Meet Me at the Lighthouse

by Mary Jayne Baker

  He sighed. “Not much to tell really. We met working for the same design agency in Sheffield, a couple of young people just out of uni. Went out, fell in love, moved in, got married. But it didn’t work out. No one to blame, we just… fell out of love again. Grew up, changed. And in the end that’s all the story there is.”

  “Ok, so what was all that about then?”

  “All what?”

  “All that. ‘Ooooh, sweety, your hair’s so pretty, I want to touch your face, have a sexy guitar pick’, etc. Bit touchy-feely, aren’t you?”

  “I guess that was a bit weird,” he admitted. “We were just together so long… old habits.”

  “Well don’t fall back into the old habit of sleeping together, will you?”

  I was expecting a laugh, but he looked down at me, concerned.

  “Don’t trust me, my Bobbie?”

  “No, I… sorry, Ross. Just a bad joke.”

  “I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Yes… yes, I know. I do trust you, promise.” I leant across to kiss a stubbled cheek. “When did you know it was over?”

  “Around three years ago, probably. We tried to make it work, but eventually we had to admit it was a lost cause. In the end we realised we were just too different to be anything more than mates.”

  “Different how?”

  “In lots of ways. Hobbies, friends. And she never could get into the music. The more important it became to me, the more we drifted apart.”

  “She wasn’t supportive of it?”

  “It’d be easy to say that,” he said, gazing wistfully into his past. “But no, that’s not fair. It wasn’t that she didn’t support it, she just never got it. And Claire had dreams of her own just as baffling to me.”

  “So you were the one who broke it off?”

  “No, it was mutual. We both knew we were fighting a losing battle.” He sighed. “It’s a funny thing, isn’t it? When I made that commitment, I really believed it’d be for life. I don’t know what’s sadder in the end: saying goodbye to something you once believed in so strongly, or admitting that on some level you’ve failed.”

  I ran a finger down his cheek. “You didn’t fail. Things change, that’s all. None of us know the people we’re going to end up being.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. We were too young really. At 23, you’re still finding out who you are.” He smiled. “So are you going to stop being jealous and kiss me?”

  “Yes. Sorry, Ross, I know it’s bound to be a bit strange for you. Here.” I pressed a tender kiss to his lips.

  “Hey,” he said gently, guiding me on to his lap so I was sat sideways across his knees. “Never mind Claire. Tell me about your dreams, Bobbie Hannigan.”

  I shrugged. “Not sure I’ve got any really. I mean, the lighthouse…”

  “That’s my dream, you just got pulled in. Come on, there must be something you want out of life apart from tequila and lighthouses.”

  “Well…” I started rubbing at a dusty mark on my jeans. “There’s the writing, I guess. I’ve had the first draft of a novel sitting in a drawer for six months now. Always dreamed I’d finish it, maybe even see if there’d be any interest in publishing it.”

  “So why don’t you?”

  “I suppose it’s like you with your performance space. I mean, how you felt before we started. Scared if I look at the manuscript again it’ll show me it’s worthless, and that’ll be the end of the dream.”

  “Give over, you’re a great writer. The publicity stuff you’ve done for the lighthouse has been brilliant.”

  I laughed. “It’s only press releases, they’re hardly going to win me the Booker.”

  “What about all those creative writing prizes at school?”

  I heaved a sigh. “Long time ago.”

  “Look, why don’t you let me read it?” Ross said. “I’m a writer too – well, sort of. I can give you some constructive criticism.”

  “God, you must be kidding. I can hardly bear to read it myself, let alone show it to anyone.”

  “You think I don’t feel that way about my stuff?” he said. “All us creative types are insecure like that.”

  “That’s different though. You’re good.”

  “So are you. And once a few people have told you so, you’ll be amazed what it does for your confidence.”

  “Well… I’ll think about it.”

  “That’s my girl.” He pressed another kiss to my forehead. “Now how about that sexy cuddle I was promised?”

  “Thought you’d never ask. Let’s go back to bed.”

  Chapter 21

  The day of the music festival dawned grey but dry, which was as much as you could expect of Cragport. The weatherman said we might even get a glimmer of sun in the afternoon. I was a bit worried about Travis bursting into flames with that cellar-dwelling, undead vibe he had going on.

  Tickets had been selling like hot cakes at a hot cake fan convention. It helped that Ross had got some really good acts on the bill – I mean, some of these guys had played Morecambe, they were that big. We’d sold around 150 tickets in advance and there were another 50 we’d kept back to sell on the door, which meant that at £15 a pop, fundraising was well under way. Ross had also managed to pull a few strings to get our one and only local celeb – an ageing thesp and one-time sitcom actor who’d been a pretty big name in his day – to open the event, a real coup for us.

  Our little team of volunteers gathered early by the lighthouse to start setting up.

  I’d just tipped out the bag of marquee poles and was puzzling over them, wondering which slotted into which, when someone tapped my shoulder. A nervous, smart Gareth was lurking behind me, his fair curls gelled and his cheeks even ruddier than usual.

  “Hiya. Your mum here yet?”

  “Oh yeah, it’s your big meet-the-mother day, isn’t it?” I said. “Where’s our Jess?”

  “She’s abandoned me. Says I have to face it on my own. Your sister’s kind of a terrible person, no offence.”

  “You don’t need to tell me, love. She once fed my Barbie to the cat.”

  “Never mind that, is your –” He broke off as the words sank in. “Wait, how do you feed a Barbie to a cat?”

  “Head first, apparently. Luckily Binky wasn’t having it or that could’ve been a pretty solid vet’s bill. Still, never felt right playing with that doll afterwards. The teethmarks round the eyes made it look like she’d had a dodgy facelift.”

  Gareth smiled. “You being funny to help me feel less nervous?”

  “Yeah, is it working?”

  “A bit. Thanks.” He scanned the volunteers. “So is she here?”

  I pointed out Mum, chatting animatedly to Ross as they slotted bits of stage together. “That’s her.”

  Gareth’s eyebrows shot into his curls. “What, with the green hair?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  He squinted at Mum. “She just looks so… nice. Sort of young and fun. The way you two go on, I’d expected some rolling pin-wielding gorgon.”

  “Don’t be fooled. I swear her fashion sense is just to lull our boyfriends into a false sense of security. Once she’s decided she doesn’t like someone, she goes the full dragon lady.”

  “Oh God.” He sucked his lip nervously. “Er, hey, how about we jack this in and go for a drink? You fetch Ross, I’ll text Jessie and tell her we’re in the pub.”

  I laughed. “I have to run a music festival, you big wuss. Plus it’s 9.30 in the morning. Look, she’ll love you. You’re easily the nicest lad our Jess has been out with.”

  He smiled. “Thanks, Bobs. Glad one of the family approves of me.”

  “So will Mum. Once you get the first ten minutes out of the way she’ll be your biggest fan, I promise.” I pointed to Mum giving Ross an approving slap on the arm. “See how she is with him?”

  “Pretty chummy, aren’t they?” Gareth said, shooting Ross an envious look.

  “Yep. All she really wants is
to see me and Jess with lads who treat us right. Once she’s worked out you come under that umbrella, she’ll be fine.”

  “Oh God, she’s spotted me,” he said, his eyes widening.

  He was right, Mum was striding in our direction. When she reached us, she didn’t muck about with idle chit-chat.

  “I take it you’re the young man who’s here to see me?”

  “Er, yeah. Nice to finally meet you, Ms Hannigan.” He held his hand out, but she just eyeballed it suspiciously.

  “What’s that for?”

  “Um, to shake?”

  She scanned Gareth up and down. It was funny, watching the strapping rugby player quaking in his suit while this tiny woman examined him.

  “Hmm. Let’s see how it goes before we make with the handshakes, shall we?”

  I laughed. “Come on, Mum, you’re scaring him. This is a good one, I promise.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” Mum said, not taking her eyes off him. “Come over to the cliff for a private talk, young Gareth. I’ve got some questions for you.”

  Gareth’s eyes saucered as she pulled a notepad out of her pocket. “Jesus Christ, you’ve got them written down? I’ve had less intense job interviews. Er, I mean, er… Jiminy Christ, er, Cricket… shit.”

  Mum grinned. “Don’t worry, just a preliminary check. If you pass we’ll be best friends by the time our Jess gets here.”

  Gareth shot me a helpless look as he followed Mum to the cliff edge.

  I could see them talking, Gareth’s eyes glazed, Mum flipping through her notebook. After ten minutes she beckoned him to her and he planted a bewildered kiss on her cheek before wandering back to me.

  “You passed then,” I said.

  “Er, yeah…” He wiped his brow. “Wow. That was the most terrifying experience of my entire life.”

  “Well done. There aren’t many lads who’d face a Mum interrogation for our Jess.”

  “Well. Love her, don’t I?”

  I gave his arm a pat. “You’re a good lad. So what did she ask you?”

  “God, it was like the Spanish Inquisition, minus the comfy chair. Everything from whether I’m a smoker to religious beliefs. No word of a lie, she actually asked me about my daily Vitamin D intake. Is she worried Jessie’ll be left a widow when I die of rickets?”

  “Heh, no. It’s just to see if you crack under questioning. If she scares you off, it shows you’re not committed enough.”

  “What, you couldn’t have told me that before?”

  I grinned. “That’d defeat the object, wouldn’t it?”

  He shook his head. “You Hannigans are all evil. Torturing innocent boys.”

  “Well, it’s over now.”

  “For the time being.” He grimaced. “Apparently me and Jessie have to go over for Sunday dinner next week. Or Round 2, as your mum calls it.”

  “Don’t worry, me and Ross’re going too; we’ll protect you. And terrifying as Mum is, she’s a great cook.”

  Ross was heading over now, leaving Mum to work on the stage with the other volunteers.

  “Did you have to go through this as well?” Gareth asked when he joined us.

  “Me? No,” Ross said. “Janine’s known me all my life, her dad was best mates with my Uncle Charlie.”

  Gareth glared at him resentfully. “You jammy bastard.”

  Ross grinned. “Yep. I learned early in life that schmoozing the mums of pretty girls would see me right one day. So have you come to help then, Rugby? Need another big, strong lad to help me sort the pop-up bar.”

  “Sexist,” I said, nudging him.

  He looked down at me with an amused smile. “Why, you want to do it, tiny?”

  “I would if I was as big as you two. Don’t see what being a lad’s got to do with it.”

  He kissed the top of my head. “All right, She-Hulk. Next time I’ll get you some protein shakes and steroids, then you can do the lot and me and him’ll go down the pub.”

  I giggled. “And will you still fancy me when I look like an East German shotputter?”

  “If I didn’t I wouldn’t dare say, you might beat me up.” He turned back to Gareth. “So, can you give us a hand?”

  Gareth glanced down at his Mum-meeting suit. “Not really dressed for heavy lifting. Might pop home and get into some jeans, have that stiff drink Jessie warned me I’d need. Won’t be long, you guys.”

  ***

  Four hours later, we were nearly ready for the off. There were already a few people hovering by the gates, peering curiously past the two lads on security as we finished getting everything set up.

  And I had to admit, it was all pretty bloody impressive. I mean, it was no Woodstock or anything, but for a small-town music festival it looked damn professional.

  We’d done things on the cheap where we could and most of the stuff was a loan. There was the stage we’d borrowed from the playhouse, covered with an open-fronted gazebo Ross had scrounged from somewhere. Travis had lent a load of sound equipment from The Cellar, there was disco lighting from Mum’s youth club and a couple of power generators Alex had borrowed from the council. Above the stage was an awesome banner Ross had designed for us. It showed a cartoon lighthouse made to look like a stick of rock, sliced in half with Little Stick of Rock and Roll written in a seaside rock font round the middle.

  We’d left a clear area in front of the stage for people to picnic on the grass, with a huge marquee of the church’s behind for shelter if it rained. Under it was a table with leaflets about the project, plus an industrial-sized barbecue of the Crown pub’s. We even had merchandise for sale – t-shirts with Ross’s stick of rock design on the front and a list of acts on the back, CD singles of Dark Sentinel and albums by some of the performers. Glasto could go suck it.

  “How we doing then?” Ross asked, joining me under the marquee.

  “Awesome. I think we’re pretty much ready to go. Does everyone know their jobs?”

  “Yep. Jess is taking first shift in the first-aid tent, Gareth’s on merch and everyone else is on steward duty. Oh, and Trav’s going to help us look after the bands. He wants to keep an eye on all his equipment.”

  “What about my mum?”

  He grinned. “Oh God, it’s hilarious. Haven’t you seen?”

  I frowned. “No. Seen what?”

  “She’s babysitting our star, they’re at the bar. Honestly, you should see her face.”

  “Why, what’s the matter?”

  “You’ll understand when you meet him. Come on. He’s expecting to be introduced.”

  Ross took my elbow and guided me towards the lighthouse, where we’d set up the bar.

  Anthony St John was Cragport’s only “name”. As a theatre actor, he’d been in rep at the Old Vic, worked with some of the greats – even Gielgud once, Ross had told me. But these days the old man was mainly remembered for a naff sitcom he’d starred in back in the ’70s called ’Im Indoors, one of those two-a-penny domestic affairs where the social-climbing wife’s always throwing dinner parties and the hen-pecked husband’s feuding with the neighbours.

  Nobody saw much of him these days: in his early 80s now, he’d become a bit of a recluse. Occasionally locals would notice a reporter camped outside Anthony’s gated house on the hill, trying to get a pic of him for a “whatever happened to…” piece. But largely he was left to himself, which seemed to be the way he liked it.

  The catch-up pieces the press sometimes ran on Anthony usually included phrases like “flamboyant”, “tired and emotional” and “confirmed bachelor”, those unsubtle codes the redtops use to let readers know when they think someone’s a camp old lush. In his glory days Anthony had always played up to his reputation. As Ross pushed open the lighthouse door, I could see not much had changed there.

  “Did you tell him it was black tie?” I muttered to Ross.

  “Nope. He just turned up like that.”

  The old actor was leaning up against the bar with a tumbler of something amber and alcoholic. He wa
s in full evening dress: waistcoat, tails, spats, even a top hat. At a bloody music festival, Jesus.

  Mum was next to him in her best tie-dye dress, green braids hanging over her shoulders and a glazed look in her eyes. It was all very odd couple. Jess and Gareth were milling around too, attaching decorative bunting to the walls to give the place a more festive atmosphere. Even with the bar to fill the floorspace, it looked very bare.

  “Bloody hell, pretentious old bugger or what?” I said under my breath to Ross. “How did you get him here?”

  “He’s a friend of the family. Uncle Charlie was a mate of his when he was still just little Tony Johnson, they grew up on the same street.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, the Johnsons ran a chippy down on the seafront. I reckon he only came so’s I’d keep it quiet.” He cleared his throat as we joined Anthony and Mum at the bar. “Um, Anthony, can I introduce my partner, Roberta Hannigan?”

  “Enchanted,” the old man drawled, holding out his hand to me.

  “Er, yeah, nice to meet you –” That didn’t sound like enough, with the level of formality he had going on. “– er, sir,” I added lamely, shaking his hand. “You didn’t need to dress up just for us.”

  Anthony raised one bushy eyebrow. “Please, my dear! It’s after luncheon.” He drained the last of whatever it was he was drinking and turned to Mum. “So shall we abscond to the outdoors, Janine, my love? I feel I could benefit from a chestful of sea air.”

  “You sure you want to?” Ross asked. “There’s a few reporters out there.” We’d spotted a local news team parking up earlier, here to cover the festival.

  “So they’ve caught up with me again, have they?” Anthony scowled. “Those appalling scavengers of the press. You know, all they ever wish to speak to me about is that damnable sitcom.”

  “Well it was pretty popular,” I said in a flattering tone.

  “‘Pretty popular’?” he said huffily. “Sixteen million viewers is more than ‘pretty popular’, young lady. Not that it’s much comfort to me now, when there were those who believed mine was a Dick the Third to rank alongside Olivier’s.”