by Fern Britton
That night he rang his mum and embarrassed them both by crying. She listened attentively as he poured out all his problems.
‘Why don’t you come down and stay for a few days?’ she offered. ‘You can do your own thing. I won’t fuss over you. Just take a break.’
‘I don’t know …’
‘Is it the money?’
‘No, it’s all right.’
‘I’ll book your train tickets tonight. You’re coming down for the weekend.’
*
She was waiting on the platform for him as he stepped off the train in Truro. They hugged tightly. Mum smelled the same as she always had.
They drove the familiar route to the house he’d grown up in. His room was unchanged. His football medals were still on the bookshelf and his old bear Cassius sitting on his pillow.
His father had walked out when Ollie was only seven. A few years later they’d heard he’d died. Liver failure. His Mum had never wanted to find herself another man, she’d been stung once. Instead her world had revolved around Ollie. She’d worked hard and given her only child a good home and the best education that she could afford.
While his favourite toad in the hole was cooking she gave him the tour of her garden. Although it was February, the primroses and daffodils were turning their faces to the sun and purple aubrietia was foaming on the old drystone wall facing the fields where next door’s cows were idly chewing the cud and waiting for milking.
He slept soundly that night. The dark and the occasional cough of a cow outside his open bedroom window working its soothing magic on his unhappy soul.
*
‘Morning, my love.’ Ollie’s mum placed a mug of steaming tea on his bedside table. ‘Breakfast in twenty minutes, OK?’
‘Love you, Mum. Thanks.’
Over bacon, eggs, fried bread and grilled tomatoes, his mum chatted about her plans for the day.
‘I’ve got to nip out for a couple of hours – there’s a bring-and-buy sale in the village hall this morning in aid of Save the Children, and I promised I’d help out. I’ll be back here by midday though. Then I thought we could go down to Trevay and have fish and chips on the quay like we did when you were little.’
He smiled. ‘I’d like that.’
She smiled in return. ‘Good. See you later then.’
*
‘Salt? Vinegar?’ The young man behind the counter was holding a greasy salt shaker.
‘Yes please. Mum?’ Ollie turned to find his mum already brandishing a twenty-pound note. ‘I’ll pay for these, Mum. My treat.’
‘You hold on to your money. You need it.’ She thrust the note towards the young man, who asked again, ‘Salt? Vinegar?’
Outside, the watery sun was warm in the sheltered spot that Ollie and his mum found. They sat quietly munching and watching a fishing boat as it tied up alongside the fish market to unload its catch. Seagulls swooped overhead, their beady eyes on the feast below.
‘How’s Red?’
Ollie internally applauded his mother, who had waited almost twenty-four hours to ask the one question she wanted an answer to.
‘Busy.’
‘When does she get back?’
‘Not sure. Depends on her tour.’
‘Are you going out to see her?’
‘No.’
‘Is it the money?’
Yes, it was the money.
‘No. It’s work.’
She brightened. ‘You’ve got a job?’
‘No. But I need to be in the UK and available for auditions.’
‘I see.’
‘Yeah.’
*
Helen called Jack to a stop. She had walked him over the headland and onto Trevay’s small beach below the Pavilions. From the beach, Helen could see the progress being made by the volunteer builders. It was beginning to look quite smart; the upper and dress circles were back in action, the windows had been repaired, the roof was now watertight, the heating working and the seats reupholstered in claret dralon. The Trevay Players had put on a marvellous panto over Christmas and had raised a good chunk of cash for the repairs fund. All in all, things were ticking along nicely.
As Jack stood wagging his tail and sniffing the breeze, Helen’s gaze shifted from the theatre to a young handsome man sitting alongside an older woman on one of the many benches dotted round the harbour. The woman had her hands folded in her lap, her eyes closed to the sun, while the young man – her son perhaps? – had got up to put the remains of their takeaway lunch in a nearby rubbish bin. He looked familiar. Helen searched her brain. She got it. He was the actor boyfriend of that hard-faced pop star she was forever obliged to read about in her newspaper. What was her name? She fumbled for her phone and dialled Penny.
‘Pen? It’s Helen. What’s the name of that actor who’s going out with that pop star who’s touring America?’
‘Darling, can you be a tad more specific?’
‘You know, the one with red spiky hair.’
‘Oh, Red.’
‘Yeah. What’s her name?’
‘Red.’
Helen was blissfully unaware of the irony in Penny’s voice.
‘Oh yeah! Well, I think I see her boyfriend in Trevay.’
‘And?’
‘Should I ask him whether Red would be interested in helping the Pavilions appeal?’
Penny couldn’t believe the naivety of her friend. ‘Great idea. While you’re at it, see if she wouldn’t do a big concert for us.’
‘I think that might be pushing it.’
‘I’m joking.’
Helen wasn’t listening, ‘What’s his name?’
*
Ollie pulled his neck and chin down into his jacket as he saw the woman with a dog approaching him. It wasn’t that he minded being recognised, it was just that today he could do without it.
‘Hello, I’m sorry to disturb your privacy …’
Then why are you doing it? he thought.
‘… But I had to say welcome to Trevay. My name is Helen.’
‘Hello, Helen. I’m Jan.’ The older woman smiled and shook Helen’s hand warmly. ‘Come and join us – it’s lovely out of the breeze.’ She shuffled up, leaving a space on the bench between her and Ollie for Helen to sit in. ‘I’m Ollie’s mum.’
Ollie managed a thin smile but stayed deep inside his collar as this stranger sat next to him.
‘What brings you to Trevay?’ she asked him.
‘He’s come home for a break. I’m in Tregleath? Ollie grew up here.’
‘Really? You’re Cornish?’
His response was a noncommittal ‘Yep.’
Helen was on a roll. ‘So you know all about the Pavilions?’
Jan answered. ‘Yes. Terrible shame, isn’t it. Ollie took his first acting classes up there with the Judith Speake school, didn’t you, Ollie?’
‘Yeah.’ He shifted in his seat until he was as far from Helen as possible without falling off.
‘It was every Thursday after school. Just two hours. Every Christmas he’d be in the pantomime. Just one of the babes. He did Cinderella with Coleen Nolan. She was lovely. Aladdin with Brian Conley – he’s hilarious. Then there was that summer show. What was it called …?’
‘Dappledown Farm.’
‘Yes. With Brian Cant. What fun he was, and very kind to the children on stage with him.’
‘Wow, that’s great. So you have a real affinity with the place.’
Ollie, sensing there was no escape, took the course of least resistance. ‘Yeah. It’s a very special place. It deserves to be saved.’
Helen brightened instantly. ‘I’m on the Save the Pavilions committee and I was wondering if you would—’
‘Of course, whatever I can.’
‘So would you ask Red if she’d help us? Anything at all would be amazing. An appearance at the fundraiser? A concert with her band? Some memorabilia?’
Ollie didn’t miss a beat. He was used to people seeing him as nothing more than a cond
uit to Red. ‘Well, I can’t promise all of that, but I’ll talk to her.’
Helen was scribbling her contact details down on the back of a receipt she’d found in her bag.
‘My God. That’s amazing. The committee will be so thrilled. I can’t believe I saw you. Thank you so so much.’ She gave him the tatty receipt. ‘Wait till I tell the others.’
16
It was a beautiful March day in Pendruggan. Helen and Brooke were standing in the foyer of the Pavilions, where the exhibition of the Colonel’s old photos and theatre memorabilia was finally on display for all to see.
Helen had been so busy the last few months, what with her newspaper column, doing bits and pieces for the SToP campaign, organising the panto, then Christmas and an extended visit from Sean, Terri and baby Summer, that she’d had no chance to catch up with the Colonel. It had been left to Brooke, who seemed to have developed a strong bond with the old veteran, to coordinate the exhibition. Whenever she wasn’t helping out at the campaign office, the young actress could usually be found at Beach Cottage with the Colonel, poring over his extensive collection and choosing photographs and theatre posters and programmes to go on display.
The Colonel stood beside them now, gazing at the display with tears in his eyes. ‘Oh my dears, look at us all! There’s Max … and Peter.’
A look passed over his face and Helen wondered if now might be the right time to find out more about Peter. Mindful that the Colonel was careful about his privacy and one needed to tread carefully, she looked to Brooke, willing her to be the one to ask.
‘He was a very dear chap, you know,’ sighed the Colonel.
‘Yes. You’ve mentioned him before,’ said Brooke.
‘He was closely linked with the theatre, wasn’t he?’ prompted Helen.
‘Yes, he had a glittering career in London where the name Peter Winship was very highly regarded, but he preferred life here in Trevay. He directed a great many Pavilions productions.’
‘You must have worked very closely together?’ said Helen.
The Colonel seemed not to hear her. He turned to Brooke: ‘You’d have liked him, my dear. All the ladies liked Peter.’
Sensing an opening, Helen probed gently. ‘Where is he now? Did he marry and settle down locally? It would be wonderful if we could ask him or his family—’
The Colonel turned to Helen. ‘Alas, Peter died many years ago. And the theatre was his only family.’
With that, it was clear that the subject was closed. The Colonel gave a slight bow and turned from them to engage in conversation with some elderly ladies who had come to view the exhibition.
Brooke watched him for a moment, then turned to Helen. ‘I’ve noticed he always clams up or changes the subject whenever Peter is mentioned.’
‘I was so hoping he was still alive,’ said Helen. ‘Now it seems there’s no hope of finding out anything more about the film archive.’
‘What film archive?’
Helen told her about Piran’s research and Brooke’s eyes lit up. ‘Gosh, that would be a find! I’ll see if I can get him to open up to me. You never know …’
*
When the reception to mark the launch of the exhibition was over, Helen dropped Brooke and the Colonel back at Beach Cottage. He’d invited both women in for a spot of lunch, but Helen needed to finish her piece on the exhibition for the Cornish Guardian’s ‘Time Out’ and the deadline was fast approaching, so she had to decline the Colonel’s offer. Brooke, however, said she would be delighted.
As Brooke laid the table, the Colonel prepared the luncheon and they chatted amiably.
‘And when are you going to come out of hiding, my dear?’
‘What do you mean? I’m not in hiding, I’m helping keep Café Au Lait at bay. If they get hold of the Pavilions, it would be a disaster.’
‘Yes, dear girl, but are you sure that isn’t the only reason?’
Brooke’s gaze remained fixed on the table. ‘I suppose I am hiding in a way. The whole business with Café Au Lait and that rotter Milo really knocked my confidence. It’s made me question whether I’m tough enough to make it in this business. Deep down, I’ll always be Brenda Foster – there’s nothing exceptional about me. Girls like me are ten a penny in the entertainment biz.’
The Colonel patted her hand and Brooke looked up to see amusement dancing in his eyes as he told her, ‘No, you’re nothing exceptional. I see that now.’
Brooke couldn’t help but laugh.
‘Come, my dear, no false modesty here. You have an exceptional talent and it would be criminal to waste it. Do you know that the Chinese have the same word for crisis as they do for opportunity? You’ve a big career ahead of you – and it certainly isn’t here in Trevay.’
‘But what’s wrong with Trevay? You made your life here.’
‘Yes, but there were other … pressures.’
The Colonel’s eyes were resting on one of the pictures on the wall. It was a photograph of him and Peter.
‘Did those pressures have something to do with Peter?’ Brooke asked.
The old man carried on staring at the photo, and at first she wondered whether he’d heard her question, but then he gave a sigh and turned to her.
‘I don’t regret a single thing. We had a wonderful life together, even though it was cruelly cut short. I’ve learned that you have to grab life, my dear, before it passes you by.’
She looked at him quizzically.
‘All things in good time, dear girl. In the meantime, our lunch is ready.’
*
Once the cottage pie and spring greens had been thoroughly enjoyed, Brooke told the Colonel she needed to head back to Penny’s to discuss some campaign business. The Colonel asked if he might accompany her.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ he said as they walked the beach path and turned into the short lane leading to Pendruggan. ‘I need to talk to the vicar’s wife about her thoughts for a general theatre manager at the Pavilions. I’d be happy to show them the ropes. After all, I did the job for many many years.’
‘I rather think Penny has assumed she’ll be filling the position herself.’
‘I hope not.’ The Colonel’s bushy eyebrows shot up above his glasses. ‘It’s a full-time job that must be given to someone with experience. The successful candidate must have the skills of a politician whilst being an excellent man manager. In any one day he’s dealing with budget, reputation, staff, health and safety. No, no, it’s much too big a job for Mrs Canter, who, after all, is skilled only in the art of television. The theatre is a completely different beast.’
Brooke, sensing the approach of one of Colonel Irvine’s monologues, skilfully turned the conversation away from the subject, but the reprieve was short-lived.
‘Hello, Brooke! Hello, Colonel!’ They both looked up to see Penny Canter walking from the vicarage towards her car.
‘Ah, Mrs Canter!’ cried Colonel Irvine. ‘Just the person. Now that your Mr Tibbs filming has finished, I wondered if you could spare a moment …’
*
‘God, why did I get involved in the bloody Pavilions?’ Penny put her forehead down on the smooth, warm surface of Helen’s kitchen table, a position Helen was getting all too familiar with. ‘I’ve got so much to do. Channel 7 are squeezing my budget till it squeaks, Simon is hassling me over who I have managed to book for the big fundraising show, and now the Colonel wants me to find a theatre manager to run the bloody building.’
Helen quietly placed a mug of tea in front of Penny’s head. ‘That’s a good idea, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ Penny grudgingly agreed. ‘But I don’t have the time to find one.’ She picked up the mug and took a sip. ‘Got any biscuits?’
Helen passed her an almost empty packet of ginger nuts.
‘Got any HobNobs?’
‘No.’
Penny blew her cheeks out and ungraciously selected three ginger nuts. ‘We need someone who can manage the cast, and direct them as well. We don’t have t
he budget to pay for both. There is no way on earth I can magic someone like that out of the air. They’re like gold dust.’ She pushed a hand through her hair. ‘There was a great bloke I knew years ago – Jonathan Mulberry. He managed the Du Maurier, just off St Martin’s Lane, and was also a great director. Could be a bit mercurial, but he picked some interesting projects; not always commercial ones, but they attracted attention. He came up about the same time as Ken Branagh, but God knows what’s happened to him now.’
Helen thought for a moment, ‘Didn’t you have a fling with him?’
‘Yeah. But don’t tell Simon!’ Penny laughed. ‘It wasn’t really a fling, I was just grateful to him and let him buy me a couple of dinners.’
‘Hussy.’
*
Brooke had on her best secretary/PA voice. ‘Good afternoon, I’m calling from Penny Leighton Productions. May I speak to Jonathan Mulberry please?’
Penny hovered next to Brooke, anxious to take the receiver from her when she got through to Jonathan.
‘Oh, has he? Do you have a contact number for him?’ Brooke scribbled on the pad next to her. ‘Thank you. You’ve been most helpful.’ She put the phone down. ‘He went to Canada two years ago.’
Penny started pacing. ‘Shit.’
‘But …’ Brooke looked smug, ‘they think he’s just finished his contract and he’s back in the UK.’ She began to tap out a number. ‘They’ve given me a mobile number for him. Fingers crossed.’
Both women held their breath while the phone rang.
‘Hello, am I speaking with Jonathan Mulberry? … I’m sorry to call you out of the blue, Mr Mulberry, my name is Brooke Lynne and I am PA to Penny Leighton of Penny Leighton Produc— … oh, you remember her?’ Brooke arched an eyebrow at Penny. ‘Yes, she’s just the same. Full of life … The thing is, she’d like to speak to you about a new project she’s working on. Can I put you through? … Great. Just a moment, Mr Mulberry.’