Firing the Cannons

The letter was crumpled and stained.  It lay in the splash from his pint.

            ‘Bruce, what’s wrong today?’ asked the barman.

            ‘I’ve been told to come in early for a meeting with my shop steward and the conductor,’ replied Bruce, gazing into his half-full pint.  He was gaunt, with wispy, unkempt blonde hair, a stubble like a freshly cut wheat field, and sullen eyes that had seen better times.  Bruce was in his mid-fifties. 

            ‘Sir Peter Birkin, the guy with all the posters on the billboards?’ said the barman as he pointed out the window.

            ‘Yep,’ said Bruce, trying to flatten his hair. 

            ‘What about?’

           ‘God knows, I’ve been wiring this box of electronic tricks for tonight’s orchestra performance.  But somehow, my union is now in dispute with the Musicians’ Union,’ he replied, finishing his pint with a slosh and putting the glass down on the counter with a clink. 

           Bruce stared at the glass so desolate that it was empty.  He sighed, glanced at the clock, and unfurled the letter.  He turned and squinted at the tourists in the pub, clad in loud shorts and t-shirts, and tried to shut out the drone of the many foreign accents.  He closed his eyes, tapping his fingers on the bar as if playing the piano.

           ‘You look like you’re getting ready to perform?’ said the barman, laughing.

           ‘I think that’s what it’s about,’ said Bruce, as he opened his eyes and re-read the letter.

           ‘Another one?

           ‘I shouldn’t, mumbled Bruce as he rubbed his chin, ‘well, just one. But I really shouldn’t.’ 

           The pint of eighty shilling was placed in front of him, small droplets of liquid meandering down the glass. He waited as if these extra moments would ensure it would quench his thirst once and for all. He picked it up with his left hand, its head toppled to and fro. He added his other hand to steady the level, pushed it to his lips, and guzzled as if he had been lost in the desert and had finally reached an oasis.

           ‘Bruce,’ a voice from behind shouted. 

           ‘Davy, I was on my way,’ blurted out Bruce as he supped as much ale as he could before breaking off.

           ‘Put that down, we’ve got a meeting in five minutes,’ said Davy, ‘he’s not had a skin full, has he?’

           The barman shook his head, ‘only arrived fifteen minutes ago.’

           ‘I need a pish,’ said Bruce, and he stumbled towards the toilet door, crashed through, and leaned against the urinal, the stench forcing him to lift his head.  The hot stream left his body, and Bruce felt re-energised.  He reached the wash basin and threw water over his face.  He wiped his hair down in the cracked mirror.  He almost didn’t recognise himself.  He straightened, smiled, and squeezed a small metal hip flask from his back pocket, unscrewed the lid and took two quick sips.

           They emerged from the pub and walked a short distance over the courtyard to the Usher Hall.  Bruce threw his hand over his eyes to shield himself from the glint and glare of the glass facades.  He stumbled to view a way through the crowds of Festival goers promenading in the square.  Davy, a small, rigid man, strode with purpose as if on a military march towards the enemy.  He was the Edinburgh district convenor of the Unite union.  He was an electrician by trade but a feared union man who wasn’t frightened to resort to dishing out justice with his fists.  Bruce was terrified of him.

           They entered the marble foyer, and lone voices echoed, as the performance was not for another eight hours.

           ‘You got the letter?’ said Davy.

           ‘Yes, a bit formal, isn’t it.’

           ‘What were you thinking, comrade?’

           Bruce jarred at the language, licking his lips and searching for a bar, a café, his hip flash for a drink of something, anything.

           ‘They said they wanted a sound like a cannon, so I rigged something up.  It had to be realistic. I was trying to help,’ said Bruce as he eased himself back against a marble pillar and slid his arm around it, enjoying the cool touch.

           ‘Just doing them a fucking favour!’ said Davy, sneering through lips that didn’t move, his chest pumped out, edging close to Bruce, who shied away behind the pillar.

           Clipped heels resonated off the ceiling as a podgy man with black trousers, a white shirt and a cravat approached them.

           ‘You must be Davy and Bruce,’ trilled Sir Peter.

           ‘Indeed, we are,’ said Davy with the efficient clip of a sergeant major.

           ‘There seems to have been a misunderstanding,’ said Sir Peter.

           ‘No, I don’t think so, Unite is committed to working with the Musicians’ Union, but our member, Bruce, here, has overstepped the mark.  Only he can operate the electric cannon.  It’s a clear demarcation line.’

           Sir Peter narrowed his eyes, ‘but you know this is a performance of Tchaikovsky’s 1812 overture?’

           Davy glanced at Bruce, who shrugged his shoulders.

           ‘All I did was rig something up for them.  I didn’t want to cause a war,’ said Bruce, his voice tailing away from the withered look from Davy.

           ‘It’s a famous piece, you know Napoleon’s defeat in Russia, everybody’s heard of it,’ said Sir Peter, his eyes searching the pair to see if any lights were on.

           ‘Means nothing to me, this is an industrial dispute. No one is operating that machine unless it’s one of the union’s electricians,’ said Davy.

           ‘But you must know, dah, dah, dah, boom, boom,’ sang Sir Peter, his hands moving rhythmically.  Once again, Bruce and Davy stared at each other.

           ‘I’m telling you, no one is using that machine unless we have an electrician using it.’

           But we have a full house tonight; it’s what the audience is expecting; we can’t get real cannons in the Usher Hall; this is the next best thing,’ said Sir Peter, as he stamped his foot in time to his words.

           ‘I’m sorry, Bruce is your only option.’

           ‘Bruce, can you read music?’ asked Sir Peter.

           Bruce shuffled his feet, rubbed his hands, and moved further round the marble pillar.

           There was silence, Bruce fixating on the ornate floor, feeling for his hip flask for comfort.  Small beads of sweat trickled from his head as he clasped the marble again to steady and cool himself.

           ‘What if’, said Sir Peter, ‘we get you to operate your electric cannon, and you can push the button when one of my reserve violinists taps you on the back.’

           And so, the compromise was struck.  Bruce was ushered off for rehearsals.  He sat next to his machine high up on the stage, out of sight of the audience.  His job was to wait until he felt a tap on his shoulder from Eloise, the violinist. Bruce liked her, she was in her forties, frumpy, with a raucous laugh. She relaxed him, and the butterflies in his stomach waned.  During the rehearsal, when Eloise tapped his shoulder, Bruce did as instructed and pushed the red button on the console.  To his and Eloise’s amazement, the cannon sounded at the correct beat of the music.

           Bruce was on a high, wrapped up in the atmosphere, and enjoying the performance.  But he craved a drink; a quart of whisky was burning a reminder in his back trouser pocket.

           ‘That’s it for now, we’ve about an hour before we’ll be called for the performance.  Do you want to grab a bite to eat?’ asked Eloise.

           I’m not hungry. I suppose it’s the nerves, what with it being my first night,’ he laughed.

           ‘Me neither, Eloise replied, sighing, ‘but I could do with a drink; this is not what I expected on my day off.’

           Bruce started to talk, then paused.

           ‘What is it?’

           ‘I’ve got a hip flask. I’m desperate for a tot, do you want to join me?’.

           ‘Would I?’ she chuckled.

        They sat on two wooden boxes high up on the stage, chatting, their voices echoing off the ornate ceiling.  They took it in turns to swig out the flask.  Bruce listened to the stories of a professional musician, which didn’t sound that different from his experience as an electrician.

           ‘I hate my bosses, and I’m terrified of my union,’ said Bruce to a nodding Eloise.

          ‘That Sir Peter is a fuckin pompous fuckwit,’ replied Eloise, her tongue loosened.  Bruce snorted out a laugh.  They were interrupted by the returning orchestra, and the countdown to the concert began.

           ‘Are you ready?’ Eloise asked with an encouraging smile. 

           ‘Yep,’ replied Bruce, his face fixed in concentration.  He was determined to follow the instructions and do a good job.

           ‘Remember, push the button when I tap you on the shoulder.’

           The music started, and the four cannon blasts were done perfectly on cue at the first section of the overture.  They were both engrossed in the music and seemed connected in a euphoria that they had pulled this off. Then, to the finale.

           ‘Dah, dah, dah, dah, dah,’ sang Bruce in his head as he was now getting into it.  He knew some taps were coming soon.

           Bruce felt the tap and pushed the buttons as per instruction. 

           ‘Tap – Boom, tap – Boom, tap – Boom,’ The music stopped with a sudden crescendo.

           ‘That was brilliant, Bruce, just fantastic, it worked!’ squealed Eloise, overcome by the occasion, and she repeatedly slapped Bruce’s back in congratulations.

           And Bruce followed his instructions.

           Finally, Bruce turned to a distraught Eloise and said, ‘Now, how about another drink?  I’m thirsty as Hell.’

#creativewriting #1812overture