lighting.
Scenes of men undressing in a dismal corridor that led to a communal shower room were interspersed with frames of broken vinyl tiles badly laid on an uneven concrete floor. They were followed by lingering close-ups of black mould growing between cracked white wall tiles. Then the filthy showers themselves, the plug holes blocked by dirt.
‘I didn’t give you permission to film inside,’
Sam protested. ‘I explained that with so many men going through it’s impossible to clean the showers while they’re in use.’
‘I should imagine it’s impossible to keep a shower room of that age clean, full stop.’ Anna said sympathetically. After the grubby clutter of her living room, Peter wondered how her bathroom would fare in close-up.
Lines of half-naked men wearing cheap striped towels around their waists queued to hand over their clothes to volunteers. The camera followed the bundles as they were pushed through the enamel doors of large machines.
‘Since when have you started washing their clothes, Sam?’ Trevor asked.
‘I only wish we could. There isn’t time. Our customers generally only have what they’re standing up in. We’re always on the look-out for donations, but men’s clothing never comes into the charity shops in sufficient quantities for us to kit our clients out. Plenty of women’s and children’s, but never men’s.’
‘What are those if not washing machines?’ Dan asked.
‘Tumbler dryers. The heat kills the lice.’
‘Fried lice?’
‘Sergeant Collins!’ Bill glared at Peter’s unapologetic face.
‘Just adding some levity to the proceedings.’
The unlit cigar still dangled between Peter’s lips. He knew better than to antagonise Bill more than he already had by lighting it.
They continued to watch the screen. The picture panned out on the dilapidated buildings of Jubilee Street, marooned like abandoned ships in a sea of debris. Pan in on the new Marina, clean, white, gleaming concrete walkways, three and six storey red-brick buildings sporting shining UVPC
windows. Neatly dressed, law-abiding citizens, sitting outside pavement cafés, glasses of wine and lager, and seafood salads in front of them. People walking, chatting and generally not doing very much of anything. Girls wearing bright summer Tshirts and jeans, women in mini-skirts and straw hats, men showing off pale, hairy arms in short-sleeved shirts. Children licking ice cream cornets as they gazed in arcade windows. Music, a fade to credits –‘That it?’ Bill fast forwarded the credits to the end.
‘That’s the rough. It has to be cut to half that length. I left some stuff on the cutting-room floor but nothing of any of the vagrants.’
‘Nothing?’ Peter looked sceptical.
‘Interviews with Father Mayberry, Captain Arkwright, Tom Morris and their staff,’ Andrew broke in. ‘I saw them.’
‘I brought along the out-takes in case you wanted them.’ Nigel held up a second disc.
‘We can keep both?’ Bill asked purely as a courtesy.
‘Permanently. They’re copies.’
‘Did you talk to Tony away from the cameras?’
Trevor questioned.
‘Only a few words. The film was my idea. I produced and directed it as well as doing some interviewing. But Tony didn’t say much more than you saw.’
‘What about the rest of the people who worked with you?’
‘The rest of us?’ Nigel laughed deprecatingly.
‘You mean the camera man, and Joanne who doubles as researcher and second interviewer.’
‘That’s it?’
‘The whole team. It’s average for a television station our size.’
‘You sure there’s nothing else you can tell us about Tony?’ Dan persisted.
‘Nothing,’ Nigel asserted. ‘We started filming that first interview the minute we saw him.’
‘When you woke him, you mean.’
‘How did –’ Nigel looked from Peter to Bill.
‘When he spotted the camera before that second interview he went berserk, as you saw.’
‘Did you see him again?’
‘Once or twice,
Scenes of men undressing in a dismal corridor that led to a communal shower room were interspersed with frames of broken vinyl tiles badly laid on an uneven concrete floor. They were followed by lingering close-ups of black mould growing between cracked white wall tiles. Then the filthy showers themselves, the plug holes blocked by dirt.
‘I didn’t give you permission to film inside,’
Sam protested. ‘I explained that with so many men going through it’s impossible to clean the showers while they’re in use.’
‘I should imagine it’s impossible to keep a shower room of that age clean, full stop.’ Anna said sympathetically. After the grubby clutter of her living room, Peter wondered how her bathroom would fare in close-up.
Lines of half-naked men wearing cheap striped towels around their waists queued to hand over their clothes to volunteers. The camera followed the bundles as they were pushed through the enamel doors of large machines.
‘Since when have you started washing their clothes, Sam?’ Trevor asked.
‘I only wish we could. There isn’t time. Our customers generally only have what they’re standing up in. We’re always on the look-out for donations, but men’s clothing never comes into the charity shops in sufficient quantities for us to kit our clients out. Plenty of women’s and children’s, but never men’s.’
‘What are those if not washing machines?’ Dan asked.
‘Tumbler dryers. The heat kills the lice.’
‘Fried lice?’
‘Sergeant Collins!’ Bill glared at Peter’s unapologetic face.
‘Just adding some levity to the proceedings.’
The unlit cigar still dangled between Peter’s lips. He knew better than to antagonise Bill more than he already had by lighting it.
They continued to watch the screen. The picture panned out on the dilapidated buildings of Jubilee Street, marooned like abandoned ships in a sea of debris. Pan in on the new Marina, clean, white, gleaming concrete walkways, three and six storey red-brick buildings sporting shining UVPC
windows. Neatly dressed, law-abiding citizens, sitting outside pavement cafés, glasses of wine and lager, and seafood salads in front of them. People walking, chatting and generally not doing very much of anything. Girls wearing bright summer Tshirts and jeans, women in mini-skirts and straw hats, men showing off pale, hairy arms in short-sleeved shirts. Children licking ice cream cornets as they gazed in arcade windows. Music, a fade to credits –‘That it?’ Bill fast forwarded the credits to the end.
‘That’s the rough. It has to be cut to half that length. I left some stuff on the cutting-room floor but nothing of any of the vagrants.’
‘Nothing?’ Peter looked sceptical.
‘Interviews with Father Mayberry, Captain Arkwright, Tom Morris and their staff,’ Andrew broke in. ‘I saw them.’
‘I brought along the out-takes in case you wanted them.’ Nigel held up a second disc.
‘We can keep both?’ Bill asked purely as a courtesy.
‘Permanently. They’re copies.’
‘Did you talk to Tony away from the cameras?’
Trevor questioned.
‘Only a few words. The film was my idea. I produced and directed it as well as doing some interviewing. But Tony didn’t say much more than you saw.’
‘What about the rest of the people who worked with you?’
‘The rest of us?’ Nigel laughed deprecatingly.
‘You mean the camera man, and Joanne who doubles as researcher and second interviewer.’
‘That’s it?’
‘The whole team. It’s average for a television station our size.’
‘You sure there’s nothing else you can tell us about Tony?’ Dan persisted.
‘Nothing,’ Nigel asserted. ‘We started filming that first interview the minute we saw him.’
‘When you woke him, you mean.’
‘How did –’ Nigel looked from Peter to Bill.
‘When he spotted the camera before that second interview he went berserk, as you saw.’
‘Did you see him again?’
‘Once or twice,
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