Bron-11

Continued from Chapter 10: Bron-10 | ABCtales

Chapter 11

Chris reached down and switched off the VCR. He breathed out, in the manner of someone coming up for air after a long immersion. Geoff was at the window, peering out into the gathering dusk; his fourth-floor studio flat looked out onto one of the bathroom windows of a small hotel on Queensborough Terrace. Sometimes you could make out through the frosted glass the blurred outline of female guests when they stepped out of the shower. Not tonight, though.

Chris broke the silence: “So, Bron, which would you say was the best actor?”

“Rhett, definitely.”

“OK, the best two-legged actor, then?”

“Search me. That Dolly Parton? Are her knockers real, like?”

“Er, no idea. What about Darryl Hannah, the one that played Annelle?”

“Nah! Stupid cow!”

“She’s playing a character who’s maybe, a bit slow. Doesn’t mean she IS thick herself,” Geoff interjected. “She’s probably a very clever actress.”

“You fancy her, then, Geoff?” said Bron. “Like me to fly over to Hollywood and put in a good word for you? ‘He’s not as old as he looks…’”

“Actually, I thought Annelle had the best accent, at least the most … southern. That’s kind of the sort of thing we want,” Chris said. “Though if you can get anywhere near any of them, that’d be great. Did you manage to jot down any of the lines, Bron? Fancy saying a few?”

Yeah, hang on.” She thumbed through the battered pale blue exercise book with the Ysgol Geraint Hughes crest on the front. “Looks like a stuck PIG bled all over my hands…”

“OK: Loo-hooks laihke a sty-uck pi-ug blehd ahl ah-ver mah haaands.”

“They all retarded in the States or something? Loooks loike a steeee-yuck peeeg bled over me…”

“Better, Bron. Read me another.”

“The nicest thing that I can say is that ... that all her tattoos are spelled correctly?”

“The nai-cest thi-ung that ah cahn say-u is thaa-at all her tah-toos are spey-ulled correctly. You’ve got to really draw out those vowel sounds, almost like you’re dropping off to sleep.”

“The NAY-SUS thi-UNG are can say-UR is ORL er TAT-toos ay-ur CORR-ect…”

“You’re getting there! You’re getting there… Another?”

“Eee-uht shhee-ut an’ DAH!”

“Yes, quite. Needs a bit of work still, but…it’s coming. Steel Magnolias has got to go back to Blockbusters tomorrow. What about Gone With the Wind?”

“Oh God, do we have to?” said Geoff. “I mean, I’m happy to do almost anything for Lieutenant Hinds but … it’s about eight hours long!”

“Don’t exaggerate; it’s half that. Maybe not the best example for Bron to follow, their accents are pretty dodgy anyway….I think, it’s probably more important that she gets properly into the part. Bron, from now on, you ARE Lieutenant Hinds. Every time you talk to someone, every social interaction, bring out those SLEE-urpy southern vowels. Think you can do that?”

“Shure thing, pardner! Yeee-fuckin’ HAAA!”

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Bron hadn’t met up with Mynwen since they’d parted company at Euston that night. A lot of water had flowed under the bridge since then. Now, Mynwen was on her way to a new life as a trainee nurse in Middlesbrough, taking the overnight coach from Holyhead to London, and then another journey through the night to the North-east. That gave a good 15 hours in London, time for shopping, window-shopping at any rate.

Bron started from her doze as Mynwen dropped her heavy black bag with a thump on the formica table in the coach station caff. “S’mae, Bron! How’s tricks?”

“Well, ah-ull be darned, if it ay-unt the Missie Davies from l’il ole Llan-vi-urr-yng-Mochnant, fresh off the over-naht stage! How yuh doin’?”

“Oh, you know, as well as can be expected, after eight hours on the National Express. Never again – ‘cept I’ve got to do it all again this evening. Must be mad. Or skint.”

“Sure thing, pardner!”

“Dyin’ for a fag after that coach. Come outside?”

“Not settin’ a good ex-EM-pil to them that patients o’ yourn…”

“Oh, fuck them. Probably all going to die anyway…”

 

They stood on the corner. Mynwen took a deep draw on a bent Embassy Regal she’d dug out of her jacket pocket. “Bron, mae fam chi dweud dy fod ti mewn ffilm neu rywbeth. Yn wir?”

“Mae’n wee-urir. Ffil-yum am beilot Americanaidd.”

“No-ooo! That’s FANTASTIC!”

“Shee-URR is.”

“Bron? You OK?”

“Sure thay-ing!”

“Why you talking funny? Sound like my Grandad after he’d had the stroke.”

“Guess…geeeyus, it must jeh-ust be ma ‘way-uv speakin’ Mynwen.”

“Must be something in the water, in London. You goin’ to keep this up all day?”

“SHUUR thing, pardner!”

To be continued in Chapter 12

 

At Oxford circus, a white van came hurtling round the corner from Regent Street, brakes screeching, missing the two women by millimetres. “FOOKIN’ HELL!” yelled Bron. Bastad nearly KILLED us! CONT!”

“So you CAN still speak Welsh,” said Mynwen.