Skinner's Festival Page 9
theatre, used by the ragbag of idealists and solo performers who, unable to find or fund a venue, flock to the Fringe regardless, ready to make use of even the crudest stage to further their dreams of glory.
Bob and Sarah saw Alex before she spotted them. Wearing her stage make-up, she stood at the top of the stairway which led into Pleasance Theatre 2. Her eyes scanned the crowd; her arms were folded tight across her chest and her brow was knitted with impatience – and gathering disappointment. Even caught off guard, the girl still looked stunning: tall and slim, with big, round blue eyes and a jumble of long dark hair, shining with natural highlights, which fell around her wide shoulders like a shawl.
As they approached. Bob and Sarah saw her rise on her toes, stretching up to peer as far into the crowd as she could. Then, with a shrug of frustration, she dropped back on to her heels and made as if to turn away.
“Alex!’
At Sarah’s cry, she turned and caught sight of them at last, as they reached the end of a snaking queue of around forty people leading towards and then up the stairway entrance.
'Where have you two been?’ she called down to them. 'I was beginning to feel like I’d been stood up. Listen, when you get in, do me a favour and sit well to the back. I don’t want to be able to see either of you, or catch your eye during the show, in case it makes me freeze. Wish me luck!’
Bob smiled up at her. 'Break a leg, kid, or whatever!’ he shouted. Sarah blew her a kiss. Alex waved to them and disappeared into the theatre.
There were only a few of the steeply tiered seats left when they entered, but they found two in the third row from the back, close to a spotlight. None of the cast would look in that direction for fear of being blinded.
Alexis Skinner was five weeks short of her twenty-first birthday. She was the only child of Bob’s youthful first marriage, which had been cut tragically short by the death of his wife in a simple car accident when Alex was only three years old. She had no clear memory of her mother, and Bob had brought her up virtually alone – with the occasional help of his parents – in the cottage in Gullane, the East Lothian golfing village, where he and Sarah now
shared their off-duty time. Myra, Alex’s dead mother, had left a sizable endowment policy to provide for her education at one of the Merchant Company schools in Edinburgh. However, the young Alex had demanded that she be allowed to stay with her friends in East Lothian, stamping her tiny foot to emphasise the point. Eventually, Bob had let her have her way. Gullane Primary and North Berwick High it had been, and both schools had done well by her. University had been a different matter, as she had chosen to read Law at Glasgow. Now, three years on, she was about to enter her Honours year, on track for a First, with a string
of commendations and prizes to her name. She intended eventually to pursue a career at the Scottish Bar. To her father’s private delight, recently she had been awarded a Faculty of
Advocates’ Scholarship, to help her through her period of pupillage and over the first months of her career in advocacy, where traditionally a newcomer had little or no earning capacity.
When Alex was five, Bob had invested her school endowment fund in a Ivory Sime capital growth trust, switching to an income fund when she was ready to leave school. Her 'private
means’ – as sometimes, with mock grandeur, she described her mother’s legacy – allowed her to live a frugal but comfortable student existence. Freed from the need to find a part-time job, she had been able to pursue her interest in the theatre, which had been developing since the start of her university career, gathering pace as she gained more confidence in the progress of her studies. After a year in the University drama club, she had joined a rather more ambitious theatre society founded by, but no longer restricted to, Glasgow’s wealthy and influential Jewish community. Bob and Sarah had seen her perform in two productions, each a musical,
and had been surprised by the way her naturally powerful singing voice had developed under coaching. It was now good enough to have attracted interest outside the theatre group. As Sarah knew – daughter and stepmother having decided to keep it a secret, from Bob until the release of the album – she had been used as a backing singer by a Glasgow rock-group which was already internationally successful, and still seemed to be moving on an upward career path.
This Fringe show was far different from anything she had attempted before. In fact, Alex had said, it was the most difficult thing their group had ever tackled: a stage version of Tom Wolfe’s book The Right Stuff, telling the story of the pioneering American Mercury astronauts. No music, just straight drama. And for the first time Alex played the female lead. She was cast as 'Glamorous Glennis’ Yeager, the wife of the first man to break the sound
barrier. When not involved in dialogue, she narrated in spotlight from side stage, as the story developed. She had enlisted Sarah as American accent coach and, throughout July, the Skinner household had rung to the sound of Transatlantic conversation.
On occasion even Bob had found himself joining in.
Bob and Sarah settled into their seats, as the last light dimmed to blackness. Then suddenly in a brilliant stage illumination there were Alex and the male lead, miming a chase in which Alex was steadily overtaken and thrown to the ground, in what the skilful stage-lighting effect made believable as desert. The Yeagers’ strange courtship ritual began a play which unfolded its gripping story over two and a half hours. Before the show. Bob had held private reservations about a play which attempted to tell the whole story of early space exploration in a makeshift theatre. However, when it was over, he conceded to himself that it had worked,
thanks to the intensity of the fellow players and, of course, to Alex’s exceptional performance.
The final curtain was received with thunderous applause and a standing ovation, a rarity on the Fringe. Eventually, after three encores, the applause quietened and the audience began to file out. Bob and Sarah made their way down to the front. Less than a minute later, Alex appeared through a side door. She was followed, a few paces behind, by a muscular blond man, an inch or so under six feet in height, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt.
“Well, what did you think?’ she bubbled, still on a high from the warmth of the applause. 'Was it ok?’
'Ok?’ said Bob. 'It was brilliant. You could take that anywhere. Well done, baby. Always knew you were a star.’
'Yes, terrific, kid.’ Sarah hugged her.
Alex kissed them both. 'Thanks, Pops. Thanks, Sarah. You really mean it?’
They smiled their replies, as Alex turned and beckoned to the man waiting behind her.
'There’s someone I’d like you to meet. This is Ingemar Svart, known as Ingo – our lighting genius. We imported him from Sweden specially for the show.
'Ingo, meet Bob and Sarah Skinner, my Dad and Mum.’
Inwardly Sarah was enormously pleased by Alex’s introduction, but she held up a hand. 'Please, Alex! That’s step-mum. I’m only nine years older than you, remember. Hi, Ingo, it’s nice to meet you. I thought your lighting was great.’
'Thank you. I am also pleased to meet both of you.’
As he returned the Swede’s firm handshake. Bob was struck by the clarity of his ice-blue eyes, and by the easy confidence with which the man, whom he judged to be around thirty, returned his appraising gaze. He tried, but failed, to read his thoughts through his calm expression. Behind the smile, Ingo Svart was impassive.
Alex reclaimed his attention. 'Pops, d’ you mind if we pass on supper? There’s a first-night cast party, and we’ve really got to go to it. You two could come with us, if you like.’
As his daughter spoke, Skinner caught sight, over her shoulder, of a tall, balding figure framed in the door at the side of the hall.
'No, babe. Thanks, but we won’t. I want to have a look round here. Then we’ve got our table booked at the Waterfront. Can’t let it go to waste. You go on, though. Enjoy yourselves. You’ve both earned it. Now, I must say hello to Brian over there.’
Detective Inspector Mackie smiled, and nodded a greeting to Alex.
Then he stepped aside and held the door for her and her companion, before turning back to Skinner.
'Evening, boss. Good show?’
'I’m biased, I know, but it was one of the best things I’ve seen in a long time. A Fringe award-winner for sure. How’re you doing?’
'Fine. I’ve just been scouting round this place – and the other theatre. No problems with either from a security viewpoint, but the bars and that open courtyard scare the hell out of me. It looks virtually impossible to make them secure, as things are just now.
Mind you, there are only two ways into this complex. How would you feel about blocking the back way, and then searching everyone as they come through the arch?’
Skinner shrugged his shoulder. 'I’d feel uneasy about it, but maybe we don’t have a choice. Think through the pros and cons and give me a recommendation in the morning. While we’re here, why don’t you walk me through it. After that, we’re off to eat. Want to join us?’
“Thanks, boss, but I won’t if you don’t mind. I’m rubber-ducked. So I’m bound for an early night, Saturday or not!’
FIFETEEN
As Skinner and Sarah chose their late supper from the blackboard menu in their crowded dockside restaurant, a mile or two away Andy Martin’s evening was moving towards a satisfactory conclusion.
Earlier he had inspected Filmhouse, the base of the Film Festival, from its attic to its cellars. There seemed to be no wasted space at all in the building, and it seemed to pose no problems. Its two purpose-built cinemas had numbered seating, and everyone entering had to pass through a single wide foyer before reaching either of them – or the restaurant and bar. Julia Shahor had quickly agreed to his suggestion that she should install two video cameras in the foyer, but placed where they could be seen clearly, their value being deterrence rather than detection.
They had sat side-by-side in front row seats during the film, an intense drama set in revolutionary France. Before the dimming of the lights for the screening, Julia, a designer outfit replacing the white robe she had worn earlier in the day, had launched her film Festival with a short, assured and politically clever speech about the economic importance of the British movie industry, ending with an appeal to the financial leaders who made up a sizable
chunk of the invited audience to recognise the earning potential of a successful film by providing risk capital for worthwhile projects.
When she had finished, and had taken her seat by his side, Andy had realised that his earlier assessment of the woman as naive or gauche had been well wide of the mark. So he had warmed to her even more.
After the film, they had eaten in the Filmhouse restaurant, at her suggestion. They had discussed the film itself, and others which were to be the highlights of the ensuing Festival. They had made small-talk, learning more about each other as their conversation developed, sparring gently with words, each establishing in the process that the other had no serious
entanglements. And then, just as Andy had been deciding what might happen next, and how he should play it, she had beaten him to it.
“I don’t suppose you’d feel like giving a working girl a lift home, do you?’
In the same moment as Bob Skinner’s baked red mullet was placed before him by the Waterfront’s young waiter, Andy closed the passenger door of his red sports hatch and Julia settled into her seat. The moon was bright and clear as they drove through the New Town. As Andy changed gear, turning into Northumberland Street, Julia reached out and stroked the back of his hand. Her touch was feather-light, and he felt a tingle run up his arm.
'I bet all the girls say this, but you’re quite different from my idea of a policeman. Although you’re not just any old policeman, are you? You’re one of the Special kind.’
He laughed. 'Not that Special, honest. And what all the girls say, after a while at least, is more like “Typical bloody copper!” – followed, as a rule, by a slamming door.
'Along here, did you say?’
'Yes, just around the corner. But it gets narrow. If you park there, we can walk the rest.’
Julia’s home was a two-storey mews house in the lane which linked Dublin Street and Northumberland Street. A tiny flowerpot garden, surprising in the heart of the city, was divided off from the roadway by an iron fence with a narrow gate. She put a hand on its latch, then suddenly stood on tiptoe and kissed him. Her face shone in the moonlight which flooded the lane. Andy was reminded of the taste of honey and the scent of fresh lemons.
'I’m really just a nice Jewish girl, you know. Come in and I’ll prove it.’
Andy knew that if he tried to speak, it would come out as a husky croak. So he said nothing, but followed her into the cottage, closing the gate quietly behind him.
The house had no hall, and the front door opened straight into the living-room. It was in darkness, and so the woman’s voice, when it sounded from the far corner, took him completely by surprise.
'Julia?’ The accent was guttural, unspecified middle-European.
'Yes, auntie, it’s me.’ She flicked on the light. Andy saw, sitting in the corner, a small grey-haired woman. She turned her face towards them, with a smile which the policeman thought had something strange about it. 'I’ve brought a new friend home. His name’s Andy Martin. He’s a policeman. Andy, this is my Aunt Dorrie – Mrs Rosenberg.’
Andy smiled towards her and knew with certainty, as he did so, that Mrs Rosenberg was completely blind. Julia tugged at his sleeve, pulling him towards an open door which led into the kitchen. At the same time she spoke across the room to her aunt.
'I’m going to make coffee. Would you like some?’
'No, thank you, dear. I’m off to bed. My radio programme finished some time ago. Very pleased to meet you, Mr Martin.’
She stood up from her chair and began to tap her way expertly, with a white stick, towards a door on the far side of the room.
Andy was still recovering from the surprise. 'Very pleased to meet you too, Mrs Rosenberg,’ he said belatedly. 'Goodnight.’
As the old woman left the room, he followed Julia into the kitchen.
“There. I told you I was a nice Jewish girl. And all nice Jewish girls have to have little old Jewish mothers – and, if not, aunties.’
“How long . . . ?’
'Three years now, but her sight was failing for five years before that. It’s a very rare condition. Seventeen cases currently on the record in the UK. The vision starts to go in the centre, and the blind spot just widens out until it’s all gone. Quite incurable.
Uncle Percy took her everywhere, looking for a different opinion, but all the diagnoses were the same – and all the prognoses. She can’t see a thing now, not even the faintest hint of light. Hardly any point in her coming to a film festival, is there? But she said she’d just like to be here in the city while it was on. She can hear, though. Can she hear! A mouse hiccup at fifty paces, she says.’
Julia drew Andy’s head down towards her and kissed him. 'So we’ll just have to be very quiet. Won’t we?’ she murmured.
Quieter than mice, and being careful not to hiccup, they tiptoed upstairs. Much of Julia’s bedroom was filled by a king-size brass-framed bed, positioned opposite a narrow white-curtained window. The drapes were tied back to allow in as much light as possible. Andy felt inside the doorway for a light switch, but she placed a soft hand on his arm to stop him.
She led him gently towards the bed and, without speaking, began to unfasten his shirt, kissing his chest as each button came undone. Her hunger for him was frank, honest, and somehow
touching in its fragility. For his part. where he would normally have been confident and dominant, now he felt as awkward and clumsy as an inexperienced teenager. He was amazed to find that his fingers were trembling as he fumbled with the catch of her dress, but eventually the zipper came free and unfastened in
one long movement.
She stepped out of the expensive garment and laid it on a chair near the bed. And when she reached out her arms to him, and moved towards him, her pale skin shining in the silver light like fine china, he embraced her with a catch in his throat, and with the knowledge that he had come to a pivotal moment in his life, after which nothing would ever be as it had been before.
Julia was generous and tender and enormously affectionate in her love-making. He responded to her touches, as she did to his, with shivers and gasps, allowing her to express herself as she
chose, as she introduced herself to his body. He took pleasure in her tenderness, finding himself excited as never before by her patience and by the relaxed fashion in which she unfolded herself to him. He drank deeply from the well of her passion, matching her pace where he would once have rushed, holding back to sustain her as she climaxed, letting go only when he could control himself no longer. As he did, he scaled a peak of pleasure which he had never reached before, realising as he stretched himself on its summit, that he was experiencing for the first time all the sensations of a genuine union between two bodies and souls.
When they had reached the other side of the mountain, they lay side by side on the fluffy cover, naked, smiling at each other in the moonlight. Martin felt enriched, and it came to him with the greatest clarity that the essential ingredient, intimacy, had been missing from the string of hollow, purely physical relationships in which he had been involved over the previous few years.
'I don’t do this ever, you know,’ she whispered to him, very softly. 'On the first date, I mean. Not very nice Jewish behaviour at all.’
He blew gently into her ear, and smiled as her back arched and her nipples hardened in a second. Then he turned her face to his and said very softly: 'Would you believe me if I told you that was the first time I’ve ever made love?’