A Seaside Affair

by Fern Britton

  ‘Hear hear!’ said Penny.

  Simon was about to say something else, but Piran shushed him. ‘The point is, not only is Bedford in league with these coffee people, he’s obviously being paid by them to push the deal through and to nobble other members of the council.’

  Penny frowned. ‘When is the final decision due?’

  ‘Ten days.’ Piran turned to Brooke. ‘Could you get hold of these photos?’

  ‘I’ll try. In the aftermath of the whole episode, Milo convinced me that the photos wouldn’t be worth anything – that no one would believe a has-been like me. But if you think they’ll be worth something …’

  Simon was a gentle man, but he was first and foremost a man of God. What was being suggested seemed to go against everything he stood for. He swallowed hard. ‘That is blackmail.’

  ‘It’s the truth!’ Piran raised his voice in frustration.

  ‘We’re playing with fire.’

  ‘Simon, there are times when you have no choice but to fight fire with fire. These are sleazy men who want to line their own pockets, take drugs and have casual sex with pretty actresses,’ argued Penny.

  ‘That may well be the case, but I can’t be a party to this.’

  ‘But you’re chairman of the Save the Pavilions action group – you have a responsibility, dammit.’

  Both Simon and Piran were standing now.

  ‘I also have a duty to my parish and to my faith. I’m sorry, Piran, but if this is the route that you are going down, then you’ll need to find another chairman. Penny, it’s time we went, I’m needed at a funeral first thing tomorrow.’

  With that he grabbed his coat from the back of the chair and set off for the car park. Helen and Penny could only exchange anxious looks as Penny trailed out after him.

  *

  The following morning over at Gull’s Cry, Helen voiced the same argument. ‘It all sounds a bit tricky. There’s a danger Brooke could just be out for revenge and ready to say anything – regardless of the damage it might do to the Save the Pavilions campaign.’ She passed Penny a large mug of strong black coffee and sat opposite her at the scrubbed kitchen table.

  Penny sighed. She hadn’t slept well, knowing that Simon was lying wide awake beside her feeling wretched. He’d had an awful time of it yesterday, what with her laying into him about the car and then Piran putting him in such an awkward position after listening to Brooke’s extraordinary story.

  ‘Why did we bother to get involved?’ she groaned. ‘I can’t let Simon put his neck on the line. Nothing is that important. Certainly not that hideous pile out on the headland.’ She crossed her arms on the table and rested her aching head on them.

  Helen had seen Penny in this mood before. When everything was going well, Penny was a powerhouse of positive energy. But one blip and that energy drained out of her like water from a broken fish tank. Looking at her friend’s tired and worried demeanour, she decided it was time for a pep talk.

  ‘We’ve come this far, Pen, we can’t give up now and let that odious Chris Bedford have it all his own way. If he gets away with this he’ll be selling off the village green next, in exchange for a backhander from some burger bar!’

  Penny’s lifted her head, horrified at the prospect.

  ‘In just over a week the council will make a decision – this is our last chance, Pen. We need to put everything we’ve got into galvanising the community into action. I admit I have reservations about Brooke Lynne, but if we went to the Cornish Guardian with the story I’m confident they would investigate properly and not just rush to print her photos and allegations. I’ve got to know the editor a little since I started doing my column and I’m sure he can be trusted. I was also thinking of approaching Brian Simpkins, to see if there’s anything he can do to help the cause.’

  ‘Simpkins … isn’t he that solicitor friend of Piran’s?’

  ‘That’s right. They’re fishing buddies – sometimes Piran takes him and a few of his mates out on boat trips. You know, the kind where they take a fishing rod and six cases of strong ale. He’s like a walking encyclopedia of Cornish law – I was thinking that if we could persuade him to take a look at the stuff Piran’s dug out of the archives, Brian might be able to find a legal argument against the sale going ahead. It’s worth a try, right?’

  Helen’s pep talk seemed to be doing the trick. The spark was back in Penny’s eye and she was reaching for her BlackBerry. ‘If we can find a way to save the Pavilions without resorting to sleazy underhand methods, Simon won’t have to resign from the action group – I’m going to call him now and let him know you’re enlisting Piran’s lawyer friend to save the day …’ Her fingers paused over the keypad as her eyes turned to Helen. ‘Well, what are you waiting for – time is of the essence: get onto your editor chum this instant!’

  13

  It’s incredible what a beautiful, famous face can do for a campaign. Word spread quickly that Brooke had joined the Save the Pavilions action group and a big interview, plus photo shoot, with the Cornish Guardian under the headline WHY I GAVE UP ON CAL TO SAVE THE PAVILIONS recruited many more supporters. The journalist had asked some difficult questions about Brooke’s loss of the CAL contract and the end of her relationship with Bob, but instead of getting into mud-slinging she simply said that she was an actress and her heart lay in saving theatres rather than promoting coffee shops, and that Bob was a lovely guy but things had come to a natural end.

  ‘I wish Bob and Café Au Lait all the very best for their futures while I explore my own.’ The journalist bought it.

  Penny had set up the ‘Save the Pavilions’ HQ in the dining room of the vicarage. As soon as that week’s Cornish Guardian went on sale, the phone began to ring, and ring and ring. Not all the callers were nutters. Some were offering genuine support. The ball was rolling.

  Not content with lending her face to the campaign, Brooke showed up at HQ to lend a hand stuffing envelopes.

  ‘How many followers do you have on Twitter?’ she asked.

  Penny looked nonplussed. ‘I don’t have a Twitter.’

  ‘OK, how much traffic is there on the website?’

  ‘What website?’

  Brooke shook her head and laughed. ‘Penny, I’m surprised at you!’

  ‘The IT guy looks after all that,’ huffed Penny defensively. ‘I’m a creative.’

  Brooke was not going to accept this pathetic excuse.

  ‘Social media is where it’s all at, these days. Give me the number of your IT man and I’ll brief him. But first we need to come up with a name for the campaign that rolls off the tongue a bit better. The “Save the Pavilions Campaign” is a bit of a mouthful, isn’t it?’

  ‘Er, I suppose.’

  ‘We need a name that will really stop people in their tracks …’ Brooke tilted her head to one side in an attractive fashion. ‘Hang on – that could be it: STOP! We take the initials Save The Pavilions, and—’

  ‘Where did the O come from?’

  Brooke laughed throatily. ‘Trust me – I know what works. I’ll get hold of your IT man and we’ll get him to create a SToP website and Twitter account.’

  Within twenty-four hours they were trending, with followers around the globe.

  *

  Piran and Helen were back at the Dolphin.

  ‘This is beginning to feel more like HQ than Pen’s dining room,’ she observed.

  ‘I can think of worse places.’

  Moments later they saw the jolly, tanned face of solicitor Brian Simpkins come through the door. Piran bought him a drink at the bar and soon they were hunkered down, over a pile of papers that Brian had taken out of his stylish briefcase.

  ‘I think you’re going to be pleased with what I’ve found, Piran,’ he said cheerily, arranging the old, yellowing papers into some kind of order. ‘Ignore the antiquated language – this document isn’t as old as it looks. It might read as if it dates back to the Middle Ages but it’s actually from the twenties. When you asked me have a d
ig around, my first stop was the Land Registry, to see who holds the title to the land that the Pavilions sits on. Unfortunately, it turns out that technically it belongs to the council …’

  The faces across the table from him fell. But Brian continued as cheerily as ever:

  ‘But when I started to delve further, I kept coming across mention of a covenant that covered the usage of the land.’

  Brian paused and took a sip of his Cornish Knocker ale.

  ‘And …?’ asked Piran impatiently.

  ‘Is he always like this?’ Brian enquired good-naturedly.

  ‘Pretty much,’ Helen sighed.

  ‘Come on, Bri, spit it out.’

  Brian laughed. ‘All right, keep your hair on! As you’ll know, being our local historian, in centuries past much of Trevay was common land. The people had ancient rights, permitting them to fish and keep pigs or chickens or whatever, or to help themselves to gravel and sand – I won’t bore you with the details. Suffice to say that, by the twentieth century, the commoners, in other words the local people who managed common land for the collective good, had come up with better ways of earning money and so they stopped exercising those ancient rights. But those rights didn’t go away. So even though the council have been responsible for managing the land for almost a century, the ancient rights of commoners still stand.’

  Helen frowned. ‘But what does that actually mean, Brian?’

  ‘The rights of common land are very hard to change or overturn. Think of the New Forest and Exmoor – even today, commoners have the right to graze or keep their cattle on that land. This document in front of us states very clearly that the common land on which the Pavilions stands must continue to be managed by the Board of Conservators for the wider public benefit.’

  ‘So,’ said Piran carefully, ‘the council are on a bit of a sticky wicket if they sell to Café Au Lait?’

  ‘I’d go so far as to say that there is no way that they can sell, not without a lengthy legal battle – and folk in these parts don’t take kindly to politicians messing about with commoners’ rights,’ said Brian.

  Helen and Piran’s eyes sparkled as they absorbed this new and exciting turn of events.

  Piran rubbed his hands together with relish.

  ‘I definitely owe you more than a pint, Bri.’

  *

  Back at the vicarage HQ, Brooke was amazed at how much she was enjoying being a part of the campaign.

  She was sifting through over a dozen photos of the 1954 opening night that Colonel Stick had brought over. There was the Colonel on stage with Max Miller, surrounded by leggy female dancers in satin shorts and bra tops, clutching enormous ostrich feather fans. No wonder Max Miller was displaying his trademark wolfish grin.

  Brooke set about uploading the pictures to the website, making a note to herself to write a press release around them later.

  The phone rang somewhere in the house and was answered by Penny, who walked with it into the makeshift office.

  ‘How lovely of you to call, Julian … yes, I’m so sorry I haven’t got back to you with dates but it’s all been very busy here, what with shooting Mr Tibbs and … No, no, of course we want you … I realise how busy you are, it’s been awful of me and I apologise … Yes, that’s right. She’s sitting opposite me right now …’ She looked across at Brooke, a puzzled expression on her face. ‘Yes, she is … Is she? I had no idea. Here, I’ll hand you over to her.’ Placing her hand over the receiver, Penny whispered, ‘It’s Julian Fellowes. He wants to talk to you.’

  Brooke took the phone. ‘Hi, Brooke speaking … Yes, I’m very well, thank you … I know, it has been a long time … No, nothing at the moment … Gosh, I’d love to. Just let me know when it is all firmed up and I’ll be ready. Thank you so much. Bye.’

  Penny was goggle-eyed. ‘What was that all about? Has he offered you a part in Downton?’

  ‘No, but he is offering to write a short play that we can put on to raise money for the Pavilions. He wants me to be in it.’

  ‘Can you act?’ blurted Penny.

  Brooke took a deep breath and explained once again about the training she’d undergone, both at the Bristol Old Vic and the Actors Studio in New York.

  Penny was flabbergasted. ‘Darling, I’m sorry. I had no idea you were a bona fide actress – I thought it was just one of those things models say. You know, something to justify swanning about with famous boyfriends.’

  ‘Well, that’s what bloody Milo assumed, didn’t he?’ she answered crossly. ‘That was how it suited him to promote me – his clients were all sports stars or TV presenters or models. I don’t think he had a clue about the acting world. Biggest mistake of my life, letting myself get mixed up with him.’

  ‘So how do you know Sir Julian?’ said Penny, curious.

  ‘He mentored some of the students when I was doing my training. He has a very generous spirit and gave me lots of advice at the time. He must have seen my name attached to the SToP campaign.’

  ‘But how exciting! Julian writing something for you!’

  Brooke grinned. ‘Yes, it is exciting. By the way, what was he ringing you for?’

  ‘Oh, I called in a few favours from some of my contacts a few weeks ago. He’s one of them. He said he could do a night of Downton anecdotes for us.’

  ‘Oh, I think that must be the piece he’s writing, the one he’s just offered me a part in. When’s it happening?’

  ‘Don’t know. Haven’t had time to sort anything out yet. He wants dates; Maggie and Hugh have very full diaries and need to book us in.’

  Brooke stopped and gawped for a moment.

  ‘Maggie and Hugh? You’re kidding? As in Dame Maggie and Hugh Bonneville?’

  Penny airily stretched her arms over her head. ‘Yep.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Penny! Pass me the diary – it’s time we got organised.’

  *

  Simon was sitting in his chilly car, trying to get the damn thing started. The last thing he wanted was to be late for the meeting he’d arranged with Councillor Goodman. Joan Goodman was a good egg – a well-respected member and leader of the council and, as luck would have it, a member of his congregation. The moment Piran came to him with Brian Simpkins’ discovery, he’d got on the phone to Joan and asked if they could come and present their findings to her. Her opinion carried a lot of weight on the council and he hoped that between them Piran and Brian had come up with enough ammunition to persuade her that their case was a sound one.

  A sharp knock on the misted side window gave him a start. It was the postman. ‘Mornin’, Vicar. Didn’t make ’ee jump, did I?’

  Simon stopped his fruitless turning of the ignition key and wound down the window. ‘Morning, Colin. Car’s a bit cold.’

  ‘Sounds stone-dead to me,’ Colin answered helpfully, thrusting three letters and a charity brochure through the window. ‘Mebbe Father Christmas’ll bring you a new one, eh? That wife of your’n can afford it. Wish my wife could.’

  ‘No need for that,’ hissed Simon. ‘I can afford my own car.’

  Whether or not Colin heard as he strolled off, still in his summer shorts, Doc Martens kicking at the damp leaves, Simon would never know.

  He rubbed his hand across his forehead. ‘Please Lord, please let the car start.’

  After trying for a further five minutes he finally gave up on looking heavenward for a solution and hurried up the garden path and into the vicarage to find Penny.

  She was slouched at her makeshift desk, cradling a cup of coffee and looking at a crossword. At the sound of the door opening, she glanced up, an eyebrow raised enquiringly.

  ‘The car won’t … er … Any chance of a lift to Trevay? I don’t want to be late for my meeting.’

  It wasn’t easy, but Penny rose above the urge to form a sentence combining the words scrapheap and Volvo.

  Fifteen minutes later, she deposited him outside the majestic 1930s façade of Trevay Council headquarters.

  ‘Good luck, darling.’
She gave him an encouraging smile.

  ‘Thank you, I think we’ll need it.’

  *

  Councillor Goodman scrutinised the document in front of her. In her early sixties, with helmet hair and a penchant for boxy red suits, Joan Goodman looked as if she could give Angela Merkel and Ann Widdecombe a run for their money.

  She peered out over the top of her horn-rimmed specs at the assembled faces of Simon, Piran and Brian.

  ‘Well, gentlemen, you do seem to have put forward a most compelling case.’

  ‘But is it good enough to stop Café Au Lait?’ asked Simon.

  Joan took off her glasses and looked at Simon sternly. ‘There are myriad problems to deal with in Trevay and in this part of Cornwall and, for my own part, saving the Pavilions hasn’t been a priority …’

  Simon looked at her, uncertain where this was going. ‘But the theatre is such a big part of our local identity—’

  She held her hand up. ‘… Which isn’t to say that I don’t care about the Pavilions. I do. I’m a local girl, and one of my abiding memories from childhood is watching Danny La Rue in panto at the Pavilions as Widow Twanky. But I am just one member of the council. Whatever else one might say about Chris Bedford, he is tenacious. Once he’s set upon some course of action, he will stop at nothing to see it through.’

  ‘Chris Bedford is a lousy crook and shouldn’t even be on the council!’

  Joan sent Piran a warning look. ‘Slander is a serious matter, Piran, and I won’t tolerate it in my office – understood?’

  Piran fell silent, but his eyes flashed with suppressed anger.

  ‘In politics it’s not always a matter of how worthy your cause is, or even whether the law is on your side – such things do not guarantee victory. One can never afford to underestimate the calibre of the opposition. And in Rupert Heligan, the MD of Café Au Lait, you face a formidable opponent. He is accustomed to getting his own way, and he is backed by a multinational company with very deep pockets.’ Joan looked at the three dejected faces across the table. ‘Heligan and Bedford are unlikely to give up without a fight, which could mean you’ll face a costly legal battle – and a lengthy one. Given that the theatre is in such a parlous state of repair, it could crumble to dust before the case reaches its conclusion.’