He'd hoped he would. Much later, he would come to recognise she was the only reason he'd braved that damp April night and sacrificed his few coppers.
Anticipated disappointment was replaced with a smile of recognition as he first glimpsed her there on the screen; his first and only true film star.
Everyone else in that crowd : the wool merchants, the bankers, millhands and all, looked as if part of some elaborate dance, choreographed. They moved quickly, confidently, in straight, pre-determined lines. They knew from whence they came and, more importantly, where they were going. Only one besuited individual, startled by the camera, was forced into a sharp, almost military turn.
And there was the band, as if giving a silent demonstration as to how, in addition to walking in a straight line, it was also possible to progress together in one, single direction.
He was there too. He with his basket of day-old bread, 'borrowed' from behind the baker's on Thornton Road. And her with the daffodils she'd picked from the park in Manningham. Their stacatto movements mirrored only each other as they desperately tried to halt the performance of those around them. While other figures came and went, the two of them flitted in and out of view.
The first time had been the best though. The time she was really there. From more than a decade and many miles' distance, the screen in his head had merged those two occasions into one monochromatic, flickering scene. The one splash of colour was her.
Monday, 2 March 2009