Starburst (41 page)

Karen Brownlow tugged on her father’s jacket sleeve and Gary bent down so that she could whisper something in his ear. Gary nodded and straightened up and leaned close to Terry. “Kids can’t see. Can you stick Karen on yer shoulders and I’ll take Robbie?”

Terry gave the young Brownlow boy a hand to clamber onto his dad’s shoulders before hefting up Karen onto his own. “Who’s the other woman with Rene?” he said to Gary.

“No idea. I’ve never seen ’er before in me life.”

“They seem to work well together.”

“Aye, they do.”

As they spoke, Rene walked across the stage and put a hand on the redhead’s arm, cutting her off in mid-sentence. Rene turned, narrowing her eyes in the glare of stage lights, and looked up into the obscurity of the auditorium, directly to where Gary and Terry and the rest of the Hartlepool crew were standing.

“I’ve got great ’earing, you know,” she called out. “Matti and me are dying for a rest, so seeing as you lot at the back seem to be in a talkative mood, we’d much appreciate it if you came down ’ere and did the show for us, so’s we can get off to our beds.”

The audience tittered, and to a man turned round and looked towards the back of the auditorium, an action that made the committee members of Andersons Westbourne Social Club cast embarrassed glances from one to the other.

“Oh, shurrup, girl, and just get on with it,” Gary called out at the top of his voice.

Rene’s mouth fell open in amazement and she walked to the front of the stage, shielding her eyes with her hand as she sought out the location of the heckler. “Gary?” she said in a querying voice.

Terry took over the shout. “Aye, get on with the show, lass. You just show ’em ’ow it’s meant to be done.”

On hearing those all-too-familiar words, Rene started to laugh. “You ’n all, Terry?”

The red-haired girl put her hands on her hips and scowled impatiently at her partner. “Here, Yorkie, are you just going to gawp at the audience all night, or shall we continue? They’ve all paid good money, you know.”

“Oh, keep yer ’air on,” Rene replied as she returned to stand beside her fellow comedienne. She put a hand to her chin as she pensively scrutinized the untidy mass of red curls that tumbled around Matti’s moonlike face. “On second thought…”

And with that they slipped back into their routine, the initial slanging match between them turning, as it had done over the past eighteen shows, into a hilarious and warm-hearted ad-lib session that had both performers and audience alike falling over one another in laughter. An hour and a half later, after Rene and Matti had taken at least three more curtain calls than at any of their previous performances, the lights in the auditorium brightened and the audience rose from their seats in a hum of excitement and good humour.

“That was bloody marvellous!” Terry said, lifting Karen from his shoulders and putting her down on the floor. “What d’ye think of yer mam, lass?”

“Can we go and see ’er now?” was all that Karen had to say in reply.

Terry rubbed a hand gently on her head. “Aye, I’m sure we can.”

The girl who had shown them in led the Hartlepool party round the back of the stage to the small dressing room where Rene and Matti sat, slumped and exhausted, on a couple of wooden chairs.

“Oh, my Go-o-o-od!” Rene cried out, jumping to her feet when Robbie and Karen rushed towards her. She put her arms around them both and held them tight against her, raining kisses on their heads. “Oh, ’ow I’ve missed you lot.”

“My word, Rene, you’ve got a real fan club here, haven’t you?” Matti remarked as she surveyed the six faces peering round the doorway at differing heights.

Rene raised her eyes from her children’s heads and glanced towards the door. “Oh, for goodness’ sakes, you’re all ’ere,” she laughed, letting go of her children and hurrying over to the door, giving each of the committee members a kiss on the cheek. “How wonderful ye’ve all come. Whose bright idea was this?”

“Gary’s,” Terry replied. “’E thought you needed some moral support, but obviously ’e got the wrong end of the stick.”

Rene grinned at her husband. “Oh, you beauty, come ’ere,” she said, grabbing hold of his hand and dragging him round the side wing and out onto the stage. She reached up and pulled his face down to hers and gave him a long, smacking kiss on the lips. “Ye’re a great man, Gary Brownlow, so y’are.”

“Not ’alf as great as you. That was a bloody fantastic show.”

“D’ye really think so?”

Gary clenched his fist. “Just the best, lass, just the best.”

Rene gave him another long kiss before letting go his face and taking hold of his hand once more. “So tell me, ’ow’s it been?”

“No problems. We managed fine, but we ’aven’t ’alf missed ye.”

Rene squeezed his hand. “And I’ve missed you lot so much as well. Dare I ask ’ow the job ’unting’s going?”

Gary smiled and gave her a wink. “Don’t let’s talk about that. Tonight’s your night,” he said, leading her back to the edge of the stage, “so let’s get celebrating.”

As they squeezed back into the changing room, Matti popped the cork on the second of the two bottles of Cava she and Rene had bought to celebrate their last night. “You’re the only two without,” she said, pouring the frothing liquid into two paper cups and handing them to Gary and Rene.

“Gary, this is Matti,” Rene said, grinning at the redhead. “She’s my new partner.”

Gary leaned towards her and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Please to meet you, lass. I was just saying to Rene you two were just tops tonight.”

Matti raised her eyebrows in appreciation of the compliment, and without taking her eyes off Gary, she gave Rene a nudge on the arm. “Oh, I like him, girl. Has he got a brother?”

“If I could ’ave yer attention for a moment, please,” Stan Morris called out above the laughter that ensued, “I would like ye all to raise yer glasses and drink a toast to the future success of these two girls, and I am pleased that it was due to my efforts—and of course, the other committee members of Andersons Westbourne Social Club—that talent such as Rene’s has had a chance to be aired at a time when—”

“Oh, do shut up, Stan,” Terry cut in with a laugh, holding his paper mug in the air. “’Ere’s to ye both. Ye really showed them out there tonight.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” a softly spoken American voice interjected. Everyone turned, their cups halfway to their mouths, as they stared at the smartly dressed woman with coiffured hair and glistening diamond studs in her ears who stood leaning against the doorpost. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Not at all. Come in and join us,” Rene said, picking up a spare cup of sparkling wine from the dressing table and carrying it over to her. The woman took the cup and held out her hand to Rene.

“It’s Rene, isn’t it?”

Rene nodded as she shook her hand.

“My name’s Mary Steinhouse. I’ve been in the audience for the last three nights, and I just wanted to say how much I’ve enjoyed your show. You and Matti have one of the most refreshingly original acts I’ve seen for a long time.”

“Thanks for that,” Rene replied, glancing round at Matti and shooting her a wink.

“And I’m sorry that I had to come round here and cut in on your celebrations,” the woman continued, “only I’m heading back to the States first thing tomorrow morning, and I really wanted to see you both before leaving.”

“Oh aye?” Rene said, a questioning frown on her face.

“You see, my husband and I sponsor a large cultural festival held annually in Boston, and it just happens that it goes back-to-back with the one here in Edinburgh. I come over each year and seek out the best acts on the Fringe and invite them over to the States to take part in our festival, and I was very much hoping you and Matti might consider coming.”

Rene’s jaw dropped. “Are ye being serious?” She turned to Matti, seeing her face register similar disbelief. “When would this be?”

“The week after next. I’m returning here for the Saturday-night fireworks concert, which I adore, and then those acts I have chosen to take part in our festival will fly back with me on the Sunday.” She paused, tilting her head to the side. “That is why, I’m afraid, I need an answer as soon as possible.”

Gary cleared his throat self-consciously. “I can’t speak for Matti, but as far as Rene is concerned, she can do it.”

Rene looked at her husband, her heart missing a beat and emotion pricking her eyes at the support he was continuing to show for her. “Gary?” she said quietly.

“What about it, Matti?” Gary said, pressing her for an answer.

“Oh, God, yes!” Matti exclaimed, coming over to Rene and throwing her arms around her. “Yes, yes, yes!”

“I’m so glad,” Mary said with a clap of her hands. “So, if we could meet up next Saturday afternoon at the Balmoral Hotel in Princes Street. I have half a dozen rooms booked, so you are invited to stay with me there. We’ll have an early-evening reception, during which I will brief all those who are coming as to what will be happening during the following week, and then afterwards we can all go out to watch the fireworks together. How does that sound?”

Rene uncoupled Matti’s arms from around her neck and drew a hand across her damp cheeks, biting at her bottom lip. “I can’t go.”

Her remark caused a rumble of concern to sweep around the room.

“You can’t?” Mary queried.

“No…not without my family, that is. I’ve been away from them for three weeks and I need to spend some time with them.”

Gary came forward and put a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Come on, Rene, we’ll be—”

“No, Gary,” she cut in, shrugging his hand away. “I’ve made up me mind.” She smiled apologetically at the American woman. “I can only go if me family comes too.”

Mary glanced at the strange little group in the room. “What,
all
of them?” she asked in a surprised voice.

Rene spluttered out a laugh. “No, just me husband and the kids.”

Mary shrugged resignedly. “All right, I don’t see why not. I’m sure we can find somewhere for you all to stay.”

Rene grinned at her. “In that case, yes, as long as we can get all our papers done by then. America, ’ere we come.”

“Wonderful,” Mary said, pushing herself away from the doorpost. “Until next Saturday, then, and enjoy your celebrations. You really deserve it, both of you.”

After she had left there was a momentary silence in the room before Matti let out a whoop of joy, and grabbing hold of the first person she could lay her hands on, who just happened to be sombre Derek Marsham, she began dancing around the room with him. Rene put her arms around her husband’s waist and pulled herself against him, leaning her head against his chest. “I think you’d better pinch me ’ard,” she said quietly.

“What?”

“Is this really all ’appening?”

Gary gave his wife a kiss on the top of the head. “Aye, I think it is, lass.”

Having literally danced Derek Marsham off his feet, Matti sat him down on one of the two chairs to catch his breath. “So, what d’you suppose we should do now?” she asked, turning to Rene. “We can’t stay up here for a whole week.”

“If I might be allowed to make a suggestion,” Stan Morris said in subdued tones, already anticipating the usual cry of disapproval. When none came and everyone turned to hear what he had to say, he was, for a moment, too surprised to continue. “Right, well, I was thinking about all this before that lady turned up, and what I’m going to suggest is that I ring up Harold Prendergast at Andy’s and say to ’im that we are very lucky to have available for us one of the star turns of the Festival Fringe—that, of course, being Rene and Matti—and that they would be willing to come to our social club for a five-night run before taking their act over to the United States of America. Understandably, the performance fees would be greater than ’e would ever have considered previously, but I’m sure that a quick call to the newsroom of the
’Artlepool Mail
would ’ave everyone in the borough clamouring at the door for tickets.”

This was greeted with a complete hush as all those in the room contemplated his suggestion. “Well, it was only a thought,” Stan mumbled dejectedly.

“Aye, and a damned good one at that,” Terry said, giving him a congratulatory thump on the shoulder. “You always were the right man for the job, weren’t ye, Stan. Spokesman extraordinaire.” He turned to the assembled company. “Now before there ’appens to be any more interruptions, ladies and gentlemen, let’s get back to unfinished business.” He raised his glass. “’Ere’s to you two girls. Ye’re both on the way to the top, ye are.”

T
he rain eventually came to Edinburgh on the Wednesday evening, more than eight hours later than had been predicted by the weather forecasters. However, it was as if the darkened clouds that had been rolling across the city since the early morning had held hard to their load until then, because the torrential downpour that ensued had every street awash with water, every gutter flowing like a river in spate. Yet the energy and enthusiasm of the festival continued unabated, the post-Fringe straggle of street performers in the High Street pressing on regardless with their shows, sheltering in the lea of buildings or the high-columned entrances to churches, while the tourists and punters and office workers still filled the streets under a seething mass of umbrellas, walking to their next point of interest, or to yet another venue, or to the peaceful sanctity of their homes.

High on the castle battlements, where the wind caught the rain and threw it in violent blasts against the pitted, uneven walls, just as it had done over the past nine hundred years, Roger Dent held hard to the hood of his waterproof jacket as he raced across the courtyard to the steps leading down to the store, jumping over lines of multicore cabling already connected up to the forty-odd slave units that would power the explosions on the night. Hurrying down the steps, he threw open the door and entered into the fuggy interior of the small vaulted room.

“Bloody hell!” he exclaimed, shaking the water from his arms. “That is just filthy out there.”

His crew looked up from the various maintenance jobs they were doing and laughed at his appearance.

“Jeez, mate, you look like a drowned rat,” Phil Kenyon said, getting up from the table and taking a pair of earphones off his head. “How’s about a cup of coffee?”

“Not just yet,” he replied, hanging his sodden jacket on the back of a chair. “I’d rather find out what stage we’re all at. How did you get on with Helen?”

“Really good. The score’s written up with all the cues and the back-timings. We met up with good old Sir Raymond today and went through the whole piece with him, and he seems happy enough with it all.”

“Did you tell him to watch the speed when he’s conducting?”

“Yeah, he listened to the recording we used to set up the programme, and he reckons he’ll be able to stick quite close to that.”

Roger let out a nervous sigh. “Well, as long as he doesn’t tense up on the night and rockets through the whole thing. We just don’t have the leeway for it to under-run.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much about that. The old boy seems pretty laid-back about everything.”

Roger nodded and turned his attention to the small bespectacled figure of Graham Slattery, the computer programmer from IBM. “Gray, what’s the story with the bell wire?”

“Annie and I have got about six hundred metres of the stuff laid out. The tunnel, the gardens and the ground under the gun are all wired, which just leaves the rock face to be done.”

Roger stared at the man, a look of thunder on his face, his eyes burning with anger. “What the
hell
do you mean, the rock face has to be done? The riggers were supposed to have that completed today.”

Graham’s face coloured when the rest of the crew turned to look at him. “It started to rain, Rog. They said it was too dangerous.”

“Jesus, that’s what I pay them for, to risk their sodding necks. What happens if it rains tomorrow? Are they expecting to sit around drinking tea all bloody day?”

Graham cleared his throat, summing up courage to continue. “They don’t like the idea of doing the rock face, Rog. It’s never been done before, and they just reckon it’s not on.”

“I couldn’t give a damn what they think. This is my final show and it’s bloody well going to be done.”

“Don’t get yourself all stressed up, mate,” Phil cut in, realizing Graham was in need of some moral support. “We’ll get it done tomorrow.”

“We don’t have time tomorrow, Phil,” Roger exclaimed, grabbing a web harness and karabiner off a hook on the wall. “We’re behind schedule as it is. If this isn’t done tonight, there’s no hope of us being ready on time.”

“Hell, Rog, you’re not thinking of doing it now?”

Roger bent down and picked up a coil of thick climbing rope off the floor. “Too right I am.”

“But it’s bloody near dark! You’ll kill yourself.”

Roger threw him the rope. “Not as long as you’re holding on to the other end of this.” Taking his jacket down from the wall, he pulled it on and picked up a large drum of bell wire from the corner of the store. “Right, are you coming?”

Phil glanced at the concerned faces of the crew and shook his head slowly as he picked up his jacket. “You’re mad as a bull with ticks, mate.”

Roger beamed a smile around the room. “Of course I am. That’s why I’m in this business.”

Fifteen metres below the parapet of the castle, Roger flattened himself against the rock face as the wind tore the jacket hood off his head, the incessant rain soaking his hair even before he had managed to search out his next handhold on the slippery surface of the rock. He was getting into a routine now. Handhold first, then foothold, then uncoil the bell wire from the drum suspended from his waist. It was all right as long as he didn’t look down. Whatever happened, he didn’t want to look down. He was working so fast he felt the rope above him go slack and he realized Phil wasn’t keeping up with him.

“Phil?” he yelled out as loud as he could.

“You all right, mate?” he heard Phil’s faint voice shout out from above.

“Keep the rope taut.”

“Sorry, will do.”

Roger felt the rope once more reassuringly take his weight.

“How many of you have got hold of it?” he called up.

“All of us” came the reply.

Roger smiled to himself as he put out his hand and felt for the next cleft in the rock. Only a few metres more and then he could start making his way back up to the safety of the terrace. Not before time, either. His hands were beginning to cramp up and the muscles in his arms were exhausted. He pushed his fingers deep into a crevice and swung his leg out, but as he did so his hand went numb and he lost his grip. He let out a cry as he dropped away and spun around in open air before the rope jerked taut, pulling the harness deep into his groin. His back slammed painfully against the solid wall and he swung, unsupported and spreadeagled against the rock face, looking down the sixty-metre drop to Princes Street Gardens below.

“Shit!” he murmured as he gulped in air.

“Rog?” Phil’s worried voice yelled out from above. “What’s happened? You all right, mate?”

Roger took in a deep steadying breath. “Yeah, I’m fine. I lost my grip.” He let out a laugh of relief. “I think my balls have shot up into my throat, though.”

Phil laughed. “Well, you’re not sounding like a choirboy, so your manhood’s obviously still intact.”

“Thanks for that,” Roger replied, not bothering if his colleague heard him or not. He closed his eyes and laid his head back against the rock. “Phil?” he called back.

“Yeah?”

“Is the rope safe?”

“As houses. We’ve wound it round one of the bollards.”

“I need a couple of minutes to recover.”

“No worries. Take your time.”

Roger relaxed his body and stretched his arms out to the side to relieve his knotted muscles as he looked out across the glistening lights of Princes Street and over the roofs of the New Town, and it suddenly dawned on him that, as he hung there, high and isolated above the streets of Edinburgh, he felt strangely like the statue of Christ the Redeemer on the pinnacle of Corcovado above the city of Rio de Janeiro, enfolding its inhabitants in the benevolent protection of his arms. And in that moment he felt neither sacrilegious nor irreverent to think such a thing, and he wondered to himself if fate had not brought him to this. Because, for twenty-three years, this had been his city, and those diminutive forms far below him crowding onto buses and driving their cars and walking the streets were his followers, each year thronging to watch the spectacle that he himself conjured up for them from his exalted position high up on the castle walls. He felt a sense of well-being and peace come over him and a sudden overwhelming burst of love for those people radiated through the cold and fatigue in his body. “Bless you all,” he murmured to himself, “and thank you for those years, and when that final starburst lights up the sky, may your paths run true and your lives be filled with peace from then on.”

He broke away from his solitary meditation, feeling a hand along the rock face to find a new hold and heaving himself round so that he was once more facing the wall, and as he began to climb slowly back up towards the parapet, he let out an embarassed laugh. That really was a bit of a weird thing to go and say, he thought to himself. And anyway, what difference would the idiotic pseudo-religious rantings of an ageing old hippie make to anyone’s life?

“Phil?” he called out.

“Yeah, mate” came the distant reply.

“Take the strain again, will you? I’m on my way back up.”