by Fern Britton
Helen could see that they were stirring painful memories: ‘We found a photo of you and Max Miller on the opening night of the Pavilions.’ She reached in to her handbag and fished out a plastic document case.
‘Don’t bother with that, dear girl.’ The Colonel patted her hand and rose creakily to his feet. ‘I’ve got the original here.’ He went out into the hallway and opened the door to the dining room. It was so cold in there, it almost took her breath away. ‘Do excuse the mess. I use this room as my office but never seem to get things straight.’
On the old table in the centre of the room were boxes and boxes tied up with string or falling apart where old sellotape had yellowed and lost its stickability. Next to the boxes were piles of letters, theatre programmes and photos. Some had spilled onto the threadbare carpet.
The Colonel indicated the wall to the right. ‘There you are. Opening night.’
Surrounding the rusty and empty Victorian grate, were more than thirty framed photographs of a young and extremely dashing Walter with various major stars of the fifties and sixties. Helen noticed that in many of the pictures, posing alongside Walter was another handsome young man, the same one from the photograph next door. In one image, taken in a garden, he had his foot on a spade and a cup of tea in his hand. The Colonel pointed; in the middle was the picture they were looking for.
‘Max was a marvellous fellow. He fought in the First World War and entertained us in the Second. He took me under his wing when I was a young assistant stage manager, taught me everything there was to know about performing, about respecting talent and about being generous as a performer. I finished my National Service in 1952 and when I got home, I went to see him backstage at the Hackney Empire, and he took me on again. For a couple of years I honed my craft and performed up and down the country, but I really loved the whole world of the theatre, not just being on stage. When I spotted the advertisement in The Stage listing vacancies at a new theatre in Cornwall, Max was the one who encouraged me. He thought I had enough “chutzpah” to go for the top job as theatre manager, even though I was still only twenty-five. “Aim low, you can’t miss. Aim high and the sky’s the limit,” he told me. Anyway, I came down here and got the job. Later, I found out that he’d pulled a few strings on my behalf and promised he’d top the bill on the opening night as long as they gave me the job.’
‘That’s amazing!’ said Helen, completely caught up in the story. ‘But this is marvellous. No one could let the theatre close now. You are its star.’
The Colonel gave a sad smile. ‘I’m eighty-seven, my dear. Who would be interested in me?’
‘Colonel, we’ve heard rumours of a film archive – a collection of home movies that you made featuring various actors and actresses of the period. Can you tell me about that – is it true?’
The change that came over the Colonel was instant. His friendly face turned pale and he stammered out a reply: ‘I can’t think what you are talking about, my dear.’
‘But, Colonel, our local historian, Piran Ambrose, read somewhere that—’
The Colonel’s tone was polite, but it had taken on a distinctly frosty edge: ‘I can assure you, there is no such thing – and I should know. Now, please excuse me, I find visitors terribly draining and would be grateful if we could draw this meeting to a close.’
‘But—’
The Colonel was already on his feet and off to the hallway, retrieving her jacket and light cotton Liberty scarf, a present from Penny, from the old-fashioned hat stand by the cottage door.
‘Please, Mrs Merrifield …’ the Colonel’s steady gaze met her own and Helen thought that she detected more than brusqueness in his face. Sadness? Regret? ‘I am an old man and talking of the past tires me. I don’t mean to be rude, but I would prefer it if you would leave now.’
‘Of course, Colonel. I’m sorry to have tired you. Thank you for taking the time to see me.’
The Colonel bade her farewell and Helen stood on the doorstep for a moment as the front door closed, politely, in her face.
What have I done? she thought. There’s a mystery here. Wait until I tell Piran!
*
Later that evening, resting her legs on Piran’s lap as they lounged on Helen’s comfy sofa in Gull’s Cry cottage, Helen recounted her visit with the Colonel.
‘Mmm,’ Piran mulled, as he drank his pot of Cornish Rattler cider. ‘Sounds like you ’it a raw nerve there.’
‘That’s what I thought. What do you suppose it could be?’
‘How would I know?’
‘I noticed that in a lot of the other pictures of the Colonel at the Pavilions, he was with another man. Perhaps if I could find out who he is and get in contact with him, he might be able to shed some light on the whole film archive thing.’
Piran nodded. ‘There’s more than one reference to it in the records, so it definitely exists, regardless of what the old boy might say. I’ll see what more I can find in the archives. As if I didn’t ’ave enough to do – bloody Pavilions!’
‘Oh, put a sock in it, you old grumbler. You’re interest is piqued – I can always tell, you get that look in your eye.’
‘Rubbish.’
Helen stretched over and picked up her iPad from the side table. Piran did the same with his own that has burrowed down behind one of the cushions on the sofa. For the rest of the evening, they must have looked at hundreds of websites relating to the theatre world, many of them run by enthusiasts and featuring plenty of old photographs. There were familiar faces, such as Max Wall and Arthur Askey, and others that Helen had never heard of.
‘Blimey, ever heard of Wilson, Keppel and Betty? They were huge in the thirties and forties.’
Piran frowned, ‘What are you wittering on about now, woman?’
‘Oh, nothing,’ she sighed, ready to give up on the seemingly fruitless search. ‘Plenty of pictures of the Colonel, but none of the other chap.’ She yawned.
‘Hang on a minute,’ said Piran. ‘What’s this?’
Helen leaned over to see what he was looking at. On the screen was a picture of the Colonel alongside another man. It was definitely the man she had seen in the photographs at the Colonel’s house. The caption underneath read:
Theatre manager Walter Irvine and director Peter Winship celebrate the successful opening of Hats Off, Trevay!
Helen grinned like a Cheshire cat. ‘Bingo!’
*
The next morning, Helen padded downstairs to make a pot of coffee and spotted a letter on her doormat. She opened it and found a neat handwritten note:
Mr Walter Irvine
Beach Cottage
Shellsand Bay
Dear Mrs Merrifield
Please excuse my unforgivable rudeness yesterday. I fear I am becoming a crotchety old man.
I can’t help you with your other enquiry, but the Pavilions mean more to me that I can adequately express. I’ll do anything I can to assist.
Yours very sincerely
Walter Irvine (a.k.a. Colonel Stick)
*
Brooke was curled up on the sofa in her flat, nursing a gin and tonic and a bad case of self-pity. She was trying to watch the news but the endless stories of soaring crime rates and rising house prices made her feel much much worse.
Milo had been as good as his word. In the next day’s post she had received a recorded letter from Café Au Lait’s legal team, explaining that they would not be moving forward with the contract and citing grossly unprofessional behaviour as the cause. In her place, the newspapers crowed, CAL had signed up a pneumatic ‘glamour model’ who was looking to change her image.
Despite her many voicemail messages and texts, trying to explain what had really happened, she’d seen neither hide nor hair of Bob in the last couple of weeks. Until this morning, when she’d opened her newspaper to find photographs of him with his new girlfriend, a beautiful and bright sports presenter with a satellite TV channel.
So here she was: a stinking cold, no job, no agent, no boy
friend and no prospects.
Brooke got up and went to the kitchen to pour herself another gin and tonic. As she came back into the lounge, a shot of the Pavilions filled the television screen. She reached for the remote and turned the sound up.
… It may look like any other forgotten seaside theatre, but down here in Trevay the curtain is rising on an extraordinary tale.
The Pavilions made way for a faded photograph of Colonel Irvine, the camera slowly pulling away to reveal Max Miller standing next to him.
Walter Irvine, seen here with comic legend Max Miller, has been keeping a secret. He knows more about this old building than anyone else alive.
Cut to a shot of Colonel Irvine, walking along the headland to the theatre, swinging his stick jauntily, followed by a close-up of him in his dressing room.
‘My God! It’s him!’ Brooke spoke aloud to no one. ‘That’s the dressing room he showed me.’
‘Colonel, what does this place mean to you?’
‘A great deal. I ran it for over two decades and during that time we had the cream of British theatre and light entertainment through these doors …’
‘But now you are fighting to save it. Why?’
‘Because the last thing Trevay needs is another coffee shop …’
As his short speech drew to a close the Colonel raised his voice and banged his ubiquitous stick loudly on the floor. Watching him, Brooke laughed, but it died on her lips as the faces of Rupert Heligan and Michael Woodbine filled the screen. The very sight of the men from CAL made her feel physically sick.
Rupert was talking in his smooth, oily tones:
‘Café Au Lait is committed to bringing jobs to Trevay while offering visitors a place of quality in which to relax. The Pavilions is a great old building, but it’s had its time as a theatre. Councillor Chris Bedford has been most helpful in getting our plans as far as he has and he and I feel the people of Trevay will be very pleased with what we’ll bring to the town. I’m a family man with family values and that’s what Café Au Lait stands for too.’
Brooke snapped the television off. Family values? The man was a sexual predator and a ruthless conniving shark. Thanks to Rupert Heligan and his cronies, she was out of a job and her career prospects were in ruins – and now he was going to wreck the Pavilions too, and break an old man’s heart in the process. Somehow, he had to be stopped. She was damned if Café Au Lait and that cretinous councillor were going to get away with their underhand schemes. First thing in the morning she was going to get herself down to Trevay and join the campaign to save the Pavilions. Milo James might think he’d put paid to her, but he was about to find out that Brooke Lynne could still command a headline or two.
Her head cold and self-pity vanished and she enjoyed the best night’s sleep she’d had in ages.
12
Simon stood by the door, agitatedly rattling the car keys in his pocket. Piran had phoned five minutes earlier and told him and Penny to get down to The Dolphin, their local pub: ‘Sharpish, mind. We may have found some ammunition to stop those bloody coffee people and the council in their tracks.’
Penny raced down the stairs, trailing her coat behind her.
‘So what did he say exactly?’ She took a quick look in the hall mirror, and checked her hair.
‘Just what I told you,’ said Simon, hopping from foot to foot. ‘He says there’s a woman he wants us to meet. Now.’
The pair of them ran down the vicarage path in the low drizzle and jumped into Simon’s old Volvo. In the passenger seat, Penny shook the rain from her hair as she reached round for her seat belt. Simon turned the ignition key. Nothing. He tried again. Nothing.
‘This bloody old heap!’ Penny muttered under her breath.
Simon, who was very fond of his car, leapt to its defence. ‘A bit of damp in her connections, that’s all.’ He turned the key again. A brief cough and the engine turned over. ‘Faith, Penny. Faith can move mountains.’ He put the gear lever into reverse and the engine immediately cut out.
Penny shifted herself in her seat to direct a steely glare at her stubborn husband. ‘When will you see sense and get rid of this heap of rust?’
‘There’s nothing wrong with it. I’ll open up the bonnet and give her a spray of WD40. It’s all she needs.’
‘No,’ said Penny firmly, then continued in a slow voice as if speaking to a child: ‘We are getting out of this car. I am going back indoors to get my keys. Then we shall drive to Trevay in my car.’
‘But—’
Penny finally lost it. ‘Get out of this bloody heap and into my car!’
Knowing better than to argue, Simon meekly agreed.
Halfway to Trevay, behind the wheel of her scarlet Jaguar, Penny broke the tense atmosphere by reopening the conversation. ‘Why won’t you let me buy you a new car?’
‘I don’t need one.’
‘You do.’
‘I don’t.’
‘I’ve got enough money to buy you a really nice car. Something practical for you to get around the parish in. Something you can stuff the surfboards in. A Range Rover, maybe?’
‘No thank you.’
‘You are so pig-headed! What about our marriage vows? With all my worldly goods I thee endow? I’ve got the money. Let me treat you.’
‘It’s nothing to do with that.’ Simon turned to stare out of his window and missed the face Penny pulled behind his back.
*
The lights of the Dolphin shone warmly on the glistening path. Penny parked the car. She and Simon had barely spoken on the short journey. She hoped this bloody meeting would be worth it.
‘Penny, Simon!’ They spotted Piran and Helen immediately, but they weren’t alone. Piran stood up and welcomed them both. ‘Meet Brooke Lynne.’
Sitting on a comfortable armchair opposite the warm fire was the sexiest woman Penny had ever seen. Hourglass figure, tousled and highlighted blonde hair, glossy scarlet lips and smoky eyes. She turned her million-dollar smile at the two newcomers.
‘Hello, I’m sorry to have dragged you out on such a horrible afternoon.’
‘Not at all,’ said Penny, reaching for one of the two stools that Simon was now dragging over from an empty table. Being accustomed to dealing with famous faces, she took Brooke Lynne’s sudden appearance in her stride.
The same couldn’t be said of her husband.
‘Simon and I can’t wait to hear what the big news is, can we, Simon?’
She looked at her dear but stubborn husband who was fiddling with his dog collar while trying not to look too hard at Miss Lynne. He found her skin-tight black dress, tanned bare legs and ridiculously high stilettos way too much to take in all at once.
‘Simon!’ Penny barked at him. ‘Stop staring and sit down.’ She raised a quizzical eyebrow at Piran, inviting him to explain what was going on.
‘I think we may have found another lever to get the Council to think twice about selling the Pavilions,’ said Piran. ‘They’re already on the back foot after the coverage of Colonel Irvine’s connection. But just in case things get rougher still, we’ve got an ace up our sleeve. Miss Lynne here has something that they wouldn’t want out in the public domain.’
‘That’s right,’ said Brooke. ‘I’m sure you’ve heard that I was replaced as the face of Café Au Lait, but you probably don’t know why. When I saw the Colonel on TV and heard what was happening, I just couldn’t bear to sit quietly and let them get away with it. So I did a Google search on opposition to the Café Au Lait plans, and Mr Ambrose’s name came up—’
‘Ah, that will be Piran’s legendary diplomacy skills in action,’ observed Helen.
Piran shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Can you just tell us what you know, Brooke?’
Brooke recounted her chance meeting with Colonel Irvine at the theatre, the day she’d come down to promote CAL. Then she told them what had gone on in her suite at the Starfish.
‘It was horrible. They treated me like some kind of prostitute. I was so luck
y that I escaped. But Milo made sure I lost the CAL contract, my agent and my boyfriend.’
‘Who was at the meeting?’ asked Piran.
Brooke cocked her head to one side and ticked off the names on her fingers:
‘Rupert Heligan; Michael Woodbine, his PR man; Milo James, my snake of an agent, and a horrid little lech from the council – Chris someone.’
‘Bedford,’ growled Piran.
‘Yes, that’s him. Small, full of himself, with a nasty smug face. I must say, Piran, it was awfully satisfying to see that your fist had connected with that face.’ An amused smile played around her full lips. ‘Anyway, at the time I wasn’t paying too much attention to what they were talking about in this meeting. It seemed to drag on for hours and all I wanted was for it to end so we could eat. But one thing I did hear was Heligan reminding Bedford that they were paying handsomely for his “interventions” and he expected him to sort out the opposition to the scheme.’
Piran clenched his fists and his face darkened. ‘I knew that little toe-rag was a crook.’
‘I had to come down and help. I’d like to use whatever public profile I have to save the Pavilions. So now I’m here, use me.’
‘Do you have any proof?’ asked Penny.
‘Well, two lovely guys at the hotel – Toby and Marc – helped me out. They saw the cocaine on the table, and the booze. They must still have the photos.’
Simon cleared his throat and spoke first. ‘The photos won’t prove anything. This is blackmail, Piran. We can’t play as dirty as them. And you did punch Councillor Bedford and knock him down. You’re lucky he hasn’t pressed charges.’
Piran’s face darkened. ‘He deserved it. In any case, weren’t you the one who dragged me into this in the first place? I don’t even care about saving the Pavilions – but I do care about our town being run by corrupt, tin-pot, greedy, small-minded dictators.’