Speed

by Ted Staunton

  Now a big reenactor dressed like a farmer climbs up on the platform and helps the tourist down. Everybody claps. “I’ll have a go,” he cries. “There’s none here can throw for tuppence. Bring on your best five.” He plunks himself in the chair. More people make lame throws. “I’m drier than McGregor’s tavern,” calls the man on the chair, over the fiddle music. Everyone laughs again. As they do, the red-faced officer Tracey saluted stomps up.

  “You were never dry in my regiment,” he roars. “More tipple for the company drunkard!” He draws his sword and heads for the rope. Before he can cut it, the farmer jumps up.

  “But wait! I’ve sat my five. Let’s give another honest man a chance.” Everyone laughs as he jumps down from the platform. Right beside me.

  “Wanna help?” he whispers to me. “It’s just buildup. Nobody can ever hit the rope. After you, I’ll go back up, and Bob will cut it on me. I always get the splash.”

  Everyone’s watching, including the camera. The reenactor winks. The fiddler winks. “Big cheer, guaranteed.” If Bun were here, he’d be up in the chair by now. Grandpa would like that.

  “Sure,” I say. I step up. There is a big cheer, and then, before I know it, I’m in the coat and hat and on the chair.

  The coat is too big, and the hat keeps slipping down over my glasses. I’m thinking they probably make a great combo with my cargo shorts. Everyone laughs as someone throws the hatchet and misses the rope. I wonder how skinny my legs are going to look in the movie. Can they be computer enhanced? I hear another laugh. Three more to go. I look over at Mark. He points at me and pretends to lift a hat off his own head. I get it. I take off the hat at the exact instant everyone shouts. Then the water hits me.

  “Cut,” Basil calls.

  SEVEN

  In case you’re wondering, wet giant cargo shorts are even stupider than dry giant cargo shorts. Everyone is clapping and cheering as I slop down off the platform. “I’m sorry,” says the big reenactor. “That’s never happened before.”

  My glasses are so water streaked, I can’t tell if he’s really sorry, never mind see who splashed me. I wonder if it was that Luther guy. Maybe he thought cargo shorts were too farb.

  I drip my way over to Mark. He’s definitely grinning. “That’s a keeper,” he says.

  “Thanks a bunch for the hat tip,” I say, forgetting to be shy.

  “Don’t worry about it, Spencer.” Basil comes up with the camera. “Movie baptism. You can shoot the next scene for us.”

  That helps. I wipe my glasses on my ELO shirt, which the jacket kept mostly dry. We take everything over to the log cabin, where more people are gathering. Irene Steele is bellowing, “Who knows the story of Laura Secord?” Her voice is like a British foghorn. A few yards away a cow is grazing, ignoring it all.

  This time we set up differently. Basil fiddles with the camera, then shows me how to work it. He helps me settle the saddle onto my shoulder. “I’ll stand beside Irene and do the slate,” he says. “Cue Mark for sound, then focus on the clapperboard. When it’s right, tell me to mark it and start rolling.”

  I nod. I want to get started. Forget 1812, forget camping, forget wet shorts even—this part is neat. I’m not just some farb tourist. I’m helping make a movie with tech gear even cooler than my new phone. Bun’s never done this. I bet Grandpa’s never done this, and he’s done almost everything. I ignore how heavy the camera is and how I look as if I have totally peed my shorts and peer into the viewfinder. The camera is out of focus, and I can’t seem to get it right. “Try with your glasses off,” Mark suggests. I shove them up and get my eye right in there. I wish I was wearing a ballcap I could turn backward.

  I still can’t get the focus. I put my glasses back on. Before I try again, I notice I’ve been pushing the wrong button. I don’t mention that. “Got it,” I say. Basil and the board swim into view. I spread my feet to brace myself. “Sound,” I say to Mark. I hear him clicking buttons.

  “Speed,” he says back. That means the sound is recording. I get A 8 / 1 in the middle of the frame. I press the Rec button on the camera’s hand grip. “Mark it!”

  The clapper cracks down on the board, Basil steps aside, and I’m filming a movie.

  Actually, I’m filming Irene Steele. “…Laura Secord,” she’s booming. “She and her husband, James, lived in a cabin much like this in 1812. When James was wounded in the battle of Queenston Heights, Laura rescued him. Then in 1813 the Americans took over her house, and Laura heard them planning to attack the British garrison at Beaver Dam.

  “James was still too weak to help, so Laura had to warn the British herself. She set off through the fields and woods to avoid the main road, leading her cow as if it had strayed.”

  Irene Steele points. I try to pan smoothly to the cow, but I wobble, which makes me say a couple of those words I’m not supposed to know. Saying them makes me remember there’s a microphone attached to the camera. Remembering that makes me say the words again.

  I shut up and find the cow. Apart from a tail swish, it couldn’t care less. Two of the people behind the cow are more interesting anyway. One is a bluecoat reenactor with gigantic orange sideburns out to here and down to his chin. It has to be that Luther guy. Beside him is Grandpa. He’s traded in his fishing hat for his beret.

  Irene Steele goes on. “Laura walked twenty miles, some say barefoot, crossed Twelve Mile Creek on a fallen log and got to a Native camp to deliver her warning. Two days later the Americans walked into an ambush. Nearly five hundred surrendered to a much smaller British force.” Luther is grimly shaking his sideburns, probably still mad about the ambush. I pan back to Irene Steele. She says, “Nobody got around to officially thanking Laura till 1860, when she was a very old and poor lady. One of the few things she left behind was this.” She holds up a battered black…something. It clanks. “We don’t have her cow,” she says, and people laugh, “but this is her cow’s bell.” Everybody oohs. She waves it around. The bell clanks some more. “Maybe it’s fitting that this simple sound is our connection to one of our earliest heroes. A hard and humble life was almost the only reward she had for bravery and loyalty in the face of great danger. It’s the only reward of some women to this day. And now I’m happy to answer questions, and you make take pictures.”

  “Cut,” I say.

  “Good stuff,” I hear Mark say. I lift the camera off my shoulder as Basil comes up.

  “Get it?” he asks. He grins as I look back at him.

  “I messed up the first pan,” I tell him. “The rest should be okay.”

  “Let’s have a look.” Basil flips down a little viewer at the side of the camera and zips back through the footage. He starts the playback, and I lean in to look. It’s me sitting on the platform. My legs are not sticks—they’re toothpicks. I sigh as the camera pans to the next thrower. He’s wearing a baby-blue BREAD T-shirt. “Hey!” I say as the hatchet spins toward the rope and slices it. “I’ll be right ba—” A hand clamps down on my shoulder.

  “I thought that was you behind the camera,” Grandpa says.

  EIGHT

  “Hi, Grandpa.” I turn to him, and Grandpa starts to grin.

  “Looks as if you’re busy, Spence. Where’s Bernard?”

  “Oh. He was, uh, over there, at the hatchet-throw thing.” I wave my hand. “He got me wet. I was just going to go get him.”

  “Tell you what,” Grandpa says. “Why don’t you go back to camp and put on some dry clothes? I’ll show you how to get there. Those shorts look as if you’ve had an accident, if you get my drift. I’m sure Bernard knows to come here, right?”

  “Yeah, for sure,” I lie. Little lies I can manage, and hey, up till now I’ve told the truth, even when it hurt. I figure I’m allowed this one. “Um, this is Basil and Mark,” I say. “I’m helping them film.”

  Mark stands up to shake hands with Grandpa. He starts grinning at me too. I seem to be a happy factory. As I wonder about this, Irene comes up. She slips an arm around Grandpa’s waist and giv
es him a squeeze. “How was that?” she says.

  Grandpa squeezes her back. “Irene, darling,” he says, “you can still spin it with the best of them.” Then they grin goofily at each other. Whoa! Let’s just say I’m surprised. This would be embarrassing even if they weren’t grandparents. It’s time for me to get out of here before things get any ickier.

  “Grandpa? How do I get back to camp?”

  Grandpa lets go of Irene. He walks me past the cabin and points out the way. “It’s not far,” he says. “Put on some dry clothes and come right back. We’re having supper over here with Irene, and she says there’ll be entertainment after that. I’ve brought your hoodies already, so I don’t think you’ll need anything else.” He smiles at me. “Including your cell phone.” I’d been wondering if I should ask for it. “Can you handle it?” Grandpa asks.

  “Sure.” I nod.

  “Good man. I knew you could. One last thing. Stop off at the washroom and clean your face. And watch out for the P.I. See you soon.”

  I head off the way Grandpa told me, wondering why I have to clean my face. When I get around some more trees and some poison ivy, I see the road and the campsite, the Jeep and then our two tents. I duck inside the one Bunny and I are using. Our sleeping bags have been unrolled on the foam pads. Bun’s is green, with cowboy pictures on the lining inside. Hey, he picked it. Mine is blue, with Star Wars designs. I think Star Wars is much cooler, but I don’t say that around our older cousins, like Steve or DJ. They’ve got real camping gear.

  There’s a scrap of paper at the top of my sleeping bag. It’s got printing on it, in crayon: 1 arm man has yor fone. Only Bun spells like that, especially in crayon. Sounds as if he thinks he’s found my phone. Didn’t I see a one-armed guy back at the splash platform? I’m definitely going to have to find Bunny before they both get a surprise from each other. Life is getting complicated when all I want to do is make Grandpa proud.

  I grab my backpack and dig in, looking for my jeans. Mom must have packed my jeans. Except she didn’t. Instead, she packed me a second pair of monster cargo shorts. I say a few more words I’m not supposed to know, then get changed and take the wet ones outside. I spread them on the hood of the Jeep to dry. Then I go to one of the side mirrors and look at my face. One eye has a big black circle around it. I look like half a raccoon with glasses. What the…? Then I remember Basil fooling with the camera and me shoving my eye right up to the viewfinder. Thanks, guys. I say more words I shouldn’t know (actually, I repeat some because I don’t know that many) and head for the washroom.

  The public washroom is like the one near the Niagara College tent: a square brick building with windows set up high in the walls. This one has an extra sign pointing to showers. I pass that and go into the men’s side to wash my face. It takes some scrubbing. When I finally get done, there are no paper towels. I’m not sticking my face in front of one of those dryer thingies, so I go into a stall for some toilet paper. As I do, I hear men’s voices through the open window above me.

  “…drives me crazy. It’s so farb it’s disgusting.”

  “Aw, it’s not that bad. It’s just a joke on the norms.”

  “It makes all of us look bad. It’s a disgrace. Someone should do something about it. Now. This weekend.”

  “Like what? You can’t just take—”

  “Never mind what. All I’m saying is, it has to be stopped.”

  This sounds serious. Who’s talking? The window is too high for me to see out of. Unless… I reach up, grab the windowsill and quietly step onto the toilet seat. I’m still not high enough, so I plant a foot on the chrome thingy that rises at the back, where the flush handle is attached. Balanced on one foot, I raise my head to peek through the window screen. Two men are standing in the shade, both wearing American-soldier uniforms. One of them is Luther Sideburns.

  “Luther,” the other guy says, “why don’t you just talk to—”

  “I’ve tried. It’s useless,” Luther snaps back.

  “Maybe it’s how you—”

  “Excuse me!” another voice calls. “Could we get a picture?” A tourist couple walks up. He’s got a fancy camera hanging around his neck.

  “Sure can!” Suddenly Luther is all cheery. “Let’s get in the sun, where the light’s better.”

  The lady poses with Luther and the other reenactor. In the sunlight, her blond hair is so bright it almost hurts to look at it. Luther is blabbing away about their uniforms. The guy, who’s Asian, fusses with his camera. “Tomato,” he mutters. “Tomato, tomato, tomato.” I have no idea what this means, but I wish he’d hurry up. It’s really uncomfortable perching one-footed on top of a toilet-flusher post and clinging to a windowsill. I want them to get their picture fast and go away, so I can maybe learn more about what Luther is up to.

  The photographer guy is still having camera problems. “Tomato!” he says louder. I wonder if this is his way of avoiding those words I’m not supposed to know. I know a kid at school who says Stink! all the time. I remember my own problems filming. Maybe I should switch words too.

  After a couple more tomatoes, the guy snaps the picture. This is good, because my fingers are locking into claws on the windowsill and my foot is really hurting. I can’t hang on here much longer. Finally, the couple wanders off. The second reenactor turns to Luther Sideburns.

  “Luther,” he says, “all I’m saying is, don’t overreact. At the end of the day, it’s just a hobby. Fun, remember?”

  “It’s not just a hobby. It’s history. Whatever I do will be in the name of truth.”

  He marches off. My foot slips and hits the flush lever. It goes down and so do I, one foot in the toilet bowl as fresh water gushes in. “Tomato,” I say. It doesn’t help at all.

  NINE

  Grandpa doesn’t ask me why I have a soaker, which is nice of him. Or maybe he doesn’t notice. He and Irene Steele are sitting in camp chairs, sipping from paper cups and yakking up a storm. Irene has changed into jeans and a white sweater and white runners. “Surely that was in Budapest,” she says with a laugh, acting like it’s the funniest thing in the world again.

  “My dear, I swear it was Vienna,” Grandpa says loudly.

  She tries again. “Casablanca?”

  Grandpa smiles. “Like Rick—”

  “And Ilsa,” she finishes for him. “Poochy, that’s so sweet.”

  Oh, please. Luckily, Tracey steps out of the cabin. She’s changed back into normal clothes too. “Hey,” she says. “Basil and Mark say you did great. They want to talk to you about helping some more.”

  I start to say okay, then remember what helping has gotten me so far. Besides, I may have other things to do now, things that would make Grandpa proud. That means I have to find Bun, in case I need help.

  Tracey says, “Don’t worry. We all got the camera trick played on us. It’s an initiation to movies. Now you’re in. Besides, this is a little more special. You might be the only one who can do it.”

  “Really?” I say. It’s nice to hear you might be special.

  “Let’s go talk to them and find out.”

  “Well, I have to get my brother first—”

  Grandpa interrupts. “Bernard won’t be back for dinner, Spence. He was just here. He’s busy with some friends he’s made, and he’ll join us later. Doing his thing, as they say. Independence is good.”

  Irene Steele smiles. “It was so nice to meet him. My, he has a deadpan sense of humour. He’s such a card I almost believed he thought there was a real war on.”

  For a second I wonder if Bunny does think there’s a real war on. I don’t go there. All I say is, “Which way did he go?”

  Grandpa waves across the encampment. “They went that way. You’ll probably spot them.”

  “We’re going to the equipment tent,” Tracey says. “Food at seven, right? We’ll see you there.”

  “TTFN,” calls Irene Steele. She’s topping up the paper cups with something from a thermos.

  “Let’s go,” I say to T
racey. If Grandpa thinks independence is a good thing, just wait till I stop Luther.

  My shoe really squelches as we walk. “How’d you get a soaker?” Tracey asks.

  Should I tell her? I may need Tracey’s help too—she knows way more about what’s farb than I do. Besides, I was going to ask Bun for help. It will still count as independence as long as it’s not Grandpa who’s helping.

  I tell her about the toilet and Luther Sideburns.

  “Aw, really?” she says. “In the toilet? Bummer.” At least she doesn’t laugh. Even better, she goes on. “So Luther’s mad again. I wonder what he’s on about this time.”

  “It sounds as if he’s going to do something bad. We have to stop him,” I say.

  Tracey frowns. “You know, Spencer, Luther’s kind of an odd guy. You can see he takes things pretty seriously, but really he’s mostly talk. Let’s leave him alone and stick to the movie, huh?”

  Before I can answer, the fiddle player joins us. His tall hat is pushed back, and wisps of damp hair stick to his forehead. “Off duty, Tracey?” he rumbles in a voice like a gravel road. “How’s the movie coming?”

  “Pretty good, Ken. Got a meeting right now. This is Spencer—he’s helping.”

  “Spencer. Pleased to meet ya.” We shake hands. It’s like shaking a sweaty, midsized baseball glove. His blue coat looks pretty warm. Ken tells Tracey he’s playing tonight at the campfire.

  They chatter till we get to the Niagara College tent, so I never do answer Tracey. That’s okay, because I don’t think she would have liked my answer.

  TEN

  In the tent, all the Niagara film students are gathered around a monitor, watching what they’ve filmed. “We call these the rushes,” Tracey explains. “We’ll edit it down to the best bits later, then add music.”

  I watch the charge I thought I’d died in, the blacksmith making a horseshoe, the lady auctioning off her husband, the one-armed officer with the big mustache drilling Luther Sideburns and other bluecoat troops, another lady making candles, kids running along a path, rolling hoops by whacking them with sticks, redcoat Tracey showing how to load a musket, the fiddler mugging and playing. He’s in a lot of the shots, in fact.