The Picture House by the Sea

by Holly Hepburn

  She stopped. Ferdie liked to arrive at a decision in his own time and she’d learned from her grandmother’s example that it was best to be patient. But she had one last thing to add. ‘The trouble is, I can’t think of a flavour that suits the film.’

  He looked intrigued in spite of himself. ‘Something bright,’ he said. ‘An explosion of colour on the taste buds. Lemon, perhaps, or orange.’

  ‘The Good Morning song is pretty famous,’ Gina suggested. ‘Oranges might remind people of that – maybe we could try a sorbet.’

  She knew as soon as she’d spoken that it was the wrong thing to say. Nonno’s eyebrows bristled. ‘We make gelato, not sorbet. There’s no skill in freezing water and sugar.’

  Gina swallowed a sigh. ‘No, of course not. It was just a thought.’

  Apparently mollified, Ferdie continued to stir the custard and stared into space. ‘There’s no harm in testing a new recipe. But we won’t be able to get citrus fruits from our usual supplier – they don’t grow them.’

  Whenever he could, Ferdie bought strawberries and any other fruit he needed from a local fruit farm. Gina pursed her lips. ‘The Scarlet Hotel might be able to help – I could speak to their chef, see if they could spare an orange or two?’

  ‘See if they’ll give you a few lemons and limes too,’ Ferdie said, nodding. ‘Just in case the oranges need a bit of oomph.’

  Putting down her coffee, Gina pulled out her phone and tapped out a quick email, certain the Scarlet wouldn’t mind helping out again.

  ‘This custard is ready,’ Ferdie announced, peering at the back of the spoon in satisfaction. ‘Why don’t you begin chopping the strawberries?’

  Gina washed her hands and retrieved two large punnets of strawberries from the fridge. As she returned, she noticed her coffee cup was now at her grandfather’s elbow. And it was empty.

  She stared at him in disbelief, unsure whether to tell him off or laugh. ‘Did you—?’

  Ferdie did not seem in the least perturbed by the unspoken accusation. He shrugged. ‘I regret nothing.’

  Gina shook her head. ‘I can’t believe you just—’

  ‘Desperate times mean desperate measures,’ he cut in, switching off the gas hob and fixing her with a glare. ‘Now, are we making gelato or are we talking?’

  ‘Making gelato, Nonno,’ Gina said, deciding that discretion was the better part of valour on this particular occasion; Ferdie’s stubbornness was a force of nature, after all, and she had no doubt there would be plenty of other battles that mattered more than a few swigs of stolen coffee.

  She threw herself into making ice-cream, consulting the spreadsheet she’d created to keep track of orders to make sure they would have enough of each flavour. As well as keeping supplies up at the concession in the cinema, they also needed sufficient stock to fulfil orders for local restaurants and cafés. And if the weather continued to improve, she had no doubt demand for Ferrelli’s would soar.

  By lunchtime they had a freezer full of gelato, each glistening creamy-waved pan ready to go wherever it was needed. Gina cleared up then collected her empty cappuccino cup, along with Ferdie’s half-drunk green tea, to take back to Elena.

  ‘No need to mention the coffee incident,’ Ferdie told her, as they crossed the yard to the house. ‘Nonna will only become cross.’

  ‘With good reason,’ Gina said, sending him a stern look. ‘The doctor says you need to lower your blood pressure.’

  ‘Che palle!’ Ferdie growled, stomping along on his crutches. ‘I feel fine. Or I would, if the lack of coffee wasn’t making me so grumpy.’

  ‘It’s for your own good,’ Gina said but she wasn’t without sympathy. Ferdie had begun each day with a double espresso for as long as she could remember – she wasn’t surprised he was irritated by its sudden absence. She’d be grumpy if she had to give up her morning caffeine hit. ‘But I won’t tell Nonna about the cappuccino, as long as you promise you’ll cut down.’

  Ferdie was silent until they reached the back door. ‘I hate being old.’

  ‘Nonno!’ Gina exclaimed, her heart aching at the suddenly defeated look on his lined face. For seventy-eight, he was actually in very good health, although it wouldn’t do him any harm to be reminded that he was not in his twenties any more. She squeezed his arm. ‘No one is trying to make you feel old. You need to take a little better care of yourself, that’s all.’

  ‘No dancing through the puddles for me, is that what you’re saying?’ he said, lifting one eyebrow.

  Gina pulled open the kitchen door and smiled at the Gene Kelly reference. ‘Not unless you can persuade Nonna to dance with you.’

  Gina tried to squeeze in a hurried phone call with Max that evening but the call went straight to voicemail. She left a short message, asking him to phone her when he got the chance; she’d only wanted to share her excitement about the Singin’ in the Rain event with him – it would keep.

  Ben arrived at seven-thirty sharp, an untidy sheaf of papers in one hand and a bottle of Merlot in the other. ‘Happy Tuesday,’ he said grinning at her when she opened her door. ‘I thought we might need this tonight.’

  ‘Oh?’ Gina said, stepping aside to let him in. ‘It’s that bad?’

  He placed the bottle on the worktop in the open-plan kitchen and rubbed his lightly tanned cheek. ‘I’ve been tying myself in knots,’ he admitted. ‘I’m okay with the figures but making an irresistible case for restoring the train line to Polwhipple is a bit beyond me. No matter what I write, it sounds boring and rubbish.’

  Gina had a sudden flash of memory, taking her back to the summers she’d spent in Polwhipple as a teenager, when she and Ben had been practically inseparable. Surf-obsessed Ben had never been especially academic and hated school, although Gina knew he was bright and quick-witted. During her last summer in Polwhipple, the year her family had moved to Los Angeles and she’d lost contact with Ben completely, he’d confided in her that he’d been diagnosed as dyslexic. She’d forgotten all about it until now.

  ‘I’m sure it’s neither of those things,’ Gina said, her voice warm. ‘But we’re a team, remember? So, you help me with the numbers on my application and I’ll help you with the words for yours.’

  His look of gratitude warmed her. ‘Thanks, Gina,’ he said. ‘But I still think we’re going to need the wine.’

  She reached for two glasses. ‘You’ll get no argument from me.’

  They settled around the small kitchen table. Gina opened up her laptop and turned the screen towards Ben. ‘As you can see, I’ve made a start on the funding application for the restoration. I’ve explained that the structure itself is sound, but the interior is in need of significant refurbishment.’ She pointed to the relevant part of the document. ‘I’ve broken it down into four main areas – the foyer, theatre, toilets and the exterior – and then listed what needs to be done in each.’

  Ben scanned the screen. ‘I see you’re suggesting that we replace the seats. The bottoms of Polwhipple will thank you.’

  ‘That was first on the list, believe me,’ Gina said, shuddering. ‘How anyone can relax and enjoy the film when it feels as though a thousand evil springs are having a fight underneath them is a mystery to me.’

  ‘And you want to remove the chipboard from the walls.’

  She nodded. ‘Didn’t you say you thought the original Art Deco features might still be behind it?’

  ‘It could be,’ Ben said. ‘But it might not be in a fit state to restore. A lot depends on how the chipboard was put up – you’ll only know what the damage is once it comes down. And it goes without saying that you’ll need someone who knows about historical property restoration to do it.’

  Gina took a long sip of her wine. ‘Actually, I was hoping you’d be up for doing it. But I have no idea what your costs would be, or even whether you’ve got time.’

  He was silent for a few moments, as though he was thinking something through. ‘I might be able to fit it in. But it’s a big job, especially on top
of the station restoration. I’ve still got the ticket office to finish there.’

  She pictured the immaculately restored station, upon which Ben had spent months and months of his spare time and attention. He’d do an amazing job at the Palace too, if she could persuade him to say yes.

  ‘Could we budget for someone to help you?’ she asked. ‘Obviously, it depends how much Polwhipple town council is prepared to donate.’

  If they’re prepared to donate, she added silently. She had no experience of putting together funding bids, and much less of dealing with town councils, but she hoped that the success of the first event that she’d arranged proved how much potential the Palace had to enhance life for everyone in Polwhipple. The meeting next Monday was going to be critical – they’d only get one chance to impress the funding committee.

  ‘Maybe,’ Ben said, his expression still thoughtful. ‘What does Gorran think of all this? Apart from not being able to believe his luck, I mean.’

  Gina laughed. ‘I haven’t run the detailed plans by him yet but in principle he’s happy. All he has to do is nod in the right places and sound enthusiastic at the meeting.’

  ‘I bet he’s like a dog with two tails,’ Ben said, grinning. ‘Especially since he doesn’t have to dig into his own pockets to pay for any of the work.’

  ‘So, what do you think?’ Gina pointed at the laptop again. ‘Does this all sound achievable? How much should I put down for each area?’

  ‘It’s certainly doable,’ Ben said. ‘But the costs are going to be harder to pin down.’

  They spent the next forty minutes working through the gaps in Gina’s application. Ben told her the best websites to check for the costs of supplies and materials. ‘Prices will fluctuate a bit but this should give you a rough idea of how much money you’ll need. But whoever you eventually employ to do the work should give you a quote that incorporates all that.’

  Gina nodded, trying not to look disappointed. From the way Ben was talking, it didn’t sound as though he wanted the job of restoring the Palace. And she supposed she should have expected him to say no; she knew how busy he was, after all.

  ‘If you give me a couple of days, I’ll put something together and send a detailed quote,’ Ben went on. ‘But a word of warning – knowing how town councils work, they might want you to have a couple of quotes in the application so that you demonstrate best value.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll ask Nonno if he knows any other builders who might be interested, although we need someone who really knows what they’re doing, rather than a standard builder. Which is why I wanted—’ She glanced across at him as the implication of his words sank in. ‘So, you’re up for the job?’

  ‘Yeah, I am,’ he said, with a decisive nod. ‘The station is almost finished and the Palace is important to me too. I’ll do whatever I can to help.’

  Gina could have hugged him. ‘Thank you,’ she said, elated. ‘I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather have on board.’

  He glanced across at her and there was something she couldn’t quite decipher in his eyes. ‘You’re welcome,’ he said, reaching for his own paperwork. ‘Now, can you work your magic over the mangled wreck of my application forms, please?’

  It took Gina an hour and a half, plus two more glasses of wine and several slices of Pepperoni Passion pizza, to unravel Ben’s words and rearrange them into something resembling a halfway decent proposal. He’d approached the Bodmin and Wenford Railway Preservation Society once before, informally, to ask them to restore the steam line back to Polwhipple, the way it had been in the railway’s heyday. They’d said no and, reading between the lines, Gina suspected Ben’s feelings had been hurt by the refusal.

  ‘There,’ she said, typing the last few words into another document. ‘How’s that?’

  Ben skimmed what she’d written. ‘Wow,’ he said, looking at her with admiration. ‘That’s really good – exactly what I had in mind. You could do this for a living.’

  She felt the beginnings of a pleasurable blush creep up her cheeks. ‘Oh shush,’ she told him. ‘It was all there – it just needed teasing out, that’s all.’

  He raised his glass to hers. ‘To good partnerships and future successes.’

  ‘To the Palace and Polwhipple station,’ Gina said, chinking her own glass against his. ‘And old friends.’

  When her phone rang not long after Ben had gone, Gina assumed it was Max returning her call. But the name that flashed up was Sarah’s, one of her friends from London.

  ‘Hello, stranger,’ Sarah said, almost as soon as Gina answered the call. ‘Long time no speak.’

  ‘Hi, Sarah,’ Gina replied, smiling. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Better now I know you haven’t fallen over a treacherous Cornish cliff,’ Sarah said in a dry tone. ‘What’s been keeping you so busy?’

  Gina filled her friend in on what she’d been doing, keeping any reference to Ben carefully neutral; Sarah had known her for several years and Gina was well aware of her sharply-honed instinct for emotional drama.

  ‘I saw Max yesterday,’ Sarah said, once Gina had finished talking.

  ‘Oh? How is he?’ Gina asked. ‘We seem to keep missing each other on the phone.’

  There was a pause. ‘You know Max,’ Sarah said, and Gina got the sense she was choosing her words with care. ‘His energy is always ramped up to eleven.’

  Gina frowned. ‘That sounds like him. But—’

  ‘I’ll be honest, Gee, I don’t think he’s coping all that well,’ Sarah interrupted. ‘He seems fine on the surface – all business and good cheer – but underneath . . . well, I think he’s missing you. Really missing you.’

  ‘I miss him too,’ Gina said, trying not to sound defensive. ‘But it’s not like this is forever—’

  ‘You’re not listening,’ Sarah said impatiently. ‘He’s lonely. And with you all the way down there, he’s also a target. I’m sure I don’t need to spell it out.’

  Gina felt her face flush. ‘Max would never cheat on me.’

  Her friend sighed down the phone. ‘No, I’m not suggesting he would. Not deliberately. But you know how these things go – sometimes a situation escalates.’

  Ben flashed into Gina’s mind and her cheeks flamed even more. She knew exactly how fast things could get out of hand.

  ‘Just keep the home fires burning,’ Sarah went on, her tone softer. ‘Pay him some attention. Max loves you but he’s not made of stone – don’t take any chances, okay?’

  It took Gina a long time to get to sleep once she’d said goodbye to Sarah; her friend’s words whirled around her head and kept her eyes fixed on the ceiling. Max hadn’t called her back, which probably meant nothing but even so, Sarah’s advice struck a chord; she needed to try harder with Max – distance made him vulnerable. It made them both vulnerable.

  Chapter Three

  Gina awoke the next morning to a message from Ben.

  Thanks again for all your help last night. Fancy a day out? I want to show you some of my handiwork.

  She’d already seen some of his work; the station restoration was a shining testament to his skill and ability. She’d also seen how much time and effort had gone into his home – a converted railway carriage that stood in one of the sidings beside the station itself. Her conversation with Sarah the night before resurfaced – keep the home fires burning – but work was work and she couldn’t avoid spending time with Ben; they were partners after all. Besides, she hadn’t seen much of Cornwall since she’d arrived, and it might be nice to give him the chance to show off a little.

  Love to! When?

  His reply took less than a minute.

  Tomorrow too soon?

  Gina shook her head; he was nothing if not keen. But she wanted to talk to him about her ideas for transforming the foyer of the Palace into a silent movie lot for the Singin’ in the Rain event and this gave her the perfect opportunity. She pushed Sarah’s insistent voice out of her mind.

  Sounds perfect, she replied. Shall I dri
ve?

  No, I will. Pick you up around 10:30?

  It’s a date, she typed, then hastily deleted the words and replaced them with, See you then! What would Sarah have made of that?

  Feeling a sudden surge of guilt, Gina picked up her phone again and tried to call Max. It rang for a while and then his voicemail kicked in. She ended it without leaving a message, gnawing at her lip and hoping he’d call her back soon. Maybe she’d invite him down from London for another visit.

  Focusing on work to help clear her head, she spent a little while designing flyers for Singin’ in the Rain and sent them over to the printers she’d used for the last event. Then she fired off a few emails, inviting the local press and Polwhipple’s mayor to attend, and announcing the screening to the people who’d come along to Brief Encounter. As an afterthought, she sent the flyer to Carrie too, asking her to forward it to the people on her mailing list. But she couldn’t shake her feeling of restlessness. Her gaze came to rest on the view beyond her balcony; the weather was as different as it was possible to be from the rainy, windswept Easter weekend. The sun was beaming from the summery blue sky, which in turn was making the sea sparkle and shimmer. What she needed was some fresh air to clear her head, Gina decided, getting up and heading purposefully towards the bathroom for a shower. If a walk along the cliffs to Polwhipple couldn’t do the job, nothing would.

  She was familiar with the South West Coast Path by now, but the view never failed to take her breath away. The Atlantic was a perfect turquoise, flecked with white as the waves ebbed and flowed. Over her head, a few lazy gulls floated on warm air currents, occasionally calling out. Once or twice, she encountered other walkers and they exchanged a pleasant, ‘Good morning!’ but for the most part she was alone to enjoy the spectacular scenery. Slowly, she felt the tension in her shoulders drain away; walking in London never did this for her. There, it was often a constant battle to avoid others, all hell-bent on getting to their destination as quickly as possible. Unless they were tourists, of course, in which case they moved at a snail’s pace. There were plenty of tourists in Cornwall too but not here; the cliffs felt deliciously empty.