The Picture House by the Sea

by Holly Hepburn

  ‘He’s come round to it,’ Gina replied, glancing meaningfully at the glistening tubs beneath the sloping glass display case. ‘Even he can’t argue with an empty freezer.’

  The older woman reached for a scoop. ‘So what can I get you? Strawberry? Chocolate? Both?’

  Gina’s mouth watered at the thought, but she shook her head. ‘It’s a bit early for me. I actually came to see Gorran. Is he here yet?’

  ‘He’s here,’ Manda said, pursing her lips into a thin line of disapproval. ‘For what it’s worth.’

  ‘Oh?’ Gina replied, her sense of disquiet growing. ‘Is there a problem, then?’

  ‘You’ll see,’ Manda said enigmatically. ‘The door’s open.’

  She flicked her head towards the silver and glass double doors to her left. With an awkward nod of farewell, Gina went into the lobby.

  If anything, the air of neglect was worse inside. The white walls looked drab and tired. The gilt swirls that adorned the columns and ceiling were flaking. One of the silver double doors that led through to the cinema itself seemed to be hanging off its hinges and was covered in Do Not Use tape. The glorious red and gold carpet that Gina had always loved still covered the floor but it was grubby and thin in places. Some of the lightbulbs in the chandelier needed to be replaced, giving the place a gloomy air. And the bar, which took up all of one wall and had once served the kind of elegant alcoholic cocktails the teenaged Gina could only dream about sampling, was empty and abandoned. The whole place felt deserted and unloved. It made Gina want to cry.

  ‘Sad, isn’t it?’

  Manda was leaning in the doorframe at the back of Ferrelli’s. There was a counter here too, although it was empty of ice-cream now. Gina assumed it was only filled when there was a screening, which, judging from the empty poster casings, might be infrequent these days.

  ‘How has this happened?’ Gina asked, shaking her head in bewilderment. ‘This place used to be a proper goldmine. How has it gone downhill so fast?’

  ‘You’ll have to ask Mr Dew,’ Manda said, folding her arms. ‘The ice-cream sells just fine – we don’t need a film to boost our trade. Which is just as well, really.’

  Gina gazed around her again. ‘How often is there a screening? Is there anything showing tonight?’

  Manda squinted at the ceiling thoughtfully. ‘Not on a Thursday, no. He usually puts something on at the weekend but you’ll have to ask him what tomorrow’s film is. Or you could wait until he puts the poster up outside.’

  ‘So he does do some advertising,’ Gina said in relief. ‘That’s something at least.’

  ‘Well, I say poster,’ Manda went on. ‘It’s really just a sheet of A4 paper with the name of the film and the start time printed on it in capital letters. It’s been a long time since we had proper glossy posters.’

  Gina’s shoulders slumped. Why hadn’t Nonna and Nonno told her how bad things were at the Palace? This was no way to run a business, especially not one that relied on public awareness to pull the punters in; it needed a regular audience and word of mouth recommendations, not an erratic schedule and cheap A4 paper. She’d be out of business in a week if she operated her own events this way. Gina narrowed her gaze. But hadn’t Manda said that Ferrelli’s sales were still good? Perhaps that was why her grandparents hadn’t thought to mention the cinema’s change in fortunes – technically, none of it was their problem. All Gina needed to worry about was how much ice-cream the concession might sell. ‘Where can I find Gorran?’

  ‘Maybe in the office, or the projection room,’ Manda said, pointing to a single door off to one side. ‘Good luck.’

  The door led to a short corridor and a small flight of stairs. ‘Gorran?’ Gina called as she climbed the staircase. ‘Mr Dew? Are you here?’

  At the top of the stairs there were more doors, although these were plain white rather than the ornate silver style Gina had seen in the foyer. She tapped at the first one she came to, listening for sounds of movement inside. ‘Hello? Is anyone here?’

  No reply. She moved on to the next door and knocked harder. ‘Hello?’

  There was a rustling sound, followed by the thud of feet and the door was pulled open. Gorran Dew stood on the other side, his shock of white hair even wilder than Gina remembered. ‘Yes? How can I help?’

  His checked shirt was crumpled, with one wing of the collar tucked inside, and he clearly hadn’t shaved in days. Gina had to force herself not to step backwards. ‘I don’t suppose you remember me, Mr Dew. I’m Gina Callaway, Ferdie Ferrelli’s granddaughter.’

  Gorran’s pale blue eyes flickered with recognition. He held out a hand and began pumping Gina’s arm enthusiastically. ‘Of course! You’ve changed a bit since I last saw you.’ He let go of her hand and stepped back, sweeping into an invitation instead. ‘Won’t you come in?’

  Gina gazed past him into the room beyond. It looked like an office, with a desk piled high with papers and several brown boxes cluttering the floor. She did her best to smile. ‘Thank you.’

  There was only one seat that wasn’t covered with paperwork: a leather desk chair on wheels. Gorran ushered her into it and set about shifting a teetering pile of what looked like invoices and receipts from a low sofa and onto the floor. The papers slithered into another pile. Gina tried not to wince.

  ‘So,’ Gorran said, fixing her with a beaming smile. ‘What can I do for you?’

  Gina cleared her throat. ‘As I’m sure you know, my grandfather’s broken leg means he’s going to be unable to work for at least the next month, so I’ll be taking over the reins until he’s better.’

  Gorran nodded. ‘Great idea. Ferdie ought to be taking things easy at his time of life, not working every hour God sends.’ He licked his lips nervously. ‘Not that I’d tell him that to his face, obviously.’

  ‘No,’ Gina said, keeping her expression as straight as she could. ‘Very wise. Anyway, I thought it might be good for us to have a chat about your screenings schedule, so that I can get a sense of how much ice-cream we might need to supply over the coming months.’

  ‘Another good idea,’ Gorran said, looking impressed. ‘What do you need to know?’

  ‘Perhaps we could start with this weekend. Manda tells me you’re showing a film tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s right,’ he replied. ‘Fridays and Saturdays are our busiest nights. Sometimes we get upwards of – I dunno – maybe twenty customers.’

  Gina almost groaned. It was even worse than she’d imagined. ‘What film are you showing tomorrow night?’

  He rubbed his hands together in obvious anticipation. ‘Oh, it’s a classic – a little-known Swedish gem about a pigeon’s reflections on existence.’

  ‘A . . . a pigeon?’ Gina repeated, unable to believe what she’d just heard. ‘Did you say a pigeon’s reflections on existence?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Gorran said. ‘And it’s all told through a series of tableaux, so you really get to appreciate each scene.’

  Gina blinked. ‘So no one moves?’

  ‘And the voice-over is in Swedish, but obviously we’ll have subtitles.’ Gorran chuckled. ‘Honestly, it’s brilliant. Should pull in a good crowd.’

  She stared at him. ‘Right,’ she said, hoping her voice wasn’t as faint as it sounded. ‘And what are you showing on Saturday?’

  Gorran sighed. ‘I couldn’t get hold of another indie film so I’ve had to pick an old one from the archives. Have you ever heard of Footloose?’

  Gina sat up a little straighter. This was more promising. ‘Of course I have, it’s a great film. Kevin Bacon lights up the screen.’

  He pursed his lips doubtfully. ‘It’s not what I’d call a classic but I expect a few people will turn up to see it.’

  He shrugged, as if to say: ‘What can you do?’ Unable to think of a reply that wasn’t sarcastic, Gina let her gaze travel around the chaotic office, taking in the curling yellowed papers stuck to the noticeboard and the half-empty curdled mugs on the desk. ‘Does anyone else work he
re, Mr Dew?’

  ‘Call me Gorran, please,’ he told her. ‘Yes, there’s Tash, who runs the projector room, and Bruno who mans the box office. You’ll have seen that the bar is closed – we couldn’t justify the costs, unfortunately. Alcohol is expensive and no one seemed to want it.’

  Gina thought back to the bright, busy bar she remembered and swallowed a sigh; if she had to sit through two hours of Swedish pigeon drama she’d need a stiff drink afterwards. But the cinema wasn’t her business, she reminded herself. All that mattered was the ice-cream. ‘It would be helpful to have a schedule of screenings for the next month – is that possible?’

  Gorran rubbed his patchy stubble. ‘I suppose I could draw up a schedule. The films might be subject to change, if I can’t get hold of them, though. Would that be a problem?’

  One of the things running her own business had taught Gina was the ability to know when to step back. ‘Let’s take things one weekend at a time,’ she suggested, forcing herself to smile. ‘And maybe I should come along and see how things work for myself. What time does Footloose start on Saturday?’

  ‘It depends what time Tash says she wants to start,’ Gorran said, with an encouraging smile. ‘I’ll tell you what, why don’t you check the door for a poster on Saturday afternoon?’

  Chapter Four

  Manda insisted on giving Gina a double scoop of Strawberry Sensation.

  ‘You look like you need the sugar,’ she said, shaking her head in concern. ‘People often look that way after talking to Gorran.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Gina said, watching as Manda piled the ice-cream high with sprinkles and wedged a stick of fudge into one side.

  ‘And don’t even think about paying,’ Manda warned, seeing Gina’s hand move automatically towards her handbag. ‘Think of it as on-the-job training. You can’t sell the product if you don’t know what it tastes like.’ She patted her ample stomach. ‘At least, that’s what I tell my husband.’

  Gina smiled. ‘Point taken.’

  She licked at the sprinkles and sweetness exploded on her tongue but the strawberry flavour beneath the sugary strands was less sweet, almost tart. Her taste buds reacted in delight. She took another mouthful, then smiled. ‘I’d forgotten how good this was.’

  Manda nodded. ‘That’s why we don’t have to worry too much about what Gorran Dew does, as long as he does enough to keep this place open. Your grandfather is a genius where ice-cream is concerned and everyone in this part of the world knows it.’

  The sun was high in the sky now, shimmering on the wet sand left behind by the receding tide, and Gina had the sudden urge to walk along the shoreline. She smiled her thanks at Manda. ‘It’s lovely to see you again. I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other over the next few months.’

  There was a slope that led down to the beach at the far end of the promenade but Gina opted for the set of narrow stone steps not far from the picture house. The short walk took her towards the Mermaid’s Tail inn, its bunting-strewn beer garden empty for the moment, and past the Ocean Pearl bookshop, another of teenage Gina’s favourite places. There was an unfamiliar shop next door, though, and its colourful window display made Gina pause for a moment; the mannequins looked like they’d stepped straight from the screen of the Palace. One was dressed in a 1960s mini-dress and thigh-length boots, another was draped in a fur coat and hat that Gina fervently hoped weren’t real and a third wore a tea dress and chic cloche hat that wouldn’t have looked out of place amongst the steam on the platform at Bodmin Parkway. She glanced up at the grey and hot pink sign over the window: Carrie’s Attic. It made her smile. Who’d have thought that a vintage boutique would open in sleepy Polwhipple?

  Dragging herself away, Gina crossed the road and made her way down the steps. The beach was almost deserted, apart from a dog-walker splashing along in the shallows with an enthusiastic Labrador. Further out to sea, Gina spotted a surfer riding along the crest of the waves. She found a patch of dry sand and sat down to watch for a moment, envious of the surfer’s obvious skill as they flipped the board into the air; she’d always wanted to learn to surf, ever since she’d sat on the beach watching Ben ride the waves years earlier. She’d thought it was cool then and it looked every bit as cool now.

  Her ice-cream was almost finished. Lifting the cornet up, she nibbled away the end and sucked the remaining slush through it. Then she crunched through the strawberry-drizzled cone and popped the very last bit into her mouth with a satisfied sigh. She’d have to watch how much she ate, Gina decided, licking her lips – if she wasn’t careful she’d go back to London a stone heavier than she’d left it, especially if Nonna had anything to do with it.

  The surfer was wading through the shallows now, his board in his arms. He stopped to make a fuss of the Labrador and exchanged a few words with its owner. A local, Gina decided, maybe even someone who surfed at Polwhipple every day. It was much quieter than the better-known surf spots just along the coast in Newquay and less showy than the famous Fistral beach. She watched as he shook the salt-water from his board and made his way up the beach. He was tall, with a typical surfer’s physique, she noticed; hardly a surprise, given that his skill suggested he must be a regular. His wet hair glistened brown but she thought it would be blond when it was dry. He was good-looking too, with a chiselled jaw and good cheekbones. And then her eyes met his and she felt a jolt of recognition: the surfer was the same man who’d helped remove the grit from her eye the day before.

  He stopped walking, his gaze fixed on her, and Gina knew he’d recognised her too. Then he began to move, heading her way. She stood up.

  ‘We meet again,’ she called, as soon as she judged he was within earshot.

  ‘How’s the eye?’ he asked. ‘It looks better.’

  She smiled. ‘Fully recovered – thanks for taking pity on me. I never expected to see you again, so I’m afraid I don’t have your handkerchief. Sorry.’

  He waved her apology away. ‘Don’t worry. I don’t actually have anywhere to put it right now, to be honest.’

  Automatically, Gina’s gaze slid down his tight wetsuit and across some well-defined muscles. She dragged her eyes hurriedly back to his face, feeling a blush creep up her cheeks. ‘No, I can see that.’

  A brief silence grew before the surfer spoke again. ‘So, are you here on holiday?’

  Gina tipped her head to one side, a small frown creasing her forehead. Now that he was close, there was something familiar about him, something more than she could have gleaned from their brief meeting the day before. ‘No,’ she said slowly. ‘I’m visiting my family. I used to come here a lot when I was younger and—’

  His blue eyes widened. ‘Gina? It is you, isn’t it?’

  She stared at him warily. ‘Yes. Do we know each other?’

  His face lit up as he dug his board into the sand. ‘I thought I recognised you yesterday. It’s me, Ben. Ben Pascoe. We used to be friends ages ago. Don’t you remember?’

  And suddenly, she could see the ghost of the boy she’d known. ‘Oh my God, I had no idea you’d still live here!’

  He wiped his hand on his wetsuit and held it out for her to shake. ‘I left to go travelling and worked in Australia for a while but came back this year to start my own business.’

  His fingers were warm and damp and slightly gritty but Gina was so amazed that she almost forgot to notice. Ben Pascoe. They’d been inseparable all those summers ago. What were the chances that she’d run into him again, on the platform at Bodmin Parkway, no less? Her gaze roved across his face once more – he was so obviously the Ben that she’d known; how could she have failed to recognise him? Then again, there’d been the small matter of the coal dust in her eye . . .

  ‘How are your grandparents?’ Ben asked, releasing her hand. ‘I see Ferrelli’s is still doing a roaring trade.’

  He nodded at the Palace as he spoke. Gina smiled. ‘That’s sort of why I’m here. Nonno broke his leg and I’m helping out while he gets some rest.’


  Ben’s eyes gleamed. ‘So you’re here for a few weeks?’

  ‘A few months,’ she corrected. ‘I’m going to learn how to make ice-cream and soak up some of the famous Cornish sunshine. And then I need to get back to the real world in London.’

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘I tried the real world once. Didn’t like it much.’

  Gina laughed, thinking of her previously packed diary. ‘Yeah, it can be a bit full-on, especially compared to Polwhipple.’

  There was another silence but this one felt comfortable, even companionable. Ben adjusted his surfboard in the sand. ‘We should get together for a drink sometime and catch up properly.’

  ‘I’d like that,’ Gina said, feeling a strange, fuzzy warmth flood through her. Had he always had this effect? ‘Oh, I know! We should go and watch a film at the Palace – there’s a screening of Footloose on Saturday evening if you’re up for it?’

  He laughed. ‘That really would be a blast from the past. Although maybe we’ll buy tickets this time instead of sneaking in for free.’

  Gina thought back to Gorran in his disorganised office – there was no guarantee the film would even run, but she supposed they could always head to the Mermaid’s Tail for a drink if it didn’t. ‘Okay. Do you want to give me your number?’

  ‘Sure.’ He gestured at his wetsuit again. ‘I don’t have my phone on me so you’ll have to do the calling.’

  This time, Gina managed to keep her eyes firmly fixed on his face. ‘No problem.’ She tapped his number into her phone and then pressed call. ‘All done. Have you – er – been to see anything at the picture house lately?’

  Ben shook his head. ‘Not since I was a teenager. Why?’

  Gina allowed herself a secret smile as a pigeon pecked at the sand not far away. ‘No reason. Let’s just say it’s a bit hit and miss when it comes to film choices. I’m glad we’re going on Saturday instead of Friday.’

  ‘So, what do you know about making gelato?’

  The old dairy building was tucked away behind her grandparents’ house, a stainless-steel temple to ice-cream, and Gina was perched at the centre island. It had a multi-burner gas hob and behind her there was a floor-to-ceiling fridge, a walk-in freezer filled with the silver pans she’d seen full of ice-cream in the window of Ferrelli’s and several chrome-coloured machines, none of which Gina could fathom. ‘It takes a lot of skill?’ she guessed.