A Seaside Affair

by Fern Britton

  ‘So Brooke is in the clear? She’ll be thrilled!’ Helen clapped her hands.

  ‘Completely in the clear. And the council have been found liable for making good on the work, since it was something they should have been doing all along. So that’s one item that won’t have to come out of your funds. We, the council will have to find the money.’

  Simon was beside himself. He even gave Joan a hug – which she received rather unenthusiastically.

  ‘Remember, though, you’re not in the clear yet. This is only a temporary respite. You still have to win your case against Café Au Lait and find the funds to keep the theatre running as an ongoing concern.’

  With that, Joan Goodman departed, her shoulder pads bearing all before her.

  ‘Oh, stuff all that for today – we’re finally on the up!’ cried Penny, and she and Helen leapt up, unable to resist a little jig of joy.

  *

  Five days to opening night. Penny put the phone down and pushed back her office chair. ‘Helen, we are sold out for the opening night!’

  Helen gave a whoop of joy. ‘All seventeen hundred and fifty seats?’

  ‘All seventeen hundred and fifty.’

  ‘And the rest of the week?’

  ‘Not too bad, but I think much will depend on the reviews. Can’t wait to see the final dress rehearsal.’

  ‘I bumped into Jess in Queenie’s the other day. She reckoned it was going well, but apparently there have been some tense moments.’

  ‘Bound to be with these arty types. Jonathan’s keeping things close to his chest, but he tells me he has every confidence.’

  ‘Really? Brooke told me the Colonel had to give Jonathan a pep talk.’

  ‘I expect she’s exaggerating. We’ll see for ourselves soon enough, won’t we?’

  *

  Two days later a large delegation of SToP personnel took their seats for the theatre dress rehearsal. Penny had made certain that anyone who had helped in any way to get the theatre back on its feet was invited as a special guest.

  The lumpy old seats had been dried out. The huge dome above their heads looked resplendent now that the soot had been washed away. The bar, the loos and the foyer had all been thoroughly cleaned and dressed with cheerful 1950s ephemera. Backstage, the dressing rooms had been restored. According to the cast, they were a big improvement on the state they’d been in before the fire. Just a waft of smoke remained in the air – like an autumn bonfire.

  Rehearsals had moved from the church hall to the theatre and Jonathan was seen walking from the pass door to the stalls. Keeping his head down so he wouldn’t have to acknowledge any of the expectant faces in the audience, he settled himself at the back of the stalls where he could chew nervously on his pencil and write last-minute notes for the cast and crew.

  Slowly the house lights dimmed leaving the ‘tab warmers’ to glow on the velvet of the old red curtains which had been clean, patched but were now a little singed. From the orchestra pit the band struck up a merry overture, the curtains flew open and Hats Off, Trevay! took off.

  *

  Jess was talking to Ryan on the phone. ‘The flight’s delayed? … When will you know? … But you should make it? … Of course I understand … I know, and you won’t be letting me down … these things happen … OK … fingers crossed … I love you too … bye … bye.’

  She put the phone down on the bed covers and looked at her alarm clock. It was 9.00 p.m. The show opened tomorrow at 7.30 p.m. and Ryan was still in LA, which is eight hours behind the UK. He was at LAX airport now, at the start of a journey that should take eighteen hours door-to-door, so providing the plane took off in the next eleven hours he should make it. She found a pen and some paper and started scribbling the calculations. She was tired and she wasn’t sure if any of it was right. Tears pricked her eyes in self-pity. All she wanted was for Ryan to be there for her.

  She got out of bed and went downstairs to let the girls out for their last wee. Brooke was typing an email. She pressed ‘send’ as Jess opened the back door to let the girls out.

  ‘Bloody men,’ sighed Brooke.

  ‘I couldn’t agree more,’ replied Jess tartly. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Louis doesn’t know whether he’s coming or not. He wants to, but he’s working in London tomorrow and he doesn’t know what time he can get away.’

  ‘Oh.’ Elsie and Ethel trotted in from the garden and Jess locked the back door. ‘Ryan’s stuck in a departure lounge. His flight has been delayed.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘Fancy a drink?’

  ‘Shouldn’t really. I need to sleep.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘But a glass of whisky maybe …?’

  ‘Can’t hurt.’

  ‘I’ll get it.’ Jess went to find the bottle and two glasses.

  As she walked back into the drawing room, Brooke’s phone buzzed, signalling a text.

  ‘It’s from Ollie.’ Brooke opened it and read: ‘Can’t sleep. Can I come over?’

  Jess turned and walked back to the kitchen. ‘I’ll get another glass.’

  Within seconds Ollie was knocking at the door. He hugged them both. ‘I was outside when I texted. Went for a drive and found myself here. I saw your lights were on. Don’t mind, do you?’

  ‘Not at all.’ Jess made space for him on the sofa. They sat in silence. Subdued. Nervous.

  ‘I heard from Red.’

  The girls looked up sharply.

  ‘She says she’s coming.’

  32

  On opening night the buzz in the foyer was incredible. Outside, the car park was filling up and the great and the good were pushing their way through to the bars. Penny spotted Piran and Helen near the steps to the circle. She pulled Simon towards her and shouted above the noise: ‘There they are. Helen’s in a white dress. See?’ She pointed and Simon saw them. He leaned towards his wife’s ear and said, ‘I’ll get the drinks and bring them over.’ She gave him a thumbs up in answer and squeezed her way towards her best friends.

  In dressing room one, the Colonel was applying his make-up carefully and without undue haste.

  The tannoy crackled into life: ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.’ It was stage manager Dan. ‘This is your half-hour call. Half an hour please.’

  The Colonel checked his watch: 6.55. The ‘half’ in a theatre is always called thirty-five minutes before a performance and the Colonel was pleased that Dan was spot on.

  One of the runners popped his head round the door. ‘Shall I check your personal props, Colonel?’

  ‘Yes, please do,’ replied the Colonel.

  The runner checked that he had his cigar, large silk handkerchief, pocket watch, silver half a crown, magician’s bouquet made of feathers (which would be stowed up his sleeve), and small replica pistol.

  Brooke and Jess were sitting in front of their mirrors in dressing gowns, having their wigs fixed by the wig mistress, Julie (proprietor of Julie’s Hair Boutique, just off Trevay’s Fore Street) and her assistant Dawn. They had made a pact not to mention the name Louis or Ryan or whether either man would make it to the show or not.

  Jess had received a text from Emma:

  Break an arm or whatever it is you’re supposed to do! We’ll be down to see your sure-to-be legendary performance for ourselves soon. You’re all over the news! xxxx

  ‘I can’t find my eyelash glue,’ said Brooke.

  ‘I’ve got some. I bought a big tube. Here.’

  She pushed it over to Brooke as Dawn secured the wig with a final pin and push. ‘Thanks, Dawn.’

  Dawn put her hands either side of Jess’s head and gave the wig a final squish and wiggle. ‘Does that feel secure?’

  Jess gave her head a rapid shake. ‘Yeah. Feels fine.’

  Julie was doing the same to Brooke’s platinum Marilyn Monroe-style wig, and after a final spritz of hairspray Dawn and Julie left them on their own.

  Jess watched as Brooke took the longest, thickes
t pair of eyelashes she had ever seen out of their box. ‘Blimey, what size are they?’

  ‘Eyelure Two-o-two’s. Miss Coco wore them in the fifties.’

  Jess shook out her rather puny lashes from their box. ‘I’ve only got one-o-ones.’

  The tannoy made them jump. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is your quarter-hour call. Fifteen minutes, please.’

  *

  Outside in the foyer, Queenie had been rushed off her feet in the tiny box office, but it had quietened down and there were just a few stragglers left, rushing through the foyer to make sure that they got their drinks and made it to their seats before curtain up.

  ‘Couldn’t ’alf do with a cuppa,’ she said to herself. ‘Only ten minutes to go.’

  Just then, the main doors opened and in walked an incredibly handsome, tanned and fit-looking man. Dressed in perfectly fitting jeans, a white polo shirt and with a loose cardigan draped over his shoulders, he bore the unmistakable look of an out-of-towner. While Cornishmen were unquestionably handsome and rugged, Queenie couldn’t remember any of them looking quite so striking as this man.

  ‘Allo, can I ’elp?’

  ‘Good evening, ma’am.’ His accent was American. That explained it. ‘I’d like to buy a ticket for tonight’s performance.’

  ‘Sorry to disappoint you, sir …’ For some reason, Queenie found herself putting on her best voice and patting her blue rinse just to make sure that every hair was in place. ‘Tickets sold out days ago. ’ottest ticket in town, y’know. Not got any seats until next week. Been all over the news, this theatre ’as.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. I’ve been reading about it and seen the news on TV. This is a great building. It deserves to be saved.’

  ‘In the theatre business yourself, are you?’

  ‘In a way, ma’am, you could say that.’

  Queenie was beginning to feel sure that she had seen this man before.

  ‘’Aven’t I seen you about somewhere?’

  ‘I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure. But I hope we will. Good evening.’

  And with that, he left. Just as Helen came out to see how it was all going.

  ‘Who was that, Queenie?’ she asked, watching the retreating back.

  ‘Can’t remember. But you wait – it’ll come to me. I know I’ve seen ’im somewhere.’

  *

  Penny put her hand to her mouth and handed her glass to Simon. ‘Excuse me a minute …’

  She rushed to the ladies closest to the bar, knowing she was going to be sick. There was only one loo and the queue was long. There was nothing for it but to be sick in one of the hand basins.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said to the faces staring at her in the mirror. ‘Nerves, I suppose.’ She ran the tap, rinsed her mouth and cleaned the sink. ‘I really am so sorry.’

  *

  Jonathan had been to all the dressing rooms and delivered an uplifting speech in each one. It had been a nerve-wracking week, but he’d got his emotions back under control and was now in the wings taking deep breaths. He patted the shoulders of the backstage crew as they walked by and thanked them for all their hard work.

  As he looked on, Miss Coco took her brood of dancers through their warm-up and stretches. He smiled at her and she gave him a wave in return. Things had improved immensely between them after he’d discovered that her favourite perfume was L’Heure Bleue by Guerlain; he’d presented her with a huge bottle by way of apology for his outburst. A trail of it was pervading the wings right now.

  Ollie was feeling the fear. Nothing from Red. Her phone was registering number unavailable and he had no idea whether she’d be out front or not. He almost hoped she wouldn’t be. The fuss and distraction of having her in the audience would be too much to bear. To calm his nerves, he decided to take his presents in to Jess and Brooke.

  ‘Come in,’ sang Brooke as he knocked on their door. He entered and found her smiling dizzily with her arms round a huge silver ice bucket containing tequila, peach schnapps, vodka and gin. ‘It’s from Louis,’ she explained. ‘And those.’ She nodded towards a floral display so vast it would have fitted in at a horse-jumping event.

  ‘Very nice!’ said Ollie. ‘Is he here then?’

  ‘Don’t know. Better not to think about it.’

  ‘God, yes. I feel the same way.’

  ‘Oh, is Red coming?’

  ‘Best not to think about it.’

  Jess remained quiet and was re-powdering her nose. Ollie mimed to Brooke, ‘Any news from Ryan?’

  Brooke opened her eyes wide and gave a subtle shake of the head.

  Ollie remembered the packages in his hands. ‘Presents for my best girls.’

  For Brooke there was a pure silk dressing gown and for Jess a necklace of silvered seashells.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is your five-minute call. Five minutes please.’

  *

  ‘Are you OK, Pen?’ asked Helen. ‘I’ve just overheard someone saying you were sick in the ladies.’

  ‘Oh God. Don’t. I’m so embarrassed. It must be nerves. I’ve never felt so sick in my life.’

  ‘Have you had anything to eat?’

  ‘Not since breakfast. I think the wine on an empty stomach did it.’

  ‘I’ll ask Piran to get you a soft drink.’

  ‘I’ll be fine, honestly.’

  ‘If you’re sure …’

  ‘I’m sure. Come on, let’s find our seats. It’s nearly time.’

  *

  In the wings, Jonathan looked out through the small patch of gauze which allowed him to see the audience but kept them from seeing him. In the stalls he counted the faces of at least four major theatre critics from London. They could make or break a show. He prayed silently to a God he wasn’t sure existed.

  Stage manager Dan, sitting at his desk in the prompt corner, script opened up in front of him and headphones on, was talking to the sound and lights team in their positions at the back of the auditorium. ‘Stand by, please,’ he warned them.

  ‘Standing by,’ came the reply.

  Dan made his final call to the dressing rooms: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is your Beginners Act One call. Would Miss Lynne, Miss Tate, Colonel Irvine, Mr Pinkerton and the dancers please make their way to the stage. This is your Act One Beginners call. Good luck, everyone.’

  33

  The curtain calls went on for ever. The audience gave the young dancers and the juvenile leads appreciative whistles and catcalls, and when Jess, Ollie and Brooke bounded down the grand staircase at the back of the stage, the entire theatre got to their feet in a standing ovation. Ollie kissed the hands of Brooke and Jess in turn, then stepped back and gave them the chance to have their own moment’s applause. They then pulled him downstage to take his roar of approval. The final and loudest cheer went to Colonel Walter Irvine. He stood at the top of the stairs, tall and still, acknowledging the accolade with dignity and humility. With ineffable timing, he started the long walk to the front of the stage, gave a deep bow and raised his hands to quieten the theatre.

  ‘Well, I must say, I have enjoyed myself tonight,’ he declared. This produced a gale of laughter. He silenced them again. ‘In 1954, when I was a young man fresh out of the army, I came to this theatre as its first manager. Our opening show was this one, Hats Off, Trevay! written by me with some help from the marvellous Mr Max Miller, and of course my partner, the late Peter Winship, the original director.’

  Some cheers of recognition from older members of the audience.

  ‘Max and I had a ball that night too. I never imagined I’d be here again, and among so many talented performers and our wonderful director, Jonathan.’ He looked round at the cast gathered behind him. ‘I want to thank them all for breathing new life into an old show and an old man.’ His voice cracked, and as he reached in his pocket for his handkerchief to wipe his eyes, the band struck up the theme song of the show, ‘The Trevay Tattoo’. As the crowd once again got to their feet and started to clap in time to the beat, the
cast gave one more rousing rendition of the song that would follow them throughout the rest of the summer.

  *

  A fleet of minibuses took the entire cast, band and crew to the party, which was being held on the roof of the Starfish Hotel, where the roof terrace offered a stunning view of the harbour with the twinkling lights of Trevay reflected on the water. It was a cool, clear night with a new moon.

  Ollie came back from the bar laden with a tray of drinks for himself, Jess and Brooke, and also Penny, Helen, Piran and Simon.

  ‘Here we go. The barman has made some gruesome cocktail called “Trevay Tipple”. I couldn’t say no, but I’ve also smuggled’ – he reached into the inner pocket of his jacket – ‘a bottle of this.’ It was gin, which he splashed into each of the vile green ‘Trevay Tipples’ on the tray. ‘Here’s to us and those that love us. Down the hatch.’

  The others laughed and gasped as he put the cocktail glass containing the grim-looking drink to his lips and swallowed in one, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  ‘Quite gruesome – but it hits the spot,’ came the verdict.

  ‘’Aven’t they any beer?’ asked Piran, eyeing his glass suspiciously. ‘I’d rather have a pint of Doom Bar.’

  Helen nudged him. ‘God, you’re such a traditionalist! I promise I’ll get you a beer after you’ve drunk this. Come on. We’ll do it together. One, two, three …’

  Helen linked arms with her stubborn boyfriend and together they drank it down. After a moment they looked at each other and spoke as one: ‘Disgusting.’

  ‘I need a pint to take the taste away.’ Piran was wiping his beard and moustache. ‘Is that what you drink in London, young Ollie?’

  ‘All the time,’ giggled Ollie, who was pouring neat gin into his glass and offering the bottle to Jess and Brooke. ‘Come on, Penny. Your go.’