Meet Me at the Lighthouse

by Mary Jayne Baker

  “Thanks, Jessie,” he said, smiling. “Good to get some feedback from the non-biased twin.”

  He took my hand and led me into the lighthouse.

  Every time I went inside and compared it to how it’d looked all those months ago, coated in that sickly layer of dust and droppings, it took my breath a little.

  The semi-circular wooden stage where Josh and the band had already set up their equipment now filled half the floor space, with the other half reserved as a little mosh pit for anyone who fancied a dance. A camera above the Project Phoenix mural was hooked up to three screens, wall-mounted to give those on the balconies the best view of the acts, with a speaker either side. We’d decorated the place with second-hand vinyl sleeves, mounted in curved frames to suit the shape of the walls.

  There were three crescent balconies with staircases between them, finally reaching the loft opening to The Lantern Bar. Strings of red and white bunting were currently hanging from the brass balcony rails, giving the place a party atmosphere. A banner behind the stage announced Project Phoenix – Grand Opening!

  “So do I get that snog now then?” I asked Ross.

  “In a minute,” he said. “Something I need to tell you first.”

  I frowned. “Nothing bad, is it?”

  “No, the opposite. Got some good news this morning.”

  I looked up into his face. His eyes were shining, and a little smile twitched the corner of his mouth.

  I clapped a hand to my mouth. “You sold the flat!”

  “Yep. Claire texted to say the new owners have signed on the dotted line.”

  “Oh my God, that’s brilliant!” I said, hugging him tight. “So glad you don’t need to worry about it any more.”

  “There’s one thing I still need to worry about.” He held me back to look into my face. “Your half of the emergency fund.”

  “Oh, never mind that,” I said, flushing. “It all worked out in the end.”

  “That was just luck. You were right, Bobbie, I let you down.” He fished in his pocket and pressed something into my hand. “Take this.”

  I blinked at it. It was a cheque for £10,000.

  “No, Ross.”

  “Please. I won’t feel right unless you do.”

  “And I won’t feel right if I do,” I said, tearing the cheque down the middle and stuffing it back in his pocket. “I told you, it’s James’s money. I never wanted anything off him and I don’t want it now. Let him pay his debt to Mum and Corinne with the lighthouse.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure,” I said firmly. “Not that you weren’t a right pillock to spend it without asking me. But I forgive you.”

  He smiled. “You know you’re some girl, right?”

  “No arguments here.”

  “Well, if you won’t take the money then I hope you’ll take this,” he said, pulling out a little gift-wrapped package. “Wanted to give you it before, but it didn’t feel right until the flat sold.”

  He handed it to me, and I noticed he looked nervous: his twitchy, flushed stage fright face.

  “Another present? You really need to stop giving me things.”

  “This isn’t something new, it’s something I gave you once before. Open it.”

  I frowned as I started to unwrap it. It was Ross’s 50p, his lighthouse money.

  “But it’s your lucky keyring,” I said. “Why’re you giving it back?”

  “If you take it back I won’t need it, I’ll be the luckiest bloke in the world. Unwrap the rest.”

  I did, and discovered a key, shiny and freshly cut, dangling on the other end.

  “For my flat,” Ross said softly. He tilted my face up so I was looking into his pretty silver-flecked eyes. “I’m asking you to move in with me, Bobbie. I don’t want to be anywhere else but with you, and I think we’re ready for the next step. Come share a life with me, lighthouse girl.”

  I gasped and swallowed at the same time, making a strange choking noise in my throat. For a minute, all I could do was glug at him.

  “Bobbie?”

  “Yes,” I finally managed to gasp out. “I mean, no.”

  “Right.” He blinked. “Er, wow. That was a pretty quick turnaround.”

  “I mean, I’ll move in with you. But not your flat. It’s too small.”

  “Oh. Why, have you got an Imelda Marcos-sized shoe collection or something?”

  “No, but I’ve got Monty. And Jess.” I brought my eyes to his. “Can’t you come to me?”

  He frowned. “What, with your sister and the dog?”

  “Would that be a problem?”

  He looked thoughtful. “No, I’m up for a houseshare if that’s what you want,” he said after a minute. “But… you don’t think Jess’ll mind?”

  “Well, let’s check.”

  I went to the lighthouse door and flung it open.

  “Oi!” I called to Jess.

  “What?”

  “Can Ross move in with us?”

  “Yeah, if you like. The pair of you’ll have to go halves on a louder telly though.”

  “Cheers,” I said, shooting her a thumbs-up.

  “Sorted,” I said, going back to Ross and snuggling into his arms again. “I’ll come round next week and help you pack.”

  He laughed. “Bloody hell, why do I feel like whenever I’m with you I’ve just been for a spin in a revolving door? Not so fast, crazy girl. Need to give notice on my letting agreement first.”

  “Oh. Well, you can start moving some bits in.”

  “Suppose I should be flattered you’re so keen.” He buried his lips in my hair. “Can’t wait to wake up with you in my arms every morning, bonny lass.”

  “God, yeah.” I blinked a few times. “That sounds… wonderful.”

  “Give us that mouth then.”

  I pressed my lips to his for a long kiss.

  “Can you believe we made it this far on the back of two tequila slammers and a drunken snog?” he said when we separated. “Moving in, opening up…”

  “I know, it’s unreal. You excited about today?”

  “Well I feel like I might be sick, so that’s either excitement or terror. You?”

  “Yeah, got a few butterflies. But it’s fine, we’ve been planning this for ages. I won’t say ‘what can possibly go wrong?’, that’s just asking for trouble, but I think we’re on pretty safe ground.”

  “If I was feeling pedantic, I might point out the ground we’re on is at the top of a massive fuckoff cliff.”

  “All right, smart-arse. You’re the metaphor king, work it out.”

  “Do the volunteers all know what they’re doing?” Ross asked.

  “Yep. You’re downstairs with the band, I’m doing my meet and greet up on the second storey balcony, Mum on the third, Trav on merch, Gareth on bar and Jess offered to mind Anthony.” After pulling us in plenty of press for the music festival, we’d been badgering Anthony to do the official lighthouse opening for months now and Jess had finally managed to twist the old luvvie’s arm.

  Ross shook his head. “So weird how those two hit it off.”

  “Isn’t it? Shared love of winding people up, I think. Come on, let’s unload the car.”

  As we left, the rows of merry bunting fluttered us good luck.

  Chapter 35

  2pm. The time came, the bell tolled and it tolled for thee. I mean, me. We. Me and Ross. Well, it didn’t because we didn’t have a bell. But if we did it would’ve tolled good and ominously, with an extra big couple of dongs.

  “What’re you giggling at?” Ross asked when he heard me snort.

  “Nothing. Not dongs.”

  “Er, right. Strange girl.”

  As the faces of Project Phoenix we’d both changed into our best for the launch, and there was a distinct embassy ball vibe that left me feeling we should be handing round pyramids of Ferrero Rocher. I was in a pale blue organza dress that’d cost me a small fortune, and Ross had gone for his favourite Man in Black look of dark shir
t and matching skinny tie. He looked fresh-minted somehow: sexy as sin.

  You’d think the formalwear would help us feel more confident, but all I mainly felt as we stood at the back of the excited crowd gathered in front of the lighthouse was equal parts terrified and conspicuous.

  “Hey, seen who’s here?” Ross pointed into the crowd, and I noticed Claire looking at us. She waved when she saw she’d got our attention.

  “Oh good, she made it,” I said, waving back. “Who’s the lad?” Claire was leaning against a tall, ash-blonde, placid-looking man with one arm curled lazily around her waist.

  “That’ll be the new boyfriend, Derek.”

  My eyebrow flicked up. “Derek?”

  “Yeah, poor sod. Still, he sounds nice.”

  The lighthouse door opened and Jess made her way out, Anthony leaning heavily against her shoulder. I could tell instantly from the way he was wobbling that something was wrong.

  “Oh God, he’s not…” I squinted at him, tottering unsteadily as Jess bent under his weight. “He’s hammered, Ross!”

  “Shit, you’re right! God, he was bad enough at the music festival.”

  “This is ten times worse. Look at him, he can hardly stand!”

  I glared at Jess, who shot me a guilty smile. She left Anthony propped on the cane he was carrying, swaying and smiling vaguely at the crowd, and skirted over to us.

  “Ok, how much did you let him have?” I hissed when she reached us.

  “Not much, I swear! He had a couple of whiskies at the bar, that’s all. Said he needed it to help with the stage fright.”

  “Yeah? Then how come he can’t seem to operate his knees?”

  My eyes widened as I saw Anthony fish in his pocket for a small hip flask and take a sly gulp. There was a ripple of laughter through his audience, the journalists in the front row scribbling away on their notepads.

  I slapped a palm against my forehead. “Jesus, he’s got a secret stash. How the hell’s he going to manage a speech?”

  “Oh, he’ll be all right,” Jess said – but her tone lacked commitment. “He’s been doing this sort of thing his whole career, hasn’t he?”

  “But he’s not been on stage for 15 years,” Ross said. “Oh fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. We’re fucked.”

  “You kiss your mother with that mouth, Mason?”

  I frowned at Jess. “No jokes, you. This is all your fault. How could you not notice him swigging?”

  “Look, I’m sorry, ok? He’s obviously an expert. Never even saw him take it out.”

  “Last time I let you babysit. Here.” I reached into my handbag for a gummed red ribbon and a pair of golden scissors. “Give him these. Hopefully he won’t go into a drunken rage and start stabbing hecklers to death.”

  With a last apologetic grimace, Jess threaded her way back to Anthony. She gave him a quick pat on the back, the old man swaying slightly under the impact, before fixing the ribbon across the door and slipping the scissors into his pocket. Then she went to join the other helpers near the throng of press.

  Anthony patted the pocket with the scissors in, blinking for a moment as if he couldn’t quite remember where he was. Then he pulled himself to his full height and started clearing his throat imperiously. Gradually the hubbub died down as the crowd waited expectantly for him to speak.

  “My dear ladies and gentlemen,” he began, his voice slurred but steady. “I am honoured and proud and… honoured to have been invited to address you today on this historic occasion, the reopening of the Cragport lighthouse as –” he waved a dismissive hand “– well, some sort of concert hall, I believe.”

  “Good start,” I muttered to Ross. “You told him what it was all about, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t think he was listening. He cut in to tell me an anecdote about the time he played Macbeth trollied opposite Maggie Smith.”

  I let out a death-rattle groan. “Oh God. And now you’ve said Macbeth. The lighthouse’ll fall down in a minute.”

  Ross shot Anthony a worried glance. “Still. Jess was right, he does have a history of this sort of thing. Maybe he’ll pull it off.”

  “He’d bloody better, or the press’ll have a field day. It’d be just our luck to be responsible for a national treasure collapsing in a drunken heap at the opening.”

  “Will you be giving us anything from your Richard the Third today, Mr St John?” a young reporter called out.

  Anthony smiled indulgently. “Dear boy. Flattered, of course, but at my age Lear is really the only great part left to me.” He blinked into the ever-demonic nor’wester, his topper bobbing precariously. “And while a soupçon of ‘Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks’ may seem appropriate, I did not come to satisfy my own need to exhibit.”

  A doubtful hum suggested the crowd weren’t quite buying that, but Anthony ignored them. He sent a paternal smile over the sea of heads to Ross and me, beckoning us to him.

  “Bollocks!” I whispered. “Do we have to go?”

  “You know we do. At least this time we’ve actually got a speech written.”

  The speech… oh shit! Shit shit shit! I stared at Ross with wide, unblinking eyes.

  He shook his head in shocked disbelief. “Oh no, Bobbie. Tell me you didn’t.”

  “Yep. Left the bloody notes at home. Oh God, it’s all going tits up, isn’t it? Should’ve known I’d jinxed us with that safe ground line earlier.” I stared horror-struck at the waiting crowd. “Fuck, Ross! What do we do?”

  “We’ll just have to wing it as usual, won’t we?” He gripped my hand tightly. “Let’s get it over with.”

  “Everyone’s naked everyone’s naked everyone’s naked…” I heard Ross muttering as we weaved our way through the crowd.

  “Is that helping?”

  “No. The only person I can focus on is Councillor Langford over there.” He nodded to our old enemy from the town council, probably trying to pretend Project Phoenix had all been his idea for the clusters of press.

  We took our places next to Anthony and grinned nervously at the crowd.

  “Ah, my beautiful young people, you’re here to lend some glamour to proceedings at last,” Anthony slurred. “Welcome to the bearpit.”

  He turned back to the crowd to begin his speech. I felt a surge of relief when I caught a glimpse of his eyes. There was a sort of glint in them, a passion for performance that seemed to override the drunken fog in his brain. Say what you like about Anthony St John, the man was a pro.

  He pushed his best top hat up to a jaunty angle, cleared his throat and suddenly there he was, back in the game.

  “The lighthouse means something different to each of us,” he said in a thespian boom. “For me, it has always meant adventure.”

  He paused for dramatic effect, then went on.

  “When I was small, I remember asking my dear mother the story of this wonderful building, and the old girl seating me on her knee and telling me tales of its long and glorious history in those halcyon days of Empire.”

  I saw Ross shoot me an amused smile but I ignored him. It was all I could do to stop my top lip wobbling.

  “Of course, Mother introduced a few elements to the stories that perhaps were not entirely taken from life,” Anthony went on. “Having reached man’s estate, I came to question whether there may have been rather fewer pirates and rather more fishermen than in her version of events, and I believe that in reality the invasion of the Spanish Armada took place a few centuries before the lighthouse was built.” His face set into a serious expression as he reached the apex of his speech. “Nevertheless, one thing I held in my heart: our lighthouse has a proud history. It has in its time saved many lives, overseen many adventures and borne witness to many great stories.” He turned to us. “Including, I understand, one rather wonderful love story.”

  Anthony took Ross’s hand and guided him round so the pair of us were flanking him. Then he held our arms up to present us to the crowd. He reeled slightly, and I shifted my weight to give him a bit o
f support.

  “Seriously, how much have you had?” I muttered.

  “All part of the game, my dear. These people came for a show, and let him whisper who dares that the old man doesn’t provide value for money.” He raised his voice to address the audience again. “I’ll crave your indulgence a little longer, good people, and then I believe the talented youngsters inside are ready to regale your eardrums with something more pleasing than the ramblings of a washed-up old ham like Anthony St John. I should like to present –” he paused, but the brain that had spent decades learning parts was still serving him well, even under the influence – “Miss Roberta Hannigan and Mr Ross Mason, the organisers of this project. These are the two exquisite human beings who have, with vim, vigour and a rather sizeable pair of balls each, saved our lighthouse from tragic decay and granted it beauty and purpose again in its dotage.” He flashed the crowd a wry smile. “A fate I think many of us would choose if we could.”

  There was a round of applause as Ross and I stepped forward to blush and smile and wonder what the hell we were supposed to do now.

  Anthony nodded affably in my direction. “Your line, dear. Would you like a prompt?”

  “Yes please,” I hissed back.

  “Well then, tell us the story. I believe I’ve fluffed them nicely for you.”

  “I’ll do it,” Ross said. Anthony’s drunken showmanship seemed to be catching.

  He cleared his throat. “Welcome everyone,” he said. “I’ll try to keep this short, I know the bar’s open.”

  There was a ripple of laughter, which seemed to set him at ease.

  “Mr St John has asked me to tell you a story I know. The story of a boy and a girl and a lighthouse. Which sounds like a kind of fairytale – and it was, even though it started with the mundane reality of a drunken kiss and a killer hangover.”

  There was another chorus of laughter, and I noticed some of the journalists scribbling notes. All I could do was hope Ross knew which bits of this x-rated fairytale he needed to censor before I woke up to a “Saucy shenanigans and bare bottoms in old town lighthouse” headline in tomorrow’s Cragport Chronicle.

  “I knew a girl once, at school,” Ross went on. “Well, I knew a lot of girls, but one was different. One was this one, Bobbie Hannigan: the first girl I ever kissed.” He jerked his head in my direction, blushing.