed Duck, I drop my gaze to the device in my hand, and for the umpteenth time that day re-read the email. Ever since the message popped into my inbox at lunchtime my heart has been bouncing around like a National Lottery ping-pong ball. Emotions I thought I had outgrown this side of adolescence have surfaced, ranging from heady excitement to sickening angst.

Dear Colin,

Hope you are well.

I’ll cut straight to the chase. Our Head of Section (Modern History) retires in June and the replacement pegged to start in September has dropped out of the running. Honestly, you would be perfect for the role and I feel sure the role would be perfect for you. Although the job is here in Buenos Aires, which would involve uprooting from London, the tenure is only three-years to begin with. St Matthews is one of the top five international schools in the country. The teaching position comes with a competitive salary, plus incredible add-ons; biennial gratuity, on-campus accommodation or generous housing allowance if you want to live outside, healthcare, dental—even a driver.

Donna and I love the place, and Katie speaks better Spanish than I ever will. If you are interested, we need to get things moving. Shortlisted candidates will be flown in for a look-see and a formal face-to-face interview in May, but initial applications need to be in by the end of February. Naturally, we’ll get a number of applicants from the US, but I’ve talked you up to the other heads and been hearing a lot of positive noises in return.

Attached is the job description, an application form, and a link to the official website. Any questions, drop me a line. We could pick a mutually acceptable time to video conference over the internet, if you want.

Give it some thought, old man. Would be brilliant if I could get you out here.

Sincerely,

Al Redfern

Buenos Aires. This is a good thing. Exactly what I need. A gift from the gods.

Unfortunately my heaven-sent gifts tend to crumble to dust when confronted with down-to-earth realities: the offer of a sailing weekend in the south of France with friends scuppered by a sudden downturn in Uncle Dom's failing health during the final months of his Alzheimer's; the bottle of 1961 Barolo given to me by a grateful parent at the end of term who turned out to be teetotal and had ruined the precious wine by storing the bottle next to the Aga in their kitchen; or deciding to use the diamond-studded ring bequeathed to me by my late uncle to propose to Vaughan, my partner of seven years, the same weekend he announced his need for time out of the relationship and his acceptance of a two-year posting with his firm in Singapore.

Which is why I am experiencing this bout of chronic inertia. Uncle Dom often quipped about preferring pessimism over optimism. When things go wrong you can always nod wisely and say to yourself ‘just as I thought’. And if they go well, you can sit back and say nothing, having lost nothing. Since lunchtime, the naysaying voice in my head—one sounding a lot like my mother—has begun to fade with exasperation.

You love your teaching post at Croxburgh High School for Boys. You fought for it. Why would you want to give up something like that? True, but this is a rare opportunity for promotion, a head of department role. How long before the next one comes along?

What about your sister? Your niece and nephew? They’ll understand. Janine always talked about travelling to South America with the family. Now she’ll have a legitimate reason to go—to come.

What about your friends? I’ll miss them, especially the few close ones I still have, but distance should make no difference to true friendship. And I’m sure to make new ones.

Mr Waldorf? Cats bear loyalty to none but themselves. Mr Waldorf will find a new home and tame a new master in a heartbeat. How many times have Janine’s kids threatened to kidnap him and take him home with them?

What about Uncle Dom’s beautiful house and your lodger. Were he still alive, Uncle Dom would not only understand but encourage me to go. Billy the lodger possesses the loyalty of a cat and will soon find another landlord to torment.

You’ve lived your whole life in England, in Croxburgh, to be precise. You’re right. Something needs to change. Perhaps the change will do me good. It’s time, isn’t it?

And you’ve only ever been on holiday to France, you’ve never lived abroad. Right again, but at thirty-three it’s now or never.

Aren’t Argentinians disorganised and disorderly? Are they? You’re making that up. Where did you hear that?

What if you don’t like it? How will I know unless I try?

You’ll be all alone there. I’m alone here.

Do you expect to find a man? Maybe, maybe not. Lack of men seems to be the status quo in my life at the moment, so mute point.

I’ll miss you. Be quiet, voice. You’re coming with me.

Almost as bad, the upbeat voice sounds as though I am already packed and ready to wave England goodbye. Before anything, the application form needs to be printed out, completed, scanned, and sent back. And if I am lucky enough to be granted an interview that does not guarantee a job offer. Even then I could turn them down, but I know I would not. Best case scenario: I get to enjoy an all expenses paid trip to the Argentine. What is there to lose?

In the past, this is something I would have raked over with Vaughan. But now the mere mention of moving to the other side of the planet might sound like a threat. Neither voice holds the cold truth which lies somewhere in between. I dislike change. That much about myself I know. Most change comes without permission slips and often without rationale. Time between Vaughan announcing his departure and the actual event passed so quickly I felt unable to breath even though I took the news with classic McCann stoicism. Acquiescence, however, is not the same as acceptance, and six months down the line a new bedtime habit has been formed, of trying to reason alternative and more acceptable motives for Vaughan’s desertion.

After taking a deep calming breath and vowing to seek my sister Janine’s advice over the weekend, I pop the phone away and drain the last drops of chilled wine from my glass.

A moment later, the homebody in me returns and warms nostalgically to the familiar surroundings. Cosseted by the pleasant rumble around me, I squeeze my eyes shut and inhale a pungent perfume of beer and mouldy carpet. Friday evening drinks with fellow teaching staff of Croxburgh High School for Boys. Forget castles. An Englishman’s home is his local. And the saloon bar of The Disappointed Duck is ours. This veritable sanctuary where, for an hour or two, problems and worries are either steadfastly ignored or brutally autopsied.

“So is he or isn’t he?” comes a nasally voice to my right, an annoying mosquito in my ear bringing me out of my reverie.

“Is he or isn’t he what?”

“Keep up, Colin. Is he gay or not?”

I try to follow the breadcrumb trail of earlier conversation. Stationed before the forest of revellers, our five-foot-one dramatic arts teacher, Phil Willoughby, has appeared with a fresh pint of ale. His dress sense never ceases to unsettle me: crooked scarlet and black polka dot bow-tie; a light blue shirt tail poking out from beneath the right side of his gravy-stained black cotton waistcoat; wild and wiry auburn hair, beard and eyebrows, overgrown privet hedges crying out for severe topiary. Parents assume he haunts the science block rather than the school stage. Of the three gay male teachers in the school—myself included—Phil delights in seeking out new male arrivals on the teaching staff to make a sexual orientation assessment. Being also the most indiscrete member of staff, many of us choose to share nothing sensitive with him. The first to arrive that night, we group near the pub’s bay windows. While I ponder his question, Phil teeters unsteadily on tiptoes, staring past my shoulder, out into the winter evening beyond the window. Only when I peer around do I realise he is using the dark mirrored reflection of the room to spy on our PE teacher’s guest.

“You’re asking the wrong person,” I mutter, turning back and looking out over his head, at the man in question. “My lodger tells me I suffer from homyopia. Gay short-sightedness.”

“He’s definitely questionable. We chatted last Friday and I sensed ambivalence,” he says, bumping back down to earth, spilling rivulets of dark ale down the side of his pint glass. For a split second, his gaze freezes on the rim of the glass as though he has spotted an insect, before he jerks the vessel to his mouth and tilts his head back, his furry Adam’s apple wobbling while sluicing half the contents. During the performance, a few sparkling globules manage to escape into his beard. Unable to tear my gaze away, I stay my hand’s auto-response to reach for the pack of jasmine scented tissues in my jacket pocket.

“Did you not speak to him?” he asks, surfacing for air while raking the stumpy fingers of one hand through his damp beard. I have always detested this variety of negative questioning that cannot be answered with a straight yes or no without requiring clarification.

“Not had the chance.”

All I remember about Christopher Hansen, apart from his connection to our PE teacher, Jeremy Cooper, is his eyes. Arctic blue with a darker ring around the edges. Intense and piercing, as though he is staring right into your being. We were introduced on my way to class two Tuesdays ago when Jeremy dragged him around the school. He seemed a decent enough chap in a blond, clean cut, all-American kind of way—if that stereotype still exists. In a rush of chivalry, I decide to steer Phil away from his ungentlemanly obsession.

“So. Have you selected the end of term play yet?”

“And I just heard through the grapevine that he’s staying longer. Moving out of Cooper’s gaff at the weekend,” continues Phil, an eyebrow raising, craning around and gaping across the room. “Renting his own pad in town. Ruth in admin’s helping him.”

I follow Phil’s gaze again to where the poor victim in question shares laughter with Jeremy. Apart from a similar build, Jeremy’s skin is alabaster. Sporting ginger ringlets and a wild straw-like beard of the same, he resembles a modern day Rob Roy. Christopher Hansen, by contrast, could be the twin of Michelangelo’s David.

“Not much family resemblance.”

“They’re not related,” scoffs Phil, rolling his eyes and wiping the bottom of his pint glass on the sleeve of his jacket. “He’s a family friend. Came back with Jeremy and his brood from Whistler after their Christmas ski break. Apparently he’s over here for work. Got to know him better during last Friday’s blood-letting session. Another you didn’t attend.”

The small dig is both intentional and warranted. Once a Friday night regular, in the past five months I have joined the weekly gathering exactly three times. My routine is well known. I sip my way through two glasses of Chablis, enough to desensitise my brain to the usual moans and groans, but not too much to prevent me from cycling the three miles home. Last year brought about monumental life changes for me and I lost my appetite for idle gossip and educational trivialities. But with my bicycle off-road this week, some careful tweaking to the brakes and gears best left to Bob's Bikes on the high street, I chose to join. Phil urged me to come along and exercise my dreadful gaydar on the American. I only agreed because Martin, my preferred gay cohort at the school—currently absent in the north on a geological field trip—mentioned comments from other teachers about my reclusive bordering unsocial behaviour since the beginning of term.

“Kimberley pulled out all the stops last Friday. Shot down in flames,” says Phil, treating me to one jazz hand and an expression of mock astonishment. “Had the whole sordid entr’acte while our man was in the ‘loo.”

“Perhaps she’s not his type.”

“Please. She’s every straight man’s fantasy. Single, engaged or married.”

Fair point. Petite, bottle blonde, and bubbly Kimberly Scott is undisputedly the Croxburgh six form boy’s wet dream of choice. The straight ones, that is.

“Perhaps he’s old school, being faithful to a little lady back in—”

“And it’s not as though there’s a girlfriend,” says Phil, stepping in close and treating me to an eye-stinging combination of cheese and onion crisp, and real ale breath. “She asked him outright. That’s why she thought he’d be such a pushover.”

“Come on, Phil. Perhaps he’s being modest,” I counter, before lifting my glass to my mouth to regain some personal space. “Not all straight men are—”

“Wait,” he says, on tiptoes again, a damp hand placed on my jacket lapel. “Cooper’s gone. Our American’s talking to Emily.”

With that, he tips his head back and drains the last of his ale.

“Let me get a round in. If he spots me at the bar, he might use me as an escape route. Emily’s bored him to death. I can see his eyes glazing over. How about you?”

Mine have definitely glazed over, but I feel sure Phil is referring to an offer of more wine.

“Actually, I’m fine—” I say to Phil’s departing back.

Not a moment too soon because I am ready to escape, my mind naturally elsewhere. Besides I have been seen by enough people to stave off further comment. After patting my lapel dry with a tissue, I make up my mind to finish the wine unhurriedly, and then head to the bar on my way out to buy Phil a parting beer. I also resolve to return the two dirty pint glasses, ones sitting uncollected on the window ledge, annoying the life out of me for the past twenty minutes.

Other teachers stand nearby deep in conversation so I decide to perch my backside against the window ledge and remain invisible. Folding my arms and balancing the wine glass on my left elbow, I wallow in the cosy surroundings. If I ever do move on, I will certainly miss the camaraderie of the Croxburgh teaching staff. Between ten to fifteen gather each Friday, usually the same faces, those happy to leave marking and lesson planning until the weekend. This night, for some reason, the place is packed with an unusual gathering of unfamiliar faces. Content in my solitude, I inhale once more the familiar odour, wondering how much longer the place can remain untouched. Perhaps that is why I like the pub so much, because we are kindred spirits, anachronisms, last of a dying breed. Megan the landlady—a stout, ex-Royal Navy lieutenant and someone not to be messed with—makes a point of appealing to an older crowd: no deafening jukebox or digitally crazed fruit machines, no hallucinatory array of alcopop drinks. She offers a range of traditional ales on tap, a selection of palatable wines, and the usual line-up of well known spirits. She also insists on piped music from the forties and fifties soothing the air between lulls in conversation. Which is why we rarely bump into older students who prefer to frequent their louder high street counterparts. Havens like these are a dying breed in a hospitality market ruled by financial bottom lines. A sudden and profound wave of sadness sweeps through me, an unusual and immobilising emotion familiar of late. This one is sparked by the inequity of an ever-changing world, one in which things move on whether you chose to keep up or not. For a history teacher, educating the young about the importance of change through time, I can be a real wet blanket. No wonder other teachers have been passing comment. I take a breath, closed my eyes and let Doris Day’s golden voice singing Make Someone Happy wash over me. Just at that moment, someone squeezes my elbow.

“Colin?” comes a deep and attractively accented male voice.

I open my eyes to find Christopher Hansen standing before me, a hand held out in greeting. Startled from my reverie for the second time that evening, I straighten up, take his hand, and give him a fresh appraisal. After Phil, it feels like emerging from a murky rainforest into golden sunlight. A couple of inches taller than me, he stands at around six one or two. Just as I remember he has incredible eyes of ice blue darkening at the rim. Together with ruffled ash blond hair, and a strong Roman nose, the man is a demigod. He possesses a natural physical symmetry, broad shouldered body descending into a slim waist. Only the limbs border on gangly. With a keen gaze and closed-mouth grin, he is one of those casually good looking men. Swedish aristocratic ancestry, no doubt. Attractive without trying—or perhaps even realising.

“Hello Christopher,” I reply, dragged from my evaluation by his confident handshake. “Or do you prefer Chris?”

“Chris is good. Friends and family back home call me Kit.”

He dresses with casual elegance. Crisply pressed beige chinos, ivory polo shirt poking up from the collar of a thick crew neck woollen sweater of oatmeal. The only colour comes from a blue and red motif over the right breast. Perfecting the look with white socks and tan suede topsiders he looks ready to set sail.

“Chris, then,” I say, releasing his warm grip.

“You’re history, aren’t you?”

Despite some oddness in the intonation of certain words, the pronunciation of ones such as Kit—almost two syllables—places him firmly in one of the confederate states. More unsettling is his disarming way of studying me, his eyes floating across my hairline, down to my mouth before settling back to my eyes. His proximity alone sends flutters through my stomach. Has Phil finally made a good call? Or is Chris simply one of those rare creatures who gives a person their full attention when conversing.

“History? No, I’m still employed as far as I know,” I quip, surprised at how quickly my mood had brightened. At first he seems confused until he looks away and produces a broad smile of perfect teeth that almost has me reaching for my sunglasses. A sight that might even melt the frozen heart of a school inspector. “Yes, I teach history. Busy gearing up for the boy’s GCSEs. How are you settling in over here?”

“Man, like being welcomed into a big family. Just found an apartment in town, so I’m gonna move in over the weekend. Didn’t want to overstay my welcome with Jeremy’s brood. Guys at the school have been incredible,” he says, glancing around at other faces in the room. “Though it’s taking time remembering all your names.”

“You’ve learnt Kimberley’s though, I understand,” I quip, with a quick wink, and then feel bad when his smile slips and he reddens. Something about that innocent expression tugs at my heart. When he takes a nervous gulp of lager, I try to recompense. “Listen Chris, don’t worry. She’s a force of nature. Pounced on me too when I first arrived. Until I put her right.”

“You did?” he asks, lowering his glass and then peering over his shoulder to where Kimberley held court. “How’d that go down?”

For some strange reason, I falter on how to respond, whether to fudge the truth about being out as a gay man at school. No matter how many years pass, the subject of my sexuality still causes me to hesitate. Fortunately good sense and maturity prevail and I run with the truth. There are, of course, gentler ways of doing so than by providing a stark pronouncement.

“Let’s just say I was honest. Told her that we had too many things in common.”

“Huh?” he says, with a confused shake of the head, the anticipated response. “I don’t get it.”

“Kimberley prefers classic jazz, so do I. She prefers Moroccan food, so do I. She also prefers men,” I finish, with a stagey shrug worthy of Phil, and leave the rest unsaid.

Still he seems confused until the one-cent-coin drops.

“Oh yeah,” he says, while I wait for the usual stumble-backwards reaction, when one type of man is repelled by the gay force field of another, and begins a reevaluation. Chris Hansen simply nods, his mouth flat-lining into a hard grin. “I’d kind of heard.”

“You had?” I reply, surprised and a little deflated. I take a sip of wine. Did Jeremy warn him off? As though feeling the need to forestall any awkward situation, I add. “Don’t worry, I’m not dangerous”

“Did I say I was worried?” he says, a playful grin surfacing. I smirked back even though I was unsure what his smile meant. Perhaps he was one of those men comfortable around gay men. Perhaps… Perhaps best not to over-analyse.

“So. You’re a long way from home, Chris?”

“I am. Texas boy, born and reared. Family from San Antonio.”

“What brings you over here?”

“Freelance work,” he says, and something subtle changed in his tone. “Go wherever the wind sends me. Or the dumbass editor, in this case.”

I waited for him to elaborate but his gaze swept out across the room again.

“Freelance what? If you don’t mind my asking?” I said, tilting my head to one side. His eyes drifted back to mine.

“Writer photographer,” he said. Strangely, his expression clouded over and his gaze dropped to the carpet. “I’m on contract with a US magazine at the moment. Sent to cover aspects of contemporary UK life, how they compare to the States: sports, politics, education, life in general. S’why I’m here in Croxburgh. Doing a comparative piece on your school.”

“Sounds interesting.”

“Does it? Honestly, this would not have been my choice. Up ’til last November, thought I was finally going to hit the Middle East. Egypt. Better still, Syria. Missed the goddamn boat on that one.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

“Is for me.”

“Do you get outside the US much?”

“A fair amount.”

Okay, so I am usually less brazen. But this man being a virtual stranger meant I can legitimately and discretely use his knowledge to my advantage without raising any suspicions.

“Ever worked in Buenos Aires?”

“Sure. I lived in one of the suburbs, Balvanera, for six months in ’07 to cover the mayoral election. Why? Thinking of visiting?”

“Maybe. Just interested.”

“What do you want to know?”

“I don’t know. Food. People. Best time of year to visit. For the weather.”

“Argentina’s in the southern hemisphere, so they’re enjoying summer right now. But even the winters are mild. Food’s pretty cosmopolitan in the capital but Argentinians tend to eat a lot of meat usually grilled or barbecued. People are patient and friendly with foreigners. Just as well because my Spanish was—still is—not so hot.”

“So you’d recommend the place?”

“Sure. I mean, you got to take care of yourself, like any big city. But it’s a darn sight safer than other cities I visited down that way.”

“Thanks Chris. So how long are you planning on staying here in the UK?”

“Difficult to say. Not long, I hope. Be good to have everything nailed in two months max.”

“Ouch.” Sounds like the man is ready to get on the next plane out. “Well I hope we don’t bore you too much.”

“Aw crap,” he breathes out, his shoulders sagging and head shaking. “Sorry Colin. Must sound like a total asshole. But I kind of prefer being in the thick of things.”

“Maybe you should consider a career in teaching,” I offer, which manages to produce a smile.

“I did. For a time. Straight from college,” he replies, a twinkle in his eye. “Five years at Rodrigues High. Sports and media. Eye-opener. Lot of under-privileged kids. Never seen so many guns and knives.”

“Just so you know, life here is not all royal weddings and afternoon teas. I had a similar experience in London. East Barton Secondary. Not as many guns, but lots of knives and probably as much interest in learning anything academic.”

At that he nods grimly and then pauses for moment, to give me a fresh and unnerving appraisal with his x-ray gaze.

“You like sports?”

“Do you like history?” I counter which wrings another chuckle from him. Before he can explain, I continue. “No, not a huge sports fan. Although I do get sucked in during the Wimbledon season.”

“Tennis?” he asks brightening. “You play?”

“Used to. After a fashion. Got Andre Agassi’s bum and thighs to thank for that.” I remember my exuberance, if not natural skill, for the one sport I enjoyed during my college days. “I used to be pretty good in the bloom of youth.”

“Let’s grab a game. How about next Wednesday after school?”

If he notices my eyes widening, he does not show it.

“Not sure I remember how. Been a long time since I played—“

“Come on. What is it you Brits say. Like riding a horse?”

“Bike. Like riding a bike.”

Grinning at his remark, I realise I am feeling better than I have all day. Still unsure about this sudden invitation but also intrigued and mildly flattered, I pause for a second or two before deciding to do the gracious thing. I also make a mental note to hunt out my racquet, shorts and spray tan.

“Fine. Let me ask Jeremy to reserve one of the indoor courts for us at school. Right now the weather’s not particularly conducive to outdoor sports. And don’t expect too much. It’s been a long time.”

“Let me talk to Jeremy. And I’ll bring balls.”

My spirits have definitely lifted because the corner of my mouth raises in a wry smile and I sense an inappropriate double-entendre beginning to form.

“Tennis balls,” he clarifies, mirroring my grin. “And winner buys beer and dinner.”

After a quick glance across my shoulder, he leans in conspiratorially. Through the faint aroma of lager, I smell an intoxicating mixture of wool fabric softener and floral soap. A shiver runs down my spine when his warm breath tickles my ear.

“Hey, does everyone know? That you’re…”

I pull my head back and stares him in the eyes.

“A history teacher?”

He rolls his big blues.

“C’mon. You know what I mean?”

“First rule of Croxburgh. Once you tell Kimberley something, you pretty much tell the whole school.”

“So you all know about our conversation last week?” he asks, his eyes wide, and does not disappoint when he enunciates the words ‘you all’ as a single syllable.

“Everyone received a copy of the transcript in their pigeon hole Monday morning,” I chide, pleased to note him cottoning on to my teasing. “The big talking point at the moment is whether or not you’re—”

“Colin,” interrupts Phil, appearing at shoulder height and handing me a glass of wine. I reach for the unwanted Chablis, while he flashes me a look of chastisement before turning his whole attention to the American. “Good to see you again, Christopher.”

“Chris,” he replies, coming out of our huddle and craning his head down towards Phil. “Bill, isn’t it?”

“Phil,” corrects our drama teacher, a small dangerous furrow appearing between his brows.

“The theatre guy, yeah? Sorry, still got a few names to plug in my head. Great to meet you,” says Chris with his usual exuberance. He holds one hand palm up in welcome, before turning his head away and looking out across the room. “Reminds me. Better go get Jeremy and the ladies a drink. Time for my—what is it you all say—shout?”

“Shout’s good,” I explain, because Phil had chosen to glare and pout at the carpet. “Or round. Either will do.”

“Guess I’ll get the hang of your language some day,” says Chris, winking at me, which brings an automatic smile to my face. I decide there and then that I like Chris Hansen. About to leave us, he turns back, puts his hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “Sorry Cole. What’s that you were saying earlier? About a talking point at the moment?”

Cole? Only Vaughan has ever used that abbreviation. Where did that come from?

“Ah yes. That,” I falter, noticing Phil’s gaze drifting back to us. My mind clutches at random thoughts, ad-lib never having been my thing. “We’re all wondering whether you can do anything to convince Jeremy to—uh—to rethink the rugby team. Get them back on track. Last season was shocking. Only one win out of fifteen.”

“Not my sport but I think you’ll find he’s already on it,” replies Chris, an eyebrow cocked. “Not a big sports fan, huh?”

As he move confidently across the room, Phil eyes his departing backside with a sneer and a dismissive shake of the head.

“Theatre guy, indeed. American Philistine. One for the ladies methinks.”

“Definitely.”

Definitely maybe.

*****