Starburst (9 page)

Leonard observed the man for a moment, his eyes and forehead creased in question. “Did I just hear you correctly?”

Nick laughed. “Yes, you did.”

“To do what?”

“A job for me. I want you to film a Japanese dance company at the Edinburgh Festival in August.”

Leonard continued to stare at Nick, and then, with a slow, disbelieving shake of his head, he turned and fixed his eyes in silence on the electric fire.

“Look, Leonard, let me explain the situation,” Nick said, leaning so far forward with intent that his bottom was only just in contact with the edge of the armchair. “I received a telephone call last week from an old friend of mine, Alasdair Dreyfuss. I used to play tennis with him on a regular basis at Queen’s Club before he moved north to become director of the Edinburgh Festival. He told me one of the big Japanese conglomerates is sponsoring this traditional dance company at the festival this year, and consequently one of the broadcast companies from Tokyo has been in contact with me, asking if I could arrange the filming of the event. There are, however, certain stipulations, or a better word might be ‘complications’ attached, in that the commissioner has given express instructions it should be shot on film rather than on video, so that, in his words, ‘the essence of the dance can be captured in its purest and most natural form. ’”

Nick was becoming uneasy at Leonard’s total lack of response to his proposal, but he decided to continue with his explanation.

“Now to be quite honest, Leonard, my line of work is strictly corporate, and we have always centred our business on video production, but the moment that Alasdair told me about this particular project, my mind was taken back to that job we did with the Royal Ballet—”

“That was all of thirty years ago, Nick,” Leonard cut in quietly.

“I know it was, but you said yourself that the knowledge is still there.”

“Maybe so, but that doesn’t mean I could suddenly take on a job like this. For heaven’s sakes, I’m seventy-two years old, Nick!”

“So? There are plenty of DOPs still working at your age, and if I’m not very much mistaken, the great Freddie Young was still making films way into his nineties! I’d get you a full working crew, Leonard. You wouldn’t have to lift a finger other than just light the set and shoot it.”

Leonard slowly shook his head. “My word, Nick, what an extraordinary proposal.”

“Three weeks of shooting in August, Leonard. That’s all it would be. I’m not asking you to head off for four months to shoot a feature. Three weeks and you just make your own time. The dance company knows it’s to be part of the sponsorship agreement to have the show filmed and therefore the director of the company will go out of his way to help you.”

Leonard bit at the corner of his mouth. “You said I would have to light the set. Surely the company would be performing in a theatre with fixed lighting.”

“I’m going to send a location scout up to Edinburgh to see if he can’t find an unused warehouse with a three-phase supply, just in case you want to use heavy lighting. I would suggest that some you shoot under theatre light during the performance to get the atmosphere and the rest you shoot in the warehouse.”

“How would that edit?” Leonard’s eyebrows arched with worry. “And what about film stock? For goodness’ sakes, Nick, I’m so out of touch, I wouldn’t have the first idea what to use!”

“We have three months before the festival, Leonard, and by the time it comes around, I’ll make sure you know as much about the equipment and the film stock and the lighting as you did thirty years ago. It would be as if you’d never left the industry.”

Leonard rubbed at his forehead with splayed fingers, as if kneading away a headache. “I really don’t understand why you are suggesting all this to me, Nick.”

“Well, truth be told, I did have someone else lined up to do the job, but he asked if I could let him off the hook so he could go shoot a big-money documentary in Canada.” He clicked his fingers. “And then you just happened to spring to mind, Leonard, because word still has it in the world of cinematography that no one has ever come close to being able to film the medium of dance as well as you.”

Leonard thought to rebuff the remark, but then felt such a sudden and long-lost feeling of pride and achievement well in his being that he realized he had no wish to suppress the compliment.

“This could turn out to be your definitive film, you know,” Nick said quietly, taking the retired cameraman’s silence as need for further encouragement. “Why not take the chance to achieve it?”

“I would have to speak to Grace about it,” Leonard replied eventually.

“Of course,” Nick said, shifting back in the armchair with relief, knowing now he had managed to sow the seed of acceptance. “I’ll give you a call in the next couple of days and you can let me know your answer. And if it’s yes, then we’ll start the ball rolling.” He pushed back the cuff-linked sleeve of his shirt and glanced at the Rolex watch on his wrist. “I must be on my way. I have a lunch meeting in the West End at one.” He sprang to his feet and stood as Leonard raised himself stiffly from the sofa.

He moved slowly to the door, opened it and ushered Nick out into the hall.

“It was very good of you to remember me, Nick,” Leonard said, undoing the Yale lock on the front door. He held out a hand and when Nick grasped it with his own, Leonard wrapped his other hand over it and gave it an affectionate squeeze. “I’ll have an answer for you when you call.”

“I do hope you take the job, my friend. I feel I’d be repaying a great debt to humankind if I managed to persuade the great Leonard Hartson to get himself back behind the camera.”

Leonard followed the tall man out onto the gravelled path and stood watching as he opened and closed the gate and then slid himself into the dark green Jaguar parked by the pavement. As the car sped away, he turned to find Grace leaning over a sad-looking azalea bush, plucking away some of its withered leaves.

“Hullo there, Gracie,” he said absently.

“This doesn’t seem to be doing very well here, Leonard. I think we should move it to the back garden.” She straightened up and turned her gaze to the Jaguar as it turned out onto the main road and vanished out of sight. “What a nice man that is.”

“Yes, he is,” Leonard replied quietly as he watched his wife.

“He has a very loud voice, though. Do you think that’s requisite for being successful in business nowadays?” She turned to look at her husband and her face broke into a broad grin when she witnessed a sparkle in his eyes she knew had been absent for so many years.

“What?” he asked, perplexed by this sudden burst of humour.

Taking a step towards him, Grace put her hands on his shoulders and planted a long kiss on the side of his cheek. “Are you going to do it, then?” she asked.

He pushed himself away from her, taking hold of both her hands and giving them a squeeze. “I don’t know. The idea of it all fills me with fear, but at the same time I am honoured he should have asked me. What do you think, Gracie?”

His wife was silent for a moment before replying. “I could give many reasons why you should
not
do it, my dear,” she said. “I would worry about you, about your health and about your physical ability to take on a project such as this. But this is not about me, Leonard. You have been given a challenge and an opportunity to counter all those lost years away from the industry that you so dearly loved.” She gave his hands a solid shake. “So I would suggest you go for it, give yourself this chance, and I am sure no one will be disappointed in what you achieve, least of all yourself.”

F
red Brownlow gave himself the once-over in the mirror that hung in the narrow hallway of the terraced council house in Wilson Street, Hartlepool. Taking hold of the lapels of his blazer, he gave them a sharp tug, adjusting the fit across his broad shoulders, before giving the sleeves a brisk smooth-down with his hands and turning slightly so that the shaded ceiling light shone on the gold-threaded emblem on his breast pocket. He stood to attention, admiring his turnout just as he had done three decades before when serving as a company sergeant major with the Durham Light Infantry.

“Is that you ready to go?”

He turned to see his wife come along the passage from the kitchen. She was wearing her “indoors” attire, a floral housecoat with woolly bedroom slippers, and those sparkling eyes that had attracted his attention almost forty-two years ago were made brighter still by the blue frames of her spectacles.

“Aye, Agnes me luv,” he said, taking the white cap down from the hook on the hallstand and fitting it snugly onto his head. “Ready for action.”

Agnes approached him and began to scrutinize the front of the white V-necked sweater he wore under his blazer. “That stain came out nicely, didn’t it? You make sure to use a paper napkin now when ye ’ave yer tea after the match. No more chocolate down yer front.”

Fred laughed. “I’ll be a good lad, Mother,” he said, giving her a kiss on the forehead. He took a bunch of keys from the stand and put them in the pocket of his light grey slacks, and then scooped up the bag that contained his bowls from the floor. “I’ll not be late the night. I said I’d give Bert a ’and at his allotment tomorrow.”

“Right. Well, play well and don’t get all moody if ye get beaten.”

Fred flicked back his head at such a notion. “As if I ever do,” he scoffed.

And as he left the house, Agnes gave a shake of her head. Although to anyone else her husband’s answer may have sounded ambiguous, she knew from experience that one followed the other more often than he cared to admit.

Fred closed the latch on the iron gate, giving a proud glance at the tidiness of his cobbled front patio, and began to walk up Wilson Street. As he hit his stride, he caught sight of the man with the two children walking towards him, seemingly unaware of his presence. He quickly sidestepped off the pavement and crouched down in front of a parked car, but he had hardly time to complete his act of concealment before two high-pitched yells rang out and the slap-slapping of feet came running up the pavement towards him.

“We know ye’re there, Grandpa!” he heard the voice of his grandson call out. “We saw you ’iding!”

Fred stood up just as Robbie came to stand beside the car, a beaming smile on his face. “Rats! I thought I’d managed to outsmart ye that time,” he said, giving the boy’s hair a rough tousle. He turned just as Karen reached him and launched herself into his arms.

“Oh, my word!” he cried out, dropping his bowling bag to the ground with a clatter and catching her up and swinging her around in a full circle. “Ye’re almost getting too big for that kind of thing, lass. Nearly had your old grandpa off his feet.” He put her down and gave his son a welcoming flick of his head as he approached. “’Ow ye’re doin’, Gary? All well?”

“Aye, good enough,” Gary replied sullenly, dropping his cigarette butt to the ground and grinding it out underfoot.

“Come to pay us a visit, ’ave ye?”

“That was the idea, but looks like ye’re on the way out.”

“Aye, I’ve got a bowling match on. Semi-finals of the district league.” He cocked his head back towards the house. “Yer mother’s in, though. Go pay her a visit. She’d like to see the kids.”

“Ah’ll do that.”

“No luck yet, then, with the job-’unting?”

Gary shook his head. “Bugger all. There’s nowt much doing.”

Fred gave his son’s arm an encouraging squeeze. “Ah, well, summat’ll turn up, lad. Keep yer spirits up.” He picked up his bag. “Best be off, then. Can’t keep the boys waiting.”

“See and play well,” Gary replied, raising a hand in farewell as he turned to follow the children, who had already disappeared into the house.

The television in the front room was on at full volume when Gary shut the front door behind him. He glanced into the room in passing and saw Robbie and Karen squeezed together into one of the maroon velour armchairs, their eyes transfixed on the screen.

“What d’ye think ye’re doing?” Gary asked heatedly as he entered the room. “Ye’re here to see yer nan.”

“She said we could,” Robbie replied, turning to him with a plaintive look on his face.

“Aye, I did that,” Agnes said as she came in carrying two glasses of orange juice. She placed them down on the lace mat she had arranged on the small occasional table next to the children’s armchair. “Fancy a cup of tea, luv?” she asked, giving her son’s arm a loving rub.

“Aye, that would be grand.”

“We’ll go through to the kitchen, then, and leave these two to their programme.”

Gary followed the small figure with her neat grey curls along the narrow passage to the kitchen. He pulled out a stool at the end of the Formica-topped table and sat down, instinctively putting his hand to the breast pocket of his shirt for a cigarette. He stopped, remembering that his mother had banned smoking in the house since the day her husband had stalwartly kicked the habit six months before.

“Rene working today?” Agnes asked, freshening up the brew in the china teapot with boiling water.

“Aye, she was asked to do the afternoon shift down at Andy’s.” Gary drummed his fingers agitatedly on the table. He really could do with a cigarette. “Probably just as well. She’s not in the best mood with me.”

“’Ow’s that, luv?” Agnes asked concernedly as she poured out two mugs of tea.

Gary let out a long sigh. “This lad from Andy’s came round the other day, said that they’d been raising money to send Rene off to Scotland for this Edinburgh Festival thing, you know, to do her comedy turn, and she wants to do it—only I’ve sort of put a dampener on the whole idea.”

“Oh? Why’s that, then?” Agnes asked, concentrating on carrying the brimming mugs over to the table.

“Because it was for three weeks, Mum, that’s why! She can’t go off for that length of time. Anyway, it’s just when the kids will be getting ready to go back to school.”

Agnes sat down opposite her son. “And that makes a difference, does it?”

“Of course it makes a difference!”

“Why?”

“Well, because…” Gary hesitated, his eyes flashing around the small orange-walled room. “’Ere, I thought you’d support my point of view on this one.”

“Oh, luv, I am supportive of you, and the lads at Andy’s must be pretty supportive of Rene as well if they’re willing to pool their ’ard-earned cash to send ’er all the way up to Scotland to do ’er comedy bit. They must think she’s really good.”

“Oh, she is. There’s no question about that,” Gary replied with enthusiasm. “It’s just that…” He paused and Agnes noticed his shoulders slump with dejection.

“Just what, luv?”

“I was ’oping I might ’ave found meself a job by then.”

Agnes reached across the table and patted her son’s hand. “And I’m sure ye will, Gary, but even when that happens, we can all still manage. I can do my bit with the kids and so can yer dad. It’s a pleasure for us, ye know.” She gave a thoughtful shake of her head. “She’s a real brave one, is our Rene.”

“’Ow d’ye mean?”

“Well, she’s considering taking off from ’Artlepool, a place she’s ’ardly left in her life, and spending three weeks away from ’er family in a place where she’ll know absolutely nobody. That’s not a decision to be made by the faint-hearted. She must really feel she can make a success of ’erself at this festival.”

Gary bit at his lip as he watched his mother smiling encouragingly at him. “All right, I get yer point.”

“In that case, why not just get right behind ’er and give ’er the encouragement she needs? After all, ye never know what might come of all this.”

Gary nodded slowly. “Ye reckon she should go then.”

“Absolutely, and if ye want to show how much ye love her, which I know ye do, then ye’ll be waving her off up to Scotland with flags unfurled.”

At that moment, Karen sidled into the kitchen and came over to sit on her father’s knee. “Dad, I’m feeling hungry,” she said, looping an arm around his neck.

“Are ye, my luv?” Agnes said, pushing herself to her feet. “In that case, what d’ye say to yer nan making us all a nice big plate of bangers and mash?”

Gary laughed and gave his daughter a tight squeeze. “I think we’d all say that’s a great idea, Nan, wouldn’t we, darlin’.”