Starburst (25 page)

I
n the middle of the vast empty warehouse deep in the docklands of Leith, Thomas Keene junior sat uneasily on the silver camera box, a look of painful concentration on his face as he felt around in the black changing bag on his lap, attempting to load the dummy roll of film into the camera magazine for about the twentieth time in the past hour. He glanced at the wristwatch Leonard Hartson had left hanging on a light stand for him to time his progress, but it only served to remind him that it was nearly three o’clock in the afternoon and his stomach was aching with hunger.

He shut his eyes, trying to envisage what his fingers were doing inside the bag, as he threaded the film through the slot into the pick-up chamber of the magazine and doubled over the end so that it sat tight in the spool before clicking the spring catch closed. When he thought all was in place, he pulled his arms free from the constraints of the elasticated armholes, just as the fire door at the far side of the warehouse opened and banged shut again, stretching a momentary beam of bright sunlight out across the floor. Pulling back the Velcro flap on the changing bag, T.K. watched Leonard Hartson pick his way over the electric cables, ducking to avoid the lights that they had already set up earlier that day.

“There you are,” the cameraman said, handing T.K. a brown paper bag and a can of Sprite. “Two ham-and-cheese rolls.” He sat down opposite T.K. on a long lighting box. “How did you get on this time?”

“I think ah’ve go’ it,” T.K. replied, putting the black bag to one side and making to flick back the ring pull on the can.

“Don’t do that yet,” Leonard said sharply. T.K. glared at Leonard. “How no?”

The cameraman pointed a meaningful finger at his assistant. “Another golden rule, Thomas. Never handle food or drink while you’re loading a film magazine. If one single foreign body gets into that changing bag, it could gum up the whole roll of film.”

“Ah’ve finished loadin’, onyways.”

“No, you haven’t. What did I tell you? Magazine out of the bag, check it’s secure, tape it up and write on it the stock number and film roll. That’s the order of things.”

T.K. let out a disgruntled sigh and, with great deliberation, put down his can and picked up the black bag.

“I’m sorry, Thomas.” Leonard chuckled. “I told you it was going to be a steep learning curve.” He leaned across and gave the boy a solid pat on his knee. “But don’t worry, you’re doing well. You’ve had more thrown at you in one day than many assistants would have to learn in about a month.”

T.K. undid the zip on the changing bag and pulled out the magazine. As he placed it on his knee, the cover on the load reel fell off in his hand. “Aw,
shite!
” He glanced apprehensively at Leonard. “Ah mean, sorry.”

Leonard raised an admonishing eyebrow. “Don’t worry. It’s only an end-roll, but remember, you must check the cover plate is fitted securely into its grooves before you lock it. If you’d just loaded that magazine with an unexposed roll, we would’ve had to throw it away.”

“Ah’m no’ goin’ tae get a haud o’ this,” T.K. murmured solemnly.

Leonard studied the boy’s face for a moment, trying to judge the meaning of T.K.’s last sentence by the expression on his face. Eventually, he just shook his head. “Thomas, if our partnership is to work successfully over the next couple of weeks, I think it’s going to be of paramount importance that we understand what we’re saying to each other. Now, please believe me, I’m not saying anything derogatory about the Scottish accent and it is probably my fault entirely that I have never taken the time to study the colloquial intricacies…” He stopped mid-sentence when he saw a broad grin stretch across T.K.’s face. “What’s the smile for?”

“Are ye saying that ye cannot understand what I am sayin’?” T.K. asked, mouthing out the words in laborious fashion.

Leonard nodded. “That, I’m afraid, is exactly what I’m saying.”

“That’s good, ’cos I wis goin’ tae say the same thing tae you.”

They eyed each other for a moment before both burst out laughing, rocking back on their makeshift seats.

“Well,” Leonard said eventually, taking a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his jacket and wiping a trickling tear from his cheek. “I think we might have just had a breakthrough there, Thomas.”

Still smiling, T.K. carefully pulled the film out of the magazine and placed everything back in the changing bag. “You can call me T.K.,” he mumbled as he refastened the zip and pressed down the Velcro flap.

“What was that?” Leonard asked.

“T.K.” His cheeks flushed with embarrassment as he once more pushed his hands through the elasticated armholes. “All my friends call me tha’.”

In that instant, Leonard realized there had been more than just a breakthrough in their language barrier. “In that case, I would be delighted to call you T.K.”

“Ah think ah’ve got the hang o’ this now.”

“All right,” Leonard said, reaching out to take his wristwatch from the light stand. “I’ll time you.”

Just under two minutes later, T.K. pulled his hands free of the changing bag, opened it up and held the loaded film magazine out to Leonard. First checking that the covers were secure, the cameraman then opened up both sides to make certain the threading of the film was correct.

“Perfect. Couldn’t have done better myself,” he said, handing the magazine back to T.K. “After you’ve had your lunch, you can have a go at loading the real McCoy.”

Whilst Thomas Keene junior had happily found gainful employment that day, the case was not the same for Rene Brownlow’s husband, Gary, in Hartlepool. Having dropped Robbie and Karen off at their school in the morning, he had taken a bus downtown and spent the best part of the day sitting in the Employment Exchange staring vacantly at the plethora of posters that told of the consequences of being caught “working on the fly” while drawing unemployment benefits. Then, when his long-awaited interview eventually did take place, he had to leave halfway through to get back to the school to pick up the kids again. His parents were busy that afternoon, his father at his mate’s allotment, his mother doing the weekly shop at Morrison’s, so he had no alternative other than to head back into town with the kids in tow.

When he entered Anderson’s Westbourne Social Club, his immediate impression was that the spacious lounge bar was completely deserted. There was nobody up at the bar and the two women who stood behind it were idly chatting away before both turned at the sound of the swing doors banging shut. It was only when he heard the clink of dominoes from the table near the stage at the far end of the room that he surmised that some, if not all, of Rene’s “Fringe committee,” were there.

He walked over to the bar and shot a wink at the elder of the two women. “Hi, Mags. I ’ope ye don’t mind me bringing the kids in. I just wanted to see Terry Crosland for a moment.”

“Aye, they’ll be fine,” Mags replied. “Mr. Prendergast is away for the day, so ye’ve got nowt to worry about.” She glanced over Gary’s shoulder and her glossy lipsticked mouth stretched into a broad grin. “Was it just Terry ye wanted to see, or the whole bang shooting match?”

Gary turned round to find that the five domino players had left their table and had come to gather around him, their faces alight with inquiry.

“’Ave ye ’eard ’ow Rene’s doing?” Stan Morris, the self-appointed chairman of the committee, asked.

“All right,” Gary replied noncommittally, catching Terry’s eye and greeting him with a brief nod.

“’As she been on telly yet?” Skittle asked, squinting up at Gary through his bottle glasses.

“No, not yet.”

“Give ’er a chance!” Stan Morris said, glaring at Skittle. “It takes time to build up fame.” He pushed his hands into the pockets of his tweed jacket. “Now, I remember the time I appeared on the television—”

He was interrupted by sombre Derek Marsham’s disparaging laugh. “We all know about that one, don’t we? All ye did was walk back and forth behind the reporter when ’e was doing that bit on the marina, just so ye could get yer ugly mug broadcast.”

Stan Morris’s face puffed with indignation. “I’ll ’ave ye know that I was asked to be—”

“All right, let’s give it a rest, lads,” Terry Crosland cut in, pushing past Stan and leaving him to swallow his explanation. He gave young Robbie’s hair a firm ruffle. “Ye’re wanting a word with me, mate,” he said to Rene’s husband.

“Aye, if ye can spare a couple of minutes,” Gary replied, glancing briefly at the other members of the committee, who pressed claustrophobically around them.

Terry turned to his fellow domino players and waved his raised hands towards their table, as if guiding back a reversing car. “Go on, lads, just get on with the game. I’ll be over once I’m through talking with Gary.”

“But what if it concerns Rene?” Stan blustered out. “I am the chairman—”

“I know y’are, Stan,” Terry interjected in a quiet, diplomatic tone, “and if any part of our discussion might have some relevance to those business matters over which you ’ave jurisdiction, then of course I will inform you of them accordingly.”

“Right,” Stan said, shrugging up his tweedy shoulders importantly. “That’s fair enough. Come on, lads, let’s return to the table and allow Terry time to converse with Gary.”

“Sorry about that,” Terry said to Gary once he had seen the four members of the committee settle themselves back at the table. “Stan likes to do things by the book.”

“Might be better if someone ’it ’im over the ’ead with one.”

Terry laughed. “Aye, ye might be right.” He leaned an elbow on the bar. “Fancy a pint or summat?”

“Just a Coke would do me, thanks.”

“And what about you lot?” Terry asked, looking down at Gary’s children. “Shall we make it four rounds of Coca-Cola?”

Robbie and Karen nodded in agreement to the idea.

Terry turned to the bar girl. “Mags, make it four glasses of Coca-Cola and give the kids a set of those darts ye keep behind the bar. They can knock ’ell out of the dartboard for a moment while Gary and I have a chat.”

The two men carried their glasses over to the table in the farthest corner from where the game of dominoes had resumed and sat down.

“So, ’ow ’ave things been with you?” Terry asked. “Any luck yet on the job front?”

Gary shook his head. “Not yet.” He lit up a cigarette and then looked around the interior of Andy’s, as if embarrassed to make eye contact with Terry. “Listen, mate, I never said owt to you that day we put Rene on the train, but the first thing I want to do is to apologize for being bloody rude that time ye came round to see ’er. I ’ad no right.”

Terry waved his hand dismissively. “No need to do that, lad. As I said then, I understand your situation.”

“Aye, maybe, but ye shouldn’t ’ave been the one to cop the flak for my frustration.”

“Enough said,” replied Terry, taking a drink from his glass. “So ’ave you ’eard from ’er?”

“Aye, I ’ave.”

“’Ow’s she getting on?”

“Not too good, I don’t think.”

“Oh?” Terry leaned forward on the table, a look of concern on his thin face. “What’s gone wrong?”

“It’s just not working for ’er. I spoke to ’er two nights ago and she said she’s not getting the punters coming to ’er show and she’s dead worried she’s going to end up ’aving to foot the bill at the end of the run.”

“She don’t ’ave to worry about that!” Terry exclaimed. “That’s all taken care of!”

“Aye, well, that’s just one of ’er problems. She’s living in some bloody awful out-of-the-way place and she ’as to be out of the ’ouse for most of the day.”

“Can’t she find some place else to stay?”

“She was going to ’ead off this morning to see if she could find out about that, but I tell you, Terry, it took all me limited powers of persuasion to stop ’er from packing ’er bags and coming ’ome.”

“Oh, bloody ’ell,” Terry murmured, running a hand lightly over his Teddy boy quiff. “That doesn’t sound too good, does it?”

“Not really.”

“Mind you, there’s another week and an ’alf to go. If she can stick it out, things could change.”

Gary shrugged. “Aye, they could, but it’s my way of thinking what she could do with is a bit of encouragement from the ’ome crowd.”

“What are ye saying?”

“Well, it’s the last thing I can afford to do, but I’m going to take the kids up to Edinburgh at the weekend to go see her show. Give ’er a bit of moral support, sort of thing.” He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. “I was wondering if ye might like to come with us.”

Terry repeatedly sucked on his teeth as he contemplated Gary’s suggestion. “Mate, I don’t think there’s any way I can make it this weekend. I’ve got that much work on. I don’t suppose you could leave it until the following one?”

Gary’s laugh had a cynical edge to it. “There’s nowt pressing in my life right now, Terry. I could make it any weekend. The only thing about that is we’d be only there for Rene’s last show, but I don’t suppose it would matter too much.”

“You could all travel back to ’Artlepool together, then.”

“Aye, that’s true.” He pulled another cigarette from the packet and lit it. “Okay, let’s make it next weekend.”

Terry flicked his head towards the group of domino players at the far end of the room. “What about that lot? I don’t think I’d make myself that popular if I ’eld back on telling them our plans.”

Gary took a long drag on his cigarette. “Tell ’em, then. I don’t mind if they all come. They deserve it, really, ’aving raised all that money for Rene. Anyway, it’ll help swell ’er audience, even if it is only for the last night.” He drained his glass of Coca-Cola and got to his feet. “Well, I’d better take the kids back to do their ’omework.”

“’Ow’re you planning on getting up to Edinburgh?” Terry asked.

“I ’ad’nt really thought. Probably by train, though I sure as ’ell can’t afford it.”

“In that case, I suppose we could take me van. Strictly illegal, but I’m quite ’appy to risk it.”

“D’ye reckon it would make it?”

Terry laughed. “Aye, I reckon. I’ll do a bit of tinkering with the engine beforehand and get a new exhaust stuck on. It’s long overdue.”