Starburst (7 page)

“
I
don’t know, Gary. I haven’t given it that much thought yet!”

“Well, forgive if I’m wrong, lass, but it sounds as if ye’ve thought about it good and proper!”

Terry got slowly to his feet and pushed the stool under the table. “Look, I’d better get off and leave you two alone to talk about it.” He eased his way between them, and then, with another pensive scratch to his cheek, he turned back and smiled at Rene’s husband. “Listen, Gary, I know it’s ’ard for ye right now. I appreciate it all, mate. I got laid off at the shipyard back in ’92, and it took me an age to get back on me feet after that blow. But you ’ave a wife with an amazing talent, and to ’ave that locked away here in ’Artlepool is a real waste. I mean, she could make a whole load of money doing what she does.”

“And are ye trying to tell me that I’m not capable of making the money then, is that it?” Gary replied irately, taking a step towards Terry.

Terry held up his hands defensively. “No, I never meant that, mate.”

“I’m the one who’s been bringing all the money into this family up until now, Terry, my friend. I wasn’t to know that the bloody Koreans were going to pull the rug out from under our feet because of some sodding ‘global restructuring’ plan.”

“I know, Gary,” Terry said quietly. “I’m sorry, it was never meant to sound that way, ’onest, lad.” He gave Rene a sad smile. “I’ll let meself out.” He opened the door and closed it behind him, and as he stood on the step he blew out a long breath of both regret and relief. He walked around the side of the house, past the weed-ridden rubble and out through the paint-starved gate. The game of football had ceased in the road. No doubt a case of “bad light, stop play,” he thought to himself. He walked over to the van, jerked open the ill-fitting door and got in, cranking up the engine with a roar from the broken exhaust. He was just about to pull away from the curb when again he was made to jump at the sound of something heavy hitting the side of his van. He glanced in his wing mirror only to find Rene standing beside him on the pavement. He rolled down the window.

“All right, lass?” he asked concernedly.

She nodded. “Aye, I’m fine.”

He flicked his thumb over his shoulder. “Sorry about that in there. I didn’t—”

“I’ll do it.”

“What’s that, lass?”

“I’ll do it. I’ll go to Edinburgh for the whole bloody three weeks.”

“What about Gary?”

“For once in me life, Terry, I’m not even going to think about Gary. This is
my
chance, and I want to give it a go. Ye’re right, it’ll never come round again.”

“Ye can still think about it, if ye like.”

“I don’t ’ave to. I’ve made up me mind this is exactly what I want to do.”

Terry gave her a wink. “And, by God, you’ll show ’em, lass.”

He rolled up the window and took off up the cul-de-sac, and as he drew out into the street he couldn’t resist giving three long blasts on his feeble horn, even though he could hardly hear them above the noise from the broken exhaust.

R
oger let out a long groan and pressed the “pause” button on the remote with force. He leaned back in his chair and slapped both hands to his forehead. “Dammit, we should have started on this before now. I just don’t see how on earth we’re going to make it work.”

Phil Kenyon drummed his pencil on the desk as he studied the two pages of roughly drawn diagrams, his supreme confidence at their being able to programme the piece beginning to wane. “I reckon we’re all right for the first fifty-nine seconds. The timings seem to be spot-on.”

“Yes, but that section has the whole orchestra involved. Now we dive into these three quiet passages, followed by two crescendos before we get the volume back again. If we just sequence in a load of flares and fountains, the audience will either end up bored rigid or fall fast asleep by the time we reach that point in the music.”

Phil stuck the pencil behind his ear and pushed himself out of his seat. “We’d better have more coffee,” he said, clamping together the two empty mugs on the desk with his fingers, “otherwise we’ll be in danger of doing the same.”

Roger glanced at his watch. It was only ten past five in the afternoon, but having only managed four hours’ fitful sleep in the past thirty-six hours, all he really felt like doing was crawling into bed and flaking out for an eternity. He pressed the “start” button on the remote and once again listened through the muted string section of the Tchaikovsky piece.

“Okay,” he said, as Phil placed a cup of black coffee on the desk in front of him. “Let’s work first on the crescendos. We don’t want them to overrun, so we’ll use some of those short-timed items we’re getting from Hengyang and then when the volume hits in again, we’ll catch it with a battery of four-inch flash mines. How does that sound?”

Phil took the remote from Roger and scrolled back through the music. As he listened again to the piece, he thumped his fist on the desk, out of time with the music but knowing intuitively each moment of firing. He pressed the remote at the end of the section.

“Yeah, I reckon that would work. We’ll have to back-time the mines by at least two bars, otherwise we’ll lose synchronization when the whole orchestra comes in again.”

“Shall we risk it?” Roger asked, feeling too tired to make a decision on it for himself.

“I don’t see why not,” Phil replied, reaching over to the CD machine and switching it off, “but my suggestion is that we don’t make a decision right now and go sleep on it.”

Roger rubbed both hands at the side of his bearded face. “That’s about the best idea you’ve come up with all day.”

R
ene Brownlow stood watching long after the van had pulled out of sight, its one-time presence in the cul-de-sac still marked by the lingering smell of exhaust fumes. Well, that’s it, then, she thought to herself, ye’ve gone and done it, ’aven’t ye? In the last fifteen minutes, ye’ve made a decision that’s going to change the course of yer life. All right, let’s be practical about it, everything could go belly-up and ye might well end up back here in ’Artlepool with yer tail between yer legs. But so bloody what! An opportunity ’as opened up to get away from this dreary little ’ouse in Clavering, to break into a new world outside of this cold, windy town teetering on the edge of Britain. Not that ’Artlepool is a bad place to live, but thirty-five years is a long time to be stuck here without ’ardly ever going away. A West Docker, through and through, that’s what y’are.

She turned and walked slowly back to the house, and as she reached the gate she stopped and looked back to the end of the street, her face thoughtful as something clicked in her mind. “You’ll show ’em, lass,” that’s what Terry had said. And he’d said it once before, hadn’t he? Rene kicked the gate shut with her foot and then walked along the narrow passage to the back of the house. Aye, it was quite fitting that it was Terry who should break the news. If it hadn’t have been for him in the first place, this whole thing would never have come about.

Saturday night at Andersons Westbourne Social Club was always busy, but on that particular occasion, there was hardly room to move, due to the impending and much publicized visit of Danielle Vine, a young singer who had recently been a finalist on the television show
Stars in your Eyes,
thanks to her superb - yet not quite superb enough to win - impersonation of Celine Dion. Consequently, Harold Prendergast, manager and licensee of the establishment, decided to come out front for a spell so that he could watch with eagle eyes as the money flowed in and out of the three cash tills that were spaced evenly along the shelf at the back of the long bar. He felt this was a necessary precaution, seeing that two weeks before, he’d had to sack one of his eight bar staff for having “light fingers.” Not that he knew for certain it was that particular girl who was the culprit, but losing money in such a way ate into his profits, and he thought it necessary to show the rest of the staff that he would not tolerate such practice. Okay, truth be told, he’d had to pay her off just to keep her mouth shut about what happened, or more to the point, what
hadn’t
happen behind the closed doors of his office, but he’d always considered it a perk of the job, having a bit of fun with the girls, and he wasn’t used to having his advances spurned in quite such a forceful manner.

He leaned against the bottle shelf at the back of the bar and crossed his arms as he eyed the new girl at work. This one wasn’t so much of a looker as the last, her size certainly outweighed her beauty, but there was something definitely sexy about her. It was his theory that a girl could be as pretty as paint, but still exude as much sexual attraction as a cross-eyed donkey. Talking of which, he thought to himself, as he glanced over to the permanently reserved table next to the stage where his wife sat, chatting away primly with her set of friends from Thursday night bingo. With a shake of his head, he turned away from the sight that, over the years, had come to offer him little attraction and found a space between the spirit-dispensing racks to look himself over in the mirror that backed the full length of the bar. He adjusted the striped bow tie, which drooped a fraction to the left, picked at a loose thread on his white double-breasted tuxedo jacket, and with forefinger and thumb smoothed his well-trimmed moustache from centre outwards. Out of the side of his eye he caught sight of the reflection of the new girl, wrestling to control the size of head on a pint of Guinness. He turned, shot a look over to where his wife was seated, before gliding over to the girl and putting his hand on top of hers on the tap.

“Come on, Rene, lass,” he said kindly, “ye’ve been working ’ere two weeks now. Ye should really ’ave mastered the Guinness tap by now.”

Rene looked round and smiled. “Sorry, Mr. Prendergast. I think it’s because Joe’s just changed the barrel.”

“Never mind, we’ll do this one together. Just pour the head off into the waste tray and we’ll try it again.” He pushed up the tap and then eased it down, taking the opportunity to move his hand gently against Rene’s. “There, that’s going wonderfully.” He took another brief glance towards the stage before leaning closer to Rene’s ear. “I think ye’ll manage that now, won’t ye?”

“I think so. Thanks for the help, Mr. Prendergast,” Rene replied.

“That’s what I’m here for,” he said soothingly, putting a hand on her shoulder and giving it a tight squeeze. He started to move away, then turned back and put a pensive finger to his lips. “Actually, Rene, maybe ye could spare me a moment in me office after ye’ve finished that round of drinks. Just a few things I need to say.”

Rene looked anxiously at him. “I can do them most times, Mr. Prendergast. It was just the new—”

“No, no,” he cut in with a smile and a shake of his head. “Nothing serious, lass. Just a couple of encouraging words.”

Five minutes later Harold was seated behind his desk watching the close-circuit television that relayed front-of-house proceedings to his office, when there was a knock on the door. Getting up from his mock-leather executive swivel chair, he ran a hand either side of his parted hair before moving over to the door and opening it.

“Come in, Rene.” He stood aside and ushered her in. “Take a seat over there,” he said, indicating with outstretched hand the chair in front of his desk. Rene smoothed her black skirt over her large bottom and sat down. Harold watched her actions with scrutiny, and then opened up the two doors of an ornate-fronted cabinet that hung on the wall next to a large black-and-white photograph of himself and Bernard Manning, the bear-like comedian, shaking hands with each other onstage.

“I think we could do with a little freshener,” he said, inspecting the bottles in the cupboard. “What would yours be, Rene?”

“Nowt for me, thanks, Mr. Prendergast. I’ve never been a great one for taking a drink.”

“An admirable quality,” he said, unscrewing the top from a bottle of Glendurnich malt whisky and pouring a large shot into a crystal tumbler, “especially when ye work behind a bar. In my book, that’s the kind of thing that can earn a girl like you pretty fast promotion.”

He took a sip from his glass before seating himself on the edge of the desk beside Rene. “So, tell me, how are ye finding the work?”

Rene shrugged. “Fine, I suppose.”

“Not too much of a strain?”

“No.” She snorted out a laugh. “Not when the heaviest thing you have to lift is a pint of beer.”

Harold threw back his head in mirth. “That’s not what I meant, lass, but it’s very funny.” His face became serious. “No, what I really wanted to say to ye, Rene, is that if ever there comes a time when ye
do
feel stressed or ye find that things are beginning to get on top of ye, then ye must know that the door of my office is always open to ye.”

“That’s very kind of ye, Mr. Prendergast.”

“Not at all, Rene,” he said, putting his glass down on the desk and moving around behind her, “because, ye see, I know all about tension, Rene. It just happens to be my speciality.” He placed his hands on Rene’s shoulders and began to knead the back of her neck slowly and rhythmically with his thumbs. He leaned over close and whispered in her right ear. “For I am a man, lass, who has been gifted with ’ealing ’ands.”

“Oh? That’s summat, in’t it?” Rene replied brightly, darting her eyes from side to side in an attempt to work out why he was doing all this. Surely Mr. Prendergast wasn’t trying to come on to her? No, that’s a really stupid thing to think. He wouldn’t pick on a dumpy girl like her, especially tonight of all nights, when the place was jam-packed with punters. And what’s more, he knows there’s a husband kicking about someplace, because she’d told him about Gary losing his job at the interview. No, Rene, you stupid twit, you’re barking up the wrong tree here. Mr. Prendergast is just trying to be kind.

Nevertheless, she wanted it to stop right there and then. She jumped to her feet and circled her arms, easing out her shoulders. “Ooh, that was lovely, Mr. Prendergast. Just set me up right for the rest of the night.” She turned to him and smiled, pointing to the door. “I think I should be getting back now. Work to be done, and all that.”

“No, no, there’s no hurry, lass,” he sang out, taking her by the arm and trying to guide her back to the chair. “That’s only the beginning. I’ve got to work on the full length of yer spine yet.”

Rene pulled her arm away from his grip. Keep smiling at him, she thought to herself. Don’t make it look as if you’re rebuffing him. “No, let’s make it another time, Mr. Prendergast. We shouldn’t really keep the punters waiting, should we?”

Rene saw the hand moving back towards her, but then a knock on the door made the manager retract it immediately and he moved swiftly round the back of his desk and sat down, his face masked in composure.

“Come in,” he called out.

Joe, the assistant manager, put his head round the corner of the door. He gave a brief smile to Rene before looking towards the manager. “We’ve got a no-show, Harold.”

Harold sat bolt upright in his executive chair. “What d’ye mean?”

“Danielle Vine’s mother has just turned up and said her daughter’s come down with tonsillitis.”

Harold slapped a hand to his forehead. “Oh, bloody ’ell! That’s all I need. Can’t she do nowt at all?”

“I doubt it. Seemingly, her throat’s all closed up and it’s gone the colour of a ripe tomato.”

“Please, spare us the details. What about our reserve act, then?”

“Eddie’s away in York doing a show tonight. He told you about it last week.”

Harold scratched the fingers of both hands hard at the back of his head. “Right, then, ye’d better leave me, you two. I’ve got some bloody thinking to do to come up with an act in the next ’alf an ’our.”

With relief, Rene followed Joe out of the office and closed the door behind her. She took in a deep breath and let it out slowly to compose herself before walking along the passage and out into the bar. Most of the customers were sitting at tables, waiting expectantly for the act that Rene knew wasn’t going to happen. The rest of the staff stood in a huddle at the other end of the bar, chatting amongst themselves.

“Be a lass, Rene, and give us a pint of ale.”

Rene turned to see Terry Crosland smiling over the bar at her. She hadn’t been working in Andy’s long enough to put a name to all the regulars, but she knew Terry because there had been a couple of quiet nights when he’d come in by himself and they’d both had a chinwag together. He always struck her as a bit of a loner, but there was something she liked about his quiet and friendly manner.

“Coming up,” she replied quietly, still distracted by what had just happened in the office. Without saying a word, she drew the pint, put it on the bar, took his money and rang it up on the till. She placed his change in front of him and turned away.

“What’s the matter with you tonight, lass? Cat got yer tongue?”

Rene smiled at the man. “No. Sorry, Terry, I’m just feeling a bit…strange right now.”

Terry raised his eyebrows. “Right. Well, that were a tenner I gave ye just then,” he said, knocking a finger on the bar next to his change, “so ye owe me another fiver.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, lad.” She opened up the till and found the ten-pound note slid into the compartment that held the fivers. She moved it over, then took out Terry’s additional change and shut the drawer. “There y’are,” she said, placing the note on the bar. “Sorry about that.”

“So what’s wrong?”

Rene shook her head. “Nowt, really.”

“Well, there must be summat up, because ye haven’t come out with any of yer jokes yet.”

“I can’t tell ye, Terry. Anyway, it’s probably just my imagination, but the thing is I really do need this job, what with Gary being out of work an’ all.”

Terry slowly nodded, his eyes narrowed as he began to understand the situation. “Ye’ve just been in the office with ’Arold Prendergast, haven’t ye?”

Rene stared at him. “What d’ye mean?”

“’E’s tried to come on to ye, ’asn’t he?”

Rene leaned forward on the bar, relieved that someone else had knowledge of her predicament. “’Ow d’ye know that?” she asked secretively. “I mean, ’as ’e done it before?”

“Not that anyone would suspect, lass, but aye, ’e’s done it before…countless times.”

“Who knows about it, then?”

“You, me, and the other girls who have had to leave because they told ’im to get lost!”

“’Ow come you know?”

“Because I found out about it from the first girl that it ’appened to. Met ’er outside in tears just after she’d been given the sack. She was still ’olding the money in ’er ’and that ’e’d given her to keep ’er mouth shut.”

“And ye’ve done nowt about it?”

Terry shook his head. “I know, it doesn’t sound right, does it? The man’s definitely got it coming to ’im, but the opportunity’s never come up.”

Rene looked at him questioningly. “I don’t understand.”

Terry turned round, his eyes looking towards the table by the stage. “You see that group of women over there?”

“Aye.”

“Third one from the left is ’Arold’s wife.”

Rene stared with wide eyes in the direction of the stage. “I don’t believe it. D’you mean to say ’e’d try it on with…with ’is
wife
here?”

“That’s the kind of man ’e is.”

Rene let out a long puff of breath. “What a bloody
scumbag!
”

“Exactly,” said Terry, turning back to face her. “So that’s what I mean about the opportunity not coming up yet, but it soon will, Rene my girl, you mark my words.”

Rene did not say anything for a moment, but stood biting her lip and eyeing the stage, her eyes deep-set with hostility.