Chapter 4

Andrew should have had a better night’s sleep, as the excitement of getting to the shop dissipated within minutes. There was no drunken mess of two weeks earlier, everything was as he had left it. After checking the darkroom he came back through into the shop, chagrined at his boyish enthusiasm.

“I kept them out of there last night. Once Monica left we locked up and went round the corner to the pub, trying to figure out what to do.”

Tony shrugged, summing up the conversation in one gesture.

“Anyway, we need to chat. You have ploughed through the backlog much quicker than I thought. There won’t be anything for you to do next week.”

Andrew nodded, this was hardly unexpected.

“I want you to work the next two Saturdays but then Stacey is off for two weeks and I want you to work full time for those two weeks. I’ll see how my ankle is in a month, okay?”

“Sure Tony.”

Andrew knew there was nothing else to say.

“I am not going to hire somebody for Saturday unless you tell me you are going to quit. You able to work here during term time on the Saturday?”

Andrew perked up, a steady job.

“Yes, if there is a family event then I will let you know. I should be good seven weeks out of eight without a fuss.”

“I can live with that, especially when I get off these bloody crutches.”

“If any of your friends need summer help, will you let them know please? The next two weeks, and later in the summer if you don’t need me here.”

Tony looked at him.

“Kid, you are good in the darkroom, that is why I have kept you on. But you are underage to be working, I doubt anyone else is going to take the chance with someone so young.”

Andrew nodded, he just had to be patient.

“Still, there are too many lazy fucks about these days. It is good to see someone prepared to work hard. I doubt there is much but I’ll let you know if there is anything.”

Saturdays were busier in the shop and time didn’t drag, even although Andrew wasn’t in the darkroom. At the end of the day Tony paid him for the week. Over the six days Andrew had done 50 hours, the same as the previous week. Tony paid him another £30 and when Andrew got home he put it with the rest of his money. He had nearly £70, a veritable fortune, especially for a 12 year old.

That night his parents were having friends over for dinner, just the usual two or three couples that they saw regularly. Often Andrew and Rowan were shipped off to their grandmother but that night they were told to stay in their rooms and be quiet. It was no different than any other night as far as Andrew was concerned and he shut the world out. Other than using the toilet he stayed put. He used the time to start his first letter to John Cuttington. John’s words about challenging himself had kept intruding on Andrew’s thoughts for the last month. While parts of it had been easy such as working at the camera shop, others had been more of a struggle. His exercises were a daily attack on his patience. He had continued running, nothing more scientific than running for 15 minutes then turning round and returning. He had no idea how far he was running, how fast he was running a mile, anything like that. But he was continuing to run every day and getting into the habit of it. The push-ups and sit-ups were much more of a chore. The improvement was glacial but was happening. He was able to do five push-ups and 20 sit-ups, more than when he started, but he had to force himself to do them every day. Still he had only missed one day of exercise since John had visited.

The last thing that Andrew thought about that night was the thing that concerned him but yet he was insulated from. Dealing with ‘hard cases’. There were no hard cases at his school, they tended not to go to expensive private schools. And Andrew had no interest in getting into any situations where he had to deal with such people. He was a skinny 12 year old that went to private school. It would end in tears; his.

But thinking about all these things also spoke to the underlying issue. John Cuttington had parented him, acted as a father figure, in a way that his own father had no interest in doing. Andrew was slavishly following John’s exhortations because John had shown an interest in him. Gavin McLeod, his own father, did not show that interest. He favoured his daughter and was blatant about it. It was the bit that Andrew didn’t get, why the marked preference. And it was not as if it was compensated for by his mother. Vera McLeod was a snob, obsessed about what the neighbours would think. Andrew was of the opinion that the neighbours were living their own lives and not worrying about the McLeods but wisely kept that to himself. His mother also had the very annoying habit of always wanting the last word, on everything. It was a source of a lot of his parents’ arguments, his mother never letting something go. So Andrew sat there thinking about all this, some of it obvious and some of more a sense rather than anything explicit. He heard his parents and their friends returning to the living room after dinner and took the chance to go through and see if there was anything to eat. He pottered around the kitchen cleaning plates and tidying up as he snaffled some leftovers. He returned to his room full of unanswered questions and thoughts.

He didn’t know whether his need to pee or his parents raised voices woke him, some combination of both probably.

“Give it a rest Gav. How many times do I have to tell you? He is your son.”

“Easy for you to say. But he is nothing like me.”

“How would you know? You never spend any time with him.”

“Enough Vera. I know what you did just before we got married!”

“Shut up, you hypocritical tosser. It wasn’t just me Gavin McLeod. I am surprised you didn’t get the clap.”

“Aargh.”

Andrew heard a door slam. There was another 20 minutes of more muted noises before the house was finally silent. Andrew finally raced to the bathroom and it felt like he peed for hours. Returning to his room he sat on his bed trying to comprehend the overheard conversation. He had no idea what ‘the clap’ was although it didn’t sound good. What did rock him to his core was the first part that he had overheard. His mother trying to convince his father that Andrew was their son. And especially that he, Gavin, was the father. He didn’t really understand all the nuances of the shouting match but this part rang like a bell inside his head. It explained his father’s behaviour. Gavin McLeod, the man Andrew knew as his father, did not think that Andrew was his son. Andrew’s cheeks blew out. Six months ago, even a month ago, he would have been upset and devastated. But suddenly it all made sense. The way that his father tried to ignore his existence. The lack of concern about being away all day during the school holidays. Part of Andrew was upset but another part was relieved, his life now made a bit more sense. Lying back down on his bed thinking he would take forever to fall asleep instead he quickly nodded off.

Andrew made no mention of the overheard conversation, how could he even begin to start? Instead he kept to himself. His father was a teacher and so was also on holiday but his mother was working. During the day Andrew came and went as he pleased, ‘I am off to the library’ or ‘I am off to see Charlie’ being his only words. Sitting in the library one day he thought about colour film developing and went to see if there were any books detailing the process. He could not find the details, there were lots of references to it being very difficult with exacting requirements but no mention of these requirements. The answer was found at the newsagents. After browsing through lots of different magazines he finally found an answer. It was in a letter to the editor where a hobbyist and amateur photographer talked about his difficulties in developing colour film. What was interesting was he was honest and confessed to it not working for him. But he talked about the steps needed and particularly the insane sensitivity of the temperature to the process. Not only were there different chemicals used, but to develop the film properly they needed to be at an exact temperature for the process to work. The writer confessed that he got a few good negatives but had never managed a whole roll. His parting comment was that it was as if the process had been designed to stop amateurs and ensure they had to use the large film processors who got their equipment and chemicals from Kodak.

Andrew ended up buying the magazine, hoping to chat to Tony about it on the Saturday. He didn’t get the chance when he first got there as they were busy but in the late morning lull he pulled the magazine from his camera bag and showed Tony the letter. He silently read it several times while Andrew dealt with a couple of customers.

“This is good kid. First time I have seen it laid out like this. The chemicals are easy to get, we have three of the four in stock right now. But his point about the temperature is bonkers. It has to be 38.8° or it doesn’t work. It must be easy to get temperature to just about there but how do you keep it there. You must need a second person constantly topping the hot water up to keep the right temperature. That must be a big part of the processing machine, separate heaters keeping all the chemicals and water at this temperature.”

Tony shook his head.

“How much was this? I will buy it off you so I can show the guys in the club next week. Someone might want to try doing this.”

“Sure. Although there is a photocopier at the central library, I can go at lunchtime and make a bunch of copies of the page, so that the guys can take it home and think about it.”

“Yeah, that makes sense. Well done.”

Andrew basked in the appreciation for most of the rest of the day. Another of Tony’s mates turned up near the end of the day and Andrew left them to chat while he restocked the shelves from the storeroom.

“Kid, come here.”

Tony never bothered calling him anything other than ‘kid’.

“You serious about trying to find other work during the week?”

Tony was talking but Archie, a large unfriendly looking man, was giving him the once over at the same time.

“Er, sure.”

“He’s a fucking toothpick.”

Andrew knew he was not wrong but still.

“The kid works hard. But he ain’t your size, and probably never will be.”

Turning back to Andrew Tony continued.

“Archie has a moving company, three crews. He is short of people due to holidays.”

That was the extent of the introduction.

“You ever help anybody move before?”

Andrew shook his head.

“No. I packed my own room when we moved a couple of years ago, that’s it.”

“Fuck it, I need the help. I’ll try you on Monday and see if you work out. If you don’t fuck up then it will be 10 hour days all week. Fiver cash in hand each day, no questions asked. Okay?”

Andrew took a deep breath and nodded.

“The yard is at the back of Tynecastle. Be outside the stadium on Gorgie Road at 7.30. The vans will say McGuire’s Moving Company.”

With a nod at Tony he left, Andrew standing staring at him as walked away.

“Try not to fuck up kid. Moving is a hard business, both heavy and yet at the same time real finicky. I have helped him out a couple of times, when there was no one else. Just hope there isn’t a piano.”

As Andrew walked to the bus to head home he remembered the movers moaning about the piano in his own home from the move two years previously. The week working for the moving firm was miserable but satisfying all at the same time. The two blokes he worked with, both called Dave helpfully enough, berated him endlessly about, well pretty much everything. To small, not strong enough, going to private school, even the sandwiches he made for his lunch. But at the same time he heard them acknowledging to Archie that he ‘wasn’t completely fucking useless’. Damned by faint praise.

What made him even moderately useful was wrapping and protecting furniture. He watched as the other two filled the van like some three dimensional jigsaw, sliding different pieces into spaces so that the space was used efficiently but also so there was as little movement as possible to stop breakages. The older Dave took pride in loading the van to protect the furniture while stacking everything to fill the space. Andrew was soundly mocked for being unable to lift some of the heavier items but he endlessly trudged back and forth with boxes and the lighter pieces. In between all that he wrapped dressers and tables, mirrors and pictures so that they too could end up in the van. At no point was he standing around doing nothing.