Meet Me at the Lighthouse

by Mary Jayne Baker

  I thought that was a pretty strong argument, but if Langford was impressed he didn’t show it. He was sneering again, not bothering to hide it now. “Right. And this madcap plan you concocted over, what, a couple of beers in the pub is something you think the two of you, with next to no experience, can pull off?”

  In the pub … shit, he only bloody knew, didn’t he? We should have realised the ever-restless town tongue-waggers would’ve been at work. Well, that was it then. He’d clearly made up his mind against us. Unless we could win round the other grave, silent men at the table, it looked like it was game, set and fucked to Councillor Langford.

  Alex had been trying to catch my eye all the time we’d been talking, and so far I’d done pretty well ignoring him. I’d spent a week mentally preparing myself for seeing him, knowing full well I needed to stay calm and professional if we were to have any shot at the funding. But he finally managed to arrest my gaze, flashing me a warm smile before he turned to face his chairman.

  “Sorry, Arthur, I have to take issue with you. I think you’re being rather harsh.” Alex patted the paperwork in front of him. “No matter where the idea came from, Bobbie and Ross have come to us with a solid, well-researched plan. That alone should deserve applause from us rather than censure, whatever our ultimate decision.” He caught my eye again, but I kept my gaze fixed straight ahead. If he thought that little intervention was enough to earn him a place in my good books, he could think again.

  “I agree,” another man joined in. “I think this music venue idea is capital, something the whole community can benefit from. Vital as it is to our economy, I’ve long argued this council needs to think less about tourism and more about the people resident here all year round.”

  “They already have a sizeable grant from the Coastal Heritage Fund,” Alex said. “If that body were willing to put their faith in this project, I see no reason we shouldn’t be.”

  There was a rhubarb-rhubarb murmur around the table, but whether it represented assent or disagreement I couldn’t tell.

  “Questions from the council at the end, gentlemen,” Langford said, not taking his eyes off me and Ross.

  “My granddaughter’s in a band, they’re very good,” the second councillor went on, ignoring his chairman and speaking directly to us. “This sounds like it could be just the thing for her. She’s always saying how hard it is to find anywhere to practise.”

  Alex nodded. “Very true, Bill. I’m sure lots of young people would benefit from somewhere to rehearse without disturbing people. It’s about time the council started encouraging creativity instead of punishing it.”

  “Questions at the end,” Langford repeated firmly, turning to frown at Alex. “Due process, please, Councillor. Keep to your agenda.”

  “Yes. Sorry, Arthur.” Alex looked down at his papers, but I saw him flash me a smile as the chairman gave his attention back to us.

  “I repeat,” Langford said. “What makes the two of you believe you can pull off this little scheme?”

  Ross glared at him. “We’re perfectly capable, thank you, Arthur – er, Councillor. We’ve got drive, energy and incentive: the rest of it we’ll learn as we go. Anyway, it seems to me you don’t have much of an alternative, do you?”

  “There is one alternative, one your uncle always stubbornly refused to countenance,” Langford said, his mouth twisting into an unpleasant half-smile. “You could sell the lighthouse to us. The two of you would get a tidy payout each and the lighthouse would get the future it deserves.”

  “Future? What future?”

  “A visitor centre, like lighthouses the country over. Pay a pound to see the view from the top, get a sandwich and a cuppa in a little tearoom at the bottom. It’s a relic and it ought to be preserved, not filled with feral adolescents doing God knows what damage.”

  Ross looked angry now. “It bloody well isn’t a relic. It deserves better than that. It’s …” He paused.

  “It should be alive,” I chimed in. “Not just a pretty thing to be kept in bubblewrap. It was someone’s home, once. It’s saved lives –”

  Langford scoffed. “You’re too sentimental, my dear. It’s a building, not a pet. A historic building, which should be admired as just that. Not used as a –” he paused, fumbling for the word – “a damn … speakeasy.”

  “Performance space.” I crossed my arms. “And you can’t just buy us off. We won’t sell and that’s that.” I turned to Ross. “Will we?”

  Ross crossed his arms too. “Abso-bloody-lutely we won’t. If Uncle Charlie wouldn’t sell to these people, there’s no way I’m going to.”

  Langford smiled, a nasty ear-to-ear Grinch smirk, as he prepared to play his trump card. “We thought you might say that.” He paused. “£70,000.”

  “You must be…” I trailed off. “Wait, what?”

  “£70,000. That’s the figure this council has agreed upon as a fair offer. Not the full value, of course, but a neat little sum each, and far more straightforward than trying to sell on the private market with the lighthouse in its current state. Plus you’d have the pleasure of knowing you’ve done your civic duty by returning it to the town – finally.” He shot a loaded look Ross’s way. “One nod and the pair of you walk away with £35,000 each to do as you like with. No one in this room will think any less of you, I assure you.”

  I turned to Ross. “It’s a lot of money,” I muttered in a low voice.

  “It is, isn’t it?” he muttered back. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “Yep.”

  “Can I do it?”

  “Be my guest.”

  “If the two of you would like to take a moment to discuss it –” the chairman began.

  “No thanks, we’ve said all we need.” Ross glared at Langford. “So. If you’re willing to put up that kind of public money, that tells us you can easily afford the 60 grand we’re asking for, can’t you?”

  “That’s not really how the funding works –” Langford said, but Ross cut him off.

  “We’re not stupid, Councillor. We thought you might have some sort of offer for us, and we can see it for what it is: desperation. Well, listen carefully.” Ross leaned forward, enunciating his next five words with great deliberation. “We’re not going to sell. Not to you, not to anyone, not under any circumstances. And you know you can’t force us to, not legally. I’m not an old man you can harass with dodgy threats to sue.”

  “And if we up our offer?”

  “Sorry, Arthur.” Ross shot him a wry smile. “No deal.”

  Langford narrowed his watery eyes, mask cracking to reveal some real anger simmering below the sternly calm surface. He was evidently a man used to getting his way.

  “Fine. I had hoped you might be persuaded to put the town first, but clearly not. And please be aware, Mr Mason, that this council does not respond well to being held to ransom.” He turned to face his colleagues. “Now then, gentlemen. Any questions for these two –” he hesitated a fraction of a beat – “people before we vote?”

  The other councillors’ questions were far more reasonable than any Langford had asked us. Alex asked about our Coastal Heritage grant and our other ally, Bill, made some helpful suggestions on potential funding sources for the rest of the renovation work. Another man wanted to know how child protection would be managed when the band performing contained minors, and an elderly councillor in a monogrammed blazer, who was very sweet and looked like he must’ve been elected some time during the reign of Queen Victoria, asked if we’d be having any brass bands on.

  Luckily we’d done our homework and I didn’t think we did a bad job answering. Once Ross had been through our plans – the balconies and speakers we wanted to install, the workshops and open-mic nights for under-21s he was planning, all with his trademark energy and enthusiasm – I could see some of the stern expressions beginning to thaw.

  “Right, are we done?” Langford asked the others when we’d answered all the questions. There was a hum of assent.


  “In that case, would the two of you leave the room please?” he said to us.

  “What?” Ross looked suspicious. “Why?”

  “The council will need to discuss your case privately and take a vote on the allocation of funds.” He managed a joyless, tight-lipped smile. “All above board, I assure you, Mr Mason; it’s how these things are always done. We’ll call you back in when we’ve reached a decision.”

  “Er, right. Ok.” Ross moved hesitantly to the door, me following. Before going out, he turned to face the council again. “Look… just quickly, before we go. You’ve got your bits of paper there with the details of what we want to do, and I’m sure you know your jobs. But I can promise you, there’s no one in this room the lighthouse means more to than me and Bobbie. And we won’t sell, not at any price – but we will work, hard, to make this thing happen. So if you want to get your precious lighthouse back to its glory days then it seems to me you’ve got no choice. You can allocate the funds or you can watch it rot. Your call, gentlemen.”

  And with that parting shot, he left the room.

  “Oooh. That was bloody good,” I breathed when we got back to reception, looking up at Ross admiringly. “Langford was all like, ‘It’s our lighthouse, mwahahaha! Sell it or you won’t get a penny, mwahahahahaha!’ and you were all like, ‘It’s my way or the highway so you can all go swivel, you bunch of knobs. BAM!’” I punched the air enthusiastically.

  “That is literally exactly what I said.”

  “Well, how’d it go?” the friendly receptionist asked when we’d wandered over to throw ourselves into a couple of the high-backed green Chesterfields in the waiting area.

  “Awful,” I groaned.

  “Arthur Langford?”

  “Yeah. God, what a nightmare.” I shook my head. “You poor woman.”

  “He doesn’t scare me. I’ve worked here long enough to know he’s all bluster and no trousers.” She flung me a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry. The others’ll let him talk just to test your mettle, but he won’t influence them if they think he’s being unfair. As long as you made a strong case they’ll be on your side.”

  I turned to Ross, who was leaning on his palms looking worried. “Did we make a strong case?”

  “Dunno. I can’t remember a word except me telling them all to fuck off at the end there.” He groaned faintly, pushing his fingers into his hair.

  “You didn’t tell them to fuck off. You said something super manly and dignified, like ‘so go suck on them apples, gentlemen’, then flounced out. It was proper sexy.”

  “Oh. Great. As long as me buggering everything up for us turns you on.”

  The receptionist jumped as the pager on her desk buzzed. “That was quick. They’ve got a decision for you already.”

  “Is that a good sign?” I asked.

  She hesitated. “Well… it can be. In you go, guys.”

  ***

  “Thank you both for waiting,” Councillor Langford said, his tone suggesting we could’ve been out in reception weeks for his money. “The council has reached a decision.”

  He paused, and at first I thought it was another ploy, the carefully timed hesitation to intimidate us. Then I examined his face and I knew: it wasn’t a power-play, not this time. Behind the stern frown, he actually looked glum. And I could see Alex, smiling slightly under his blonde mop as he tried to catch my eye…

  Langford sighed and looked down at his notepad. “The vote came in at 18 in favour, two against. You’ve got the lot.”

  Chapter 7

  My body vibrated with excitement. Sixty grand, we’d really got it! It was actually happening. The lighthouse project was actually, properly happening.

  “Arghh! That was brilliant!” I said to Ross outside the town hall, giving his arm an enthusiastic squeeze. “God… I suppose it didn’t feel real until today. Hey, we can go ahead and book that clean-up company now.”

  “Yeah, guess so.”

  I frowned at his dismal expression. “Aren’t you excited? This is your dream, Ross.”

  “I know.” He summoned a smile. “It went really well, didn’t it? Can’t believe we turned it round. I thought Langford had us shafted for a minute.”

  But he sounded like his heart wasn’t really in his gloating.

  “You sure you’re ok?” I asked. “Thought I’d have a job to stop you streaking through town playing a vuvuzela after that.”

  “Just tired, that’s all. I am excited, promise. Didn’t mean to kill the mood.”

  I shot a concerned glance at his baggy eyes. He did look drained. And I’d felt him flinch when I squeezed his arm, as if he was on edge.

  “You’re burning yourself out,” I said gently. “You need to take a break, Ross. How about you come for a drink with me? We can swear off lighthouse talk for the afternoon and relax.”

  “Hmm. Dunno, socialising with you’s always a dangerous business,” Ross said, his mouth twitching. “God knows what public building I’d wake up with.”

  I laughed. “Well, I promise not to buy the Scout hut or anything. So you want to?”

  He sighed. “Sounds fun, but I can’t. Work to do. Sorry.”

  “Still on that big design contract?”

  “Yeah, putting in a lot of hours. I can’t really afford to turn jobs down at the moment, to be honest. Money’s been a bit tight the last few months, paying my rent here and the mortgage on mine and Claire’s old flat. I thought it’d get snapped up once we put it on the market but the place seems to be taking forever to sell.”

  And he’d just turned down a no-strings offer of £35,000, plus his half of the 20 grand sitting in our emergency fund. The project really must mean a lot to him.

  “Then let me do more on the lighthouse,” I said.

  “Would you have time?”

  “I’ll make time. It’s the long summer break coming up anyway, then I’ll have two months off work to give to it.”

  Ross smiled. “Always look out for me, don’t you?”

  “That’s what partners are for.” I patted his shoulder. “Go on, get yourself home so you can finish your work and grab an early night. I’ll see you at the pub next week.”

  “Ok. Cheers, Bobbie, you’re a good mate.” He chucked me under the chin by way of a goodbye and headed back to his car.

  It was a glorious May day and the air was heavy with the seaside smells that always meant home to me: cigarettes and shellfish, saltwater and sweet things. And vinegar, always vinegar. In spite of the spirit-dampening conversation I’d just had with Ross, my heart lifted. It was a Punch-and-Judy world, but it was mine.

  I inhaled appreciatively, hugging myself. It was too nice to sit indoors after nearly two hours closeted in a stuffy town hall. Turning in the direction of town, I took the scenic route down to the seafront for a walk.

  The sea, when it eventually hoved into view, was deep blue and glittering, the beach’s chalky pebbles radiant. Cragport always looked its best clad in sunshine. The old pier stretched invitingly into the water, and I bent my steps that way.

  It was the town’s third or fourth pier, which back in the less safety-conscious times of good Queen Vic had had a nasty habit of catching alight. The current incarnation was long, broad and meticulously fireproof, laden with the sort of seaside entertainment that kept tourists happy and townspeople solvent: a greasy spoon caf, penny arcade, kiddies’ Teacup ride belting out a tinny circus tune, and a naff old cabaret club, Tuxedo’s, that doubled as a bingo hall during the day. Right at the end was a glass pavilion, The Orangery Tearoom, which boasted the best sea view in Cragport. I shot it a smug look as I dawdled along. Once the lighthouse was open for business, they’d have to drop that tagline.

  I was sauntering past the industrial 1970s-style cafe, smiling as I thought about the lighthouse, when I pulled up short and stared through the window. I gasped, blinking to reassure myself I was really seeing what I thought I was seeing.

  It was Ross! Ross Mason, who not half an hour ago had assured me he
was heading for home. Ross Mason, squirting ketchup lavishly over a plate of chips.

  And he wasn’t eating alone. A petite woman with long strawberry-blonde hair was sitting with her back to me, tucking into some chips of her own. Ross was laughing at something she’d said, crinkling his handsome eyes. As I watched, the woman leaned over and rested her long, manicured fingernails on his forearm.

  I swallowed hard, then darted into the amusements next door before they spotted me.

  Inside, the flashing coloured lights and assorted buh-buh-bips of the one-armed bandit aisle greeted me. Schools hadn’t broken up yet and it wasn’t quite peak tourism season, so the place was nearly empty.

  The proprietor eyed me suspiciously as I shuffled to one of the Coin Cascades. Rummaging in my jeans pocket, I located a few twopenny pieces and started feeding them mechanically into the slot.

  With my free hand I pulled out my phone.

  “Hm?” Jess said when she answered my call. It had been another late shift, or a late date with Gareth, I forgot which, and I’d clearly woken her up.

  “Guess who I’ve just seen,” I hissed.

  “Well it’d better be someone pretty A-list if you’re interrupting my beauty sleep.”

  “It was Ross. Having chips at the caf on the pier.”

  “Wow, living the dream. Very happy for him. Ring me back in two hours.”

  “Wait, don’t hang up,” I said urgently. “There’s more. He wasn’t alone.”

  “Sorry, can you speak up?” she said as one of my 2p pieces got lucky and the machine started paying out in a series of noisy chinks. “Where the hell are you?”

  “Hiding out in the slotties.” I raised my voice. “I said, he wasn’t alone!”

  “What?”

  “WASN’T ALONE! ROSS!”

  The stiff-necked proprietor was subjecting me to a properly filthy look now, the kind he reserved for customers who carried out loud phone conversations while winning all his tuppences, and I flashed him an apologetic smile.