Our neighbours, Percy Barker and his wife Glenda, lived in small cottage at the end of our lane. The couple were both in their late seventies and he still worked as a gardener, mowing the lawns for the big houses in the posh villages around us. I got to know them both that year. The Barkers were always very good to me.
Glenda used to slip me bits of cake and Percy would walk me around his plot showing me the vegetables that were growing. I’d always had a fascination with nature and when I was with them I could forget about all my worries.
Percy took pride in showing me the carrots he’d grown. I remember his old gnarled hands reached into the earth and pulled up a carrot. Lovingly he wiped the dirt from it on his trousers and offered it to me. ‘There you are, pet.’ His voice was as soft as his soul.
Unusually, Glenda went first. After her stroke she was bedbound. A year later she died. Only a few months after that Percy followed her. He gave up living after Glenda died and soon got his wish to be reunited with his love. I thought of them as grandparents and missed them terribly.
I’d packed my rucksack with a cheese sandwich and a flask of water and was spending the day down by the stream among old chestnut trees that grew by the water.
On that hot spring day I found a tiny bird that had fallen from its nest. Frozen, I stood there for a moment looking at the creature, holding my breath and wondering if it was dead. Moments later it opened its small beak and let out a noise. It is a sound I will never forget.
Letting my bag drop to the ground I crouched down on my knees, a few feet away from the baby bird. I could tell it was young because some of its feathers had yet to grow. The little black-eyed bird kept squawking and opening its mouth. It was clearly hungry.
So as not to scare it, I removed the box that had my sandwiches in and opened it. The frantic creature was screaming at me by then, flapping its wings, which weren’t yet properly formed.
‘It’s okay,’ I said in a soothing voice as I tore a tiny crumb of crust from my bread, ‘here you go.’ Reaching over I placed the morsel into its open beak and watched the bird swallow. Less than a second later it was begging for more so I repeated the action. This went on for a little while until the bird calmed down, content and full at last. Removing the flask I then poured a little of the water onto my hands and let the drops roll off my fingers and into its mouth before sitting back and admiring my new companion.
‘Where did you come from then?’ I asked the now docile creature. ‘You can be my new friend,’ I told the chick who was squawking again. Carefully I picked it up and cradled it in the palm of my hand. It weighed almost nothing. To my surprise the bird was not alarmed by the contact and settled quickly into a comfortable position.
Standing up I went in search for its nest, looking for a sign of its parents. Up in the branches I could see a semi-collapsed nest. There was no evidence of any more chicks or the parents. This little one was completely alone. Just like me.
While deciding what to do, I slipped the bird into my cardigan pocket, sat down again and ate my sandwich.
By the time I finished my lunch I’d concocted a plan. Before I did anything else I needed to work out what kind of bird it was. It wasn’t easy to tell just by looking at the few dirty brown feathers that covered its small pink body. I knew that in the school library there would be a book that would answer my question so I gathered my flask and bag from the ground and set off in the direction of home, whistling as I went. I was so excited. I’d never had a pet before.
It took me thirty minutes to get back home as I walked very slowly with the bird in my pocket, taking care not to squash it.
I didn’t know where Mummy and Nick were so I tiptoed through the house not wanting to attract any attention. My beige socks had a hole in, which one of my small white toes poked out through. I held my breath, making sure I didn’t make any sound but at that moment my little companion decided to perk up and started calling for more food. Terror gripped me as I put my hand over the bird and rushed into my bedroom hoping that no one was at home and had heard.
Once in my room, I closed the door, leant against it and let out a sigh. Then I listened for footsteps and only when I was certain that no one was there did I allow myself to make myself at home on my bed while the little bird cried for more food.
Realising I needed something to house the bird in, I looked for something suitable under my bed.
Right at the back, behind some old clothes, I discovered an empty shoebox. It would make a perfect home for my friend until it learnt how to fly.
Using a pencil that was lying on the table by my bed, I poked some holes into the lid so that I could be sure the bird would be able to breathe once inside. Then I put it carefully into the box. The bird settled quickly but I felt sad looking at it alone in that vast cardboard space. It may not have resembled a nest but I knew the bird would at least be safe in there. It could not fall out. From another pocket I took out a small crust of bread that I had saved and broke a small piece off, dropping it into the tiny beak, repeating this until the bird stopped crying again. I smiled at the content bird. At last I had something in my life that was good.
The spring sunlight poured in onto the faded curtain that I pushed back, before hiding the bird on the indoor sill and replacing the curtain. I knew that the trapped sun would help to keep the bird warm.
I managed to keep it there undiscovered for some days, before the holidays came to an end. The only good thing about going back to school was that I could get access to the library and the many reference books.
During my lunch break, while the other children were outside playing, I went to the library. Some of the books looked really old and dusty. Methodically I started on the left-hand wall, at the bottom and worked my way up. A few times I was distracted by other books but I was not sure how long I had left in there before someone found me so I decided to keep focused.
The first helpful book I come across was an encyclopaedia of British birds. It had lovely hand illustrated pictures of each species and it didn’t take me too long to identify my friend. Although I couldn’t be certain, because the feathers were not fully developed yet, I hazarded a guess that it was a baby sparrow. I also learnt that such birds are mainly seedeaters, so felt relieved that feeding it the bread wasn’t too bad.
As I lost myself in the book, absorbing as much information as I could, I heard a noise from the corridor outside. Closing the book I put it back on the shelf, making a mental note of where I left it. When I was sure that the coast was clear I snuck out of the library and made my way to the playground.
I knew then that the little bird needed my help otherwise it would die and I made a promise to myself to do everything I could to help it survive.
Once back at home and in my bedroom I said hello to my little friend, who I had managed to keep a secret. Mummy would have never let me keep an animal in the house.
Kneeling on the floor I removed the paper in my pocket, which I took from school, and started to tear it into strips. I loved the noise of paper tearing, especially when done slowly.
When all the sheets had been shredded I arranged the paper on the floor of the box for the bird, which sat in the corner blinking at me while I worked.
‘This is to make it comfortable for you,’ I explained wondering if the sparrow was male or female. The book taught me that it was almost impossible to tell.
When the paper had been layered into a nest-like shape, I sat looking down at the bird wondered if maybe I could somehow get a sense of the sex.
‘What are you?’ I asked it, examining the features. ‘I think you need a name. I am going to call you Robin.’
After Robin came into my life I found myself watching any bird that crossed my path. I became obsessed with learning everything I could about them. In my spare time, and at night, I would read books about birds from all over the world, studying their biology, history and habits. In those days it wasn’t as easy to access information. Not like it is now with computers, iPhones and Google. Thos
e were different times. But thanks to the extensive library in town, I had a large selection of books at my fingertips.
Apart from research I also started to draw birds. I’d spend many hours sitting in my room watching Robin and making sketches. My early drawings were not good but as the weeks passed I began to get better. When I wasn’t sketching Robin I’d copy drawings of other birds out of the books I kept hidden underneath my bed.
All the time there was an impending sense of doom, which I did my best to ignore but as August came to an end I had to face up to the inevitable; soon I would be returning to school. The thought of being there, away from Robin, made me feel sick. I hated that place. I had no friends but at home I had the best friend a child could ever wish for. Robin was my special friend and taught me I didn’t need people.
27
Luke
Leaving the countryside was easy. I never much liked the place. I had a few buddies but no one special to keep me there. So when a bit of inheritance came my way I packed a bag and left for London. My dad hadn’t been around and my mum, well, let’s just say we didn’t get on very well.
I did okay in school. Not very academic, is how people probably described me. I liked art and sport but wasn’t very good at putting pen to paper and my maths skills were non-existent.
I was a skilled cameraman but self-taught. No posh film school for me. I wouldn’t have fitted in anyway. I’m more the type who likes to learn by practising. Never could be told anything.
I started off doing weddings. Pretty boring but it paid the bills and I got to understand about lighting and the things that have an effect on what it is you are shooting. Besides, following pretty bridesmaids round wasn’t so bad.
It was at a wedding that I met Jürgen. He was in the business and we got chatting about cameras. He liked the equipment I was using and was impressed by my knowledge of the kit.
After he’d had a few glasses of bubbly he gave me his card and told me to get in touch if I ever wanted to do something other than film weddings. The next Monday I was on the phone to him. In all honesty, I wasn’t sure he’d remember me but he did and we arranged to meet for a talk.
Jürgen was typically German. Sandy-haired, quite tall, could hold his drink and had a sense of humour. I liked him from the get-go and he seemed to like me. Like lots of people in the film world, he’d started off in advertising. He told me stories about his career and the people he’d met and worked with, including Frank Holden. I was young and easily impressed.
Jürgen told me I reminded him of himself when he was younger. He said he could see I had talent and wanted to help me get my big break. He offered me work alongside him. He had plenty of projects on the go and said he needed a bright and reliable cameraman. Apparently I was it.
When I first stepped on set with him I was shitting myself. Everyone there seemed so suave and sure of themselves and there I was, a working class boy with no experience. I felt right out of my depth. But soon I learnt the ropes and started to get good at my job.
After working on a few mini-series with Jürgen, I was in for a meeting with him. He has an office in a building on Cross Keys Close, in Marylebone, just off Thayler Street. The building is one of those old flat-fronted Victorian places you often see in London side streets. He is on the second floor and his office space only occupies a couple of rooms. It’s decked out with lots of mid-century Danish furniture that is really popular with trendy, arty London types. I don’t like it much.
I sat down by the coffee table and he offered me a drink.
‘We have a really cool coffee machine. Would you like an espresso?’ Jürgen sat cross-legged, sipping piping hot coffee from a small glass coffee cup.
‘No thanks, mate. Not much of a coffee drinker.’
I was still finding my feet in the film world. They had a way of doing things that was alien to the likes of me. The people I’d grown up with drank good old English tea. None of this foreign coffee that was so popular in London.
‘No problem.’ Jürgen put his cup down. ‘I have a job coming up that I think you might be interested in.’ Jürgen’s blue eyes danced with excitement. ‘But you gotta keep it real hush hush and low down.’
‘Lips are sealed.’ I leant forward, mimicking his body language.
‘A really exciting opportunity. This could be huge. Really big.’ Jürgen rubbed his hands together. ‘I told you I knew Frank Holden, well he’s been talking to me about a film he wants to make. He wants me involved in the planning of the movie. I told him I was interested and I told him about this great guy I work with.’ Then he paused. ‘You.’
I couldn’t believe Jürgen had spoken to the mighty Frank Holden about me.
‘It’s a real secret at the moment. Frank doesn’t want the press getting any wind about it.’ Jürgen’s grasp on the English language occasionally left something to be desired. ‘He has commissioned a submarine. The action takes place underwater.’
‘Sounds like a challenge.’ I ran my hand though my hair, ruffling it up. I needed a moment to take everything in.
‘Sure, but that is what Frank is all about: challenges. He likes to do things differently. He like to move the boundaries.’
‘I’ve seen some of his films.’
‘Then you know what it is I am talking about.’ Jürgen clasped his hands together. ‘This is a good starting point.’ He took another sip of his espresso. ‘So, I told Frank I would be involved but that I would not want to go on the submarine. I don’t like confined spaces. He understood and said this wasn’t a problem.’ It was hard to imagine that Jürgen was frightened of anything. ‘So, Luke, I spoke to Frank in more detail and I think this is a really exciting opportunity for a man at your stage in his career. The question I have for you is, are you interested in this job?’ He adjusted his glasses with his right hand, which he always did when he was being very serious, and leant back in his chair. ‘You have the talent. Now is the question: do you have the balls?’
I’d heard rumours about Frank Holden. You would have to have been deaf to miss them. But the rumours were about his fondness for young female actresses so I knew I wasn’t in any danger of unwelcome advances.
‘What’s the money like?’ I was hoping the film came with a large budget.
‘Ha!’ Jürgen leant forward and slapped my shoulders. ‘This is a very good question to ask.’ I grinned, waiting for his response. ‘This isn’t as big a budget as some of the other films he has made but I am told by him that the money is good.’
That wasn’t quite the answer I was hoping for.
‘So how long will we be shooting for?’
‘I have a meeting with Frank to talk about this some more. But I wanted to feel you out first.’ I stifled a smile.
‘Okay. I am interested. Of course I bloody am. I’d be mental to turn down a chance to work with the big man himself.’ I still couldn’t quite believe it. ‘Count me in.’
I went home and opened my Mac laptop. I wanted to know more about Frank Holden and soon discovered he’d been dropped from a blockbuster series, that one with the incestuous wizard, and hadn’t worked for some time. It was clear that something had happened to change his fortune. Big players like Frank don’t just suddenly stop producing stuff. But I couldn’t see how that played a part in this new film. Everyone has a past, don’t they.
After Googling Frank, I then went on to do some research about submarines. I’d never been on one before and the idea of it was exciting but it left me feeling uncertain. How long would we be on it for? How many of us would be on board? Jürgen had given me hardly any information to go on.
But I suppose the mystery also made it seem like more of an adventure. I couldn’t believe how much my life had changed since I’d left the countryside. My childhood was now a distant memory and for that I was grateful.
That night, to celebrate the job, I went and got some beers from the shop down the road. I downloaded Frank’s best-known film and drank all six tins of Stella while watching it.
At one point my housemate came in and sat with me. The film was violent and full of action. Frank sure knew how to tell a story using the camera.
I concentrated hard and it gave me a clue as to how Frank liked to work. I had a feeling I was about to be dropped in the deep end with this one.
I’d met Bowzer, one of my flatmates, whose real name was Robbie, through an ad. He and a couple of other lads had been flat-sharing and needed someone to fill the extra room. I moved in a few days later.
The place wasn’t exactly a palace but it was quite central and near a Tube so it ticked enough boxes.
Bowzer sat down next to me, stuffing his face with a kebab. He was spilling the filling everywhere. Chilli sauce ended up on the sofa, as well as bits of gherkin and wet lettuce.
‘Come on, man! You eat like a pig.’ I dodged a mouthful of doner meat that had fallen on the sofa next to me.
Bowzer grinned, showing me a mouthful of food.
‘You’re a bloody animal,’ I told him, picking up a cushion and whacking him around the face with it.
‘Oi.’ Bowzer looked genuinely upset.
‘Sorry, bro, but I’m trying to watch this.’ I wiped the remnants of food from the cushion. ‘Can I let you into a little secret?’ I could feel the beer beginning to have the desired effect.
‘Sure thing.’ Bowzer continued munching on his food, which by then must have been stone cold.
‘I’ve landed a gig working with… drum roll please… Frank Holden.’
‘No way!’ Bowzer’s eyes widened in disbelief.
‘I shit you not. But you gotta keep this to yourself.’ I winked at him.
‘You’re full of it,’ Bowzer continued speaking despite his mouthful.
‘No, I’m not. Had a meeting with the German fella I work with today and he told me he put me forward to work on Frank’s next film.’ I smiled with pride.
‘You’re gonna be, like, famous.’ He sunk into the sofa and stared at the scene for a bit. ‘You’ll have your name in the credits and stuff when the film ends. That will be awesome.’ It became quickly apparent that Bowzer had smoked a few joints that night.
Pressure: a dark and disturbing psychological thriller Page 12
