A Seaside Affair (7 page)

‘Have you seen the papers?’

She looked at the handful of tabloids spread over the duvet. ‘Erm, yeah. Bob picked them up this morning.’

‘Do you like seeing yourself on the front page?’

Brooke hesitated before answering. It had shocked her to see the extent of the coverage, but once that had subsided, she had to admit it gave her a bit of a thrill. ‘It’s a bit strange, but at the same time quite nice.’

She heard him stifle a laugh. ‘Got an agent?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Get Bob to bring you over to the office later. Ciao.’

*

Milo had promised to raise her profile and make her a star. And that’s what he had done. She and Bob had become celebrity darlings. She had a beauty column in a glossy magazine – ghost-written for her, of course. A cosmetics company were launching a line of make-up in her name. She even had a handbag named after her. The Café Au Lait deal was huge, both in terms of her bank balance and the publicity it generated, and yet …

She didn’t want to seem ungrateful after all Milo’s hard work in getting her these deals, but sometimes it was as if he’d forgotten she was an actress. She’d come to his office today determined to remind him of that.

‘Milo—’ she started the moment he finished his call, but he cut across her.

‘Brooke, I’m sorry, something’s come up. Are there things you want to discuss?’

‘Yes.’

‘OK, how about we talk on the way down to Cornwall tomorrow morning? We’ll be uninterrupted in the car. Four hours to ourselves. Can it wait till then?’

‘Yeah, I suppose it can.’

‘Good girl.’ He stood and ushered her towards the door. ‘Bye, babe.’

Before she knew it, he’d gone back into his office and she was standing on the smooth marble of the reception area, wondering how he always managed to head her off before she had a chance to say what was on her mind.

P
enny and Helen were on fire. Penny’s address book had names not just dropping out of it, but bouncing round the floor laughing at them.

‘Oh my God, Pen. Samantha Bond, Pierce Brosnan, Judi Dench, David Cunningham, Dahlia Dahling, Ryan Gosling –
Ryan Gosling?
Are you kidding me?’

Penny laughed and shook her head. Helen high-fived her friend and continued, ‘Philip Glenister, Miranda Hart, John Simm, Maggie Smith, Quentin Tarantino – Tarantino! I’m almost impressed … David Tennant. Stop! You’ve got Dr Who? Now I am impressed.’

‘I’m a very important person, you know.’ Penny held her hands up in front of her. ‘Guilty as charged. What can I do?’

‘You can get on the flipping phone and start ringing these buggers up!’ cried Helen.

*

Simon called the meeting to order. He had chosen the church hall in Trevay because it was bigger than anything in his own parish and because he wanted to get as many people behind the campaign as possible. For the umpteenth time, he checked his watch. Two minutes to eleven. He’d wait those couple of minutes in case anyone was having trouble parking. Another quick head count. Fifteen. He offered up a silent prayer. As if on cue, the double doors at the back of the hall squeaked open and in came the local eccentric. Seen at all hours of the day briskly walking the lanes and coastal paths, forever poking his walking stick into interesting piles of rubbish or using it to test the depth of puddles, he was affectionately known as Colonel Stick. The spritely octogenarian was wearing his usual shabby tweed trousers, highly polished but down-at-heel brogues, frayed shirt, MCC tie, shiny navy-blue blazer and his ever-present gnarled stick was clutched in his equally gnarled right hand.

‘Welcome, Colonel,’ called Simon as the old boy came forward to shake his hand. ‘Glad you could come.’

The Colonel stood up as straight as he was able and saluted. ‘I’ve never missed a show in my life and I’m not about to start now.’ His voice was plummy and surprisingly strong. Simon supposed it must be the result of many years barking orders on the parade ground.

‘Come and sit next to me, Colonel.’ Queenie patted the chair next to her. ‘I’ve got some aniseed twists to keep us going.’

‘Thank you, madam. How very generous,’ beamed the Colonel.

Simon returned to the front of the hall and started proceedings: ‘Welcome, everyone, and thank you for sparing the time to come and help with this most important and urgent issue. I am grateful to Audrey Tipton for agreeing to take the minutes, and—’

Audrey stood up and immediately took charge. ‘I need a roll call of all attendees. Please state your name and occupation when I point at you.’

Simon sighed and sat down. He was the first to be pointed at. Wearily he said, ‘Simon Canter. Vicar of Pendruggan.’

Scribble, point.

‘Queenie Quintrel. Postmistress, Pendruggan.’

Scribble, point.

‘Colonel Irvine. British Army. Trevay.’

Scribble, point.

The scout master and his wife, the leader of the amateur dramatics society, four members of the chamber of commerce and three local residents.

When the scribbling and pointing was finally done, Simon once again got to his feet and stated the case for action.

By the end of the sixty-minute meeting they had all agreed to post fliers in every window and write letters to the council and their local MP. Mrs Audrey Tipton volunteered to draft those letters, assuming, possibly rightly, that she and Geoffrey knew better than anyone how to compose an important epistle. They would certainly be awkward customers for the council to deal with. Never in her life had Audrey been content to take ‘no’ for an answer, and her husband could vouch for that – out of her hearing, obviously.

*

Piran was hunched over his laptop at Helen’s kitchen table, an enormous pile of ancient copies of the
Trevay Times
stacked at his elbow.

He’d been sitting like this, growling and grumbling, for a couple of hours. ‘Bloody wild-goose chase. The Pavilions ain’t old enough to have any history.’

Having left Penny to make her entreaties to her famous friends, Helen had come home and made a coffee for Piran before abandoning him to his growling and whingeing. She was now ensconced in her cosy sitting room with Jack, Piran’s devoted Jack Russell. The pair of them were snuggled on the sofa, absorbed in an old black-and-white film on the television. It was just getting to the bit where Bette Davis’s character would utter the famous line ‘fasten your seat belts, it’s going to be a bumpy night’ when there came a shout from the kitchen:

‘Helen – come ’ere.’

‘Just a minute.’

‘Come ’ere now!’

‘What’s the magic word?’

‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ His chair scraped on the floor and he marched in with a yellowing newspaper in his hand.

She paused the film. ‘What?’

‘Look ’ere. It’s a review for the opening night of the Pavilions back in 1954.’

She read silently for a moment or two then looked at him. ‘And …?’

‘Look at the photo.’

She looked. It was a picture of two men on stage. One wearing a loud checked suit and a trilby jammed on his head, the other with a monocle and a swagger stick under his arm. The caption read:

Marvellous Max Miller and Pavilion theatre manager Walter Irvine delight audiences at the opening night of Trevay’s latest attraction.

She looked up at him, wrinkling her brow. ‘I still don’t get it.’

‘Look carefully at the man with the stick under his arm. Does he seem familiar?’

She peered closer. ‘Erm … no …’

‘Walter Irvine?’

She shook her head.

‘Better known as Colonel Stick?’

She gasped and looked again. ‘Really?’

‘I’d bet Jack’s life on it.’

Hearing his name, the terrier lifted his head from his paws and wagged his tail.

*

Simon parked his old Volvo outside the vicarage. The large bag of fish and chips on the seat next to him smelled enticingly of warm paper, hot grease and vinegar. He tucked the package under his arm and got out of the car. Immediately the front door opened and Penny flew out, wrapped in a huge beige cashmere poncho and carrying a fat plastic documents folder. She locked the door and kissed her husband.

Simon never failed to be blown away by the fact that this glamorous, exacting, talented, lovely woman was his. He returned her kiss and, blinking soulful chocolate-coloured eyes through his spectacles, he held out his free arm for her to take. ‘Evening, Mrs Canter. Good day?’

She arranged her chic sunglasses on the top of her head and beamed up at him. ‘Great! You? How did the meeting go? Audrey unbearable?’

‘Not bad. Meeting pretty good. Audrey rather helpful.’

‘Excellent.’ The two set off down the vicarage path to walk the short distance across the green to Gull’s Cry. ‘Thanks for getting the chish and fips. Helen wouldn’t tell me what’s going on, but she sounded so excited I reckon Piran must have found something.’

*

‘Pass the ketchup would you, Pen? Thanks.’ Piran squirted a large pool of sauce on the open packet of chips. They hadn’t bothered getting plates out, preferring to eat them straight from the paper wrapping.

For a while the only sound was satisfied munching as everyone tucked in. Then Helen wiped her fingers on a piece of kitchen towel and kicked off the conversation.

‘Simon, you start – how did the meeting go?’

He told them about the plans for fliers in windows, leaflets through letterboxes and letters to the council.

‘Good for Audrey and Geoff. That’ll keep them busy. Who else was there?’

Simon duly listed the attendees, finishing: ‘… and Queenie, of course. She took Colonel Stick under her wing – kept him quiet with aniseed twists.’

Helen paused with a chunk of cod halfway between her plate and her lips. She darted a look at Piran, who shook his head as a warning for her not to say anything just yet.

‘What?’ said Penny, immediately spotting what had passed.

‘All in good time,’ Piran answered infuriatingly. ‘Penny, your turn – any of those actor types in your address book come good?’

Penny clapped her hands together, thrilled with what she had to tell. She moved her fish-and-chip paper to one side and opened the document wallet that had been sitting underneath.

‘I think you’re going to be very pleased!’ She beamed at them, waiting for murmurs of wonder and approval, but kept them waiting a moment too long.

‘Get on with it, woman!’ barked Piran.

‘OK, OK.’ Penny took the papers out of the wallet. ‘Let’s see … I started by emailing the cast of
Mr Tibbs
; seeing as the series is being filmed locally I thought they’d be supportive. Both David Cunningham and Dahlia Dahling’ – the actors who played the two lead roles, bank-manager-cum-sleuth Mr Tibbs and his secretary Nancy Trumpet – ‘have agreed to help in some way.’

‘That’s jolly good of them,’ said Simon, patting Penny’s arm affectionately.

‘There’s more. The Arts Council are launching a new campaign to get people to support their regional theatres, so we can get some publicity on the back of that.
AND
– ta-dah! – dear Julian Fellowes has said he might,
might
, can’t promise in blood, but might …’

‘Yes?’ Helen was on the edge of her seat.

‘… be able to persuade Hugh Bonneville and Maggie Smith to join him for a special
Downton Abbey
night where they share a kind of behind-the-scenes gossipy chat with the audience.’

‘What’s
Downton Abbey
?’ asked Piran, frowning.

‘Shut up!’ Helen punched his arm. ‘I’ll tell you later.’

‘
And
…’ Penny continued, ‘it looks as though we’ll be getting some memorabilia from
Dr Who
, signed by cast members, past and present.’

‘David Tennant?’ swooned Helen.

‘Yes, David Tennant.
And
my man in Hollywood is going to ask Quentin Tarantino’s office for anything the great man can sign and send us too.’

Penny sat back looking very pleased with herself. Simon and Helen could only gaze at her in astonishment, their eyes like saucers.

‘Wow,’ said Helen.

‘’oo’s Quentin Tarantino?’ asked Piran.

After it was explained exactly who Tarantino was, and Penny had poured out the last of the bottle of red wine, Piran pulled out the newspaper cutting he’d shown to Helen earlier that day and passed it to Penny and Simon.

‘’ave a look to that.’

Simon and Penny hunched together and looked. It was Simon who got the connection first.

‘Piran! This is Colonel Stick, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘So the man who first took charge of the theatre is still in Trevay?’

‘That’s right.’

‘And he was a music hall performer who knew Max Miller?’

‘Give the man a cigar!’

‘He was at the meeting today. He told me he’d never missed a show, but I thought he meant a military “show”, that he liked nothing better than to get stuck into a battle. But he meant—’

‘I should think he did.’

Penny was listening hard and had finally put two and two together. ‘So
he
is the piece of historic interest we need to save the Pavilions?’

‘Correct.’

‘But how exactly? What can Colonel Stick do that could possibly help us save the theatre?’ asked Helen. ‘I mean, I’m sure he has lots of interesting anecdotes about the old days, but how many people really care about music hall now? And why would they be bothered about a retired theatre manager?’

Piran leaned back in his chair and drained his glass. ‘If you birds would finally stop your incessant twittering, I might be able to get a word in and enlighten you.’

Penny and Helen exchanged looks but fell silent.

‘I’ve been doing a bit of digging. This Colonel Stick isn’t just famous for his music hall act. He was also an avid adopter of amateur film-making back in the day. Judging from all the old theatre press cuttings I’ve dug out, our Colonel was rubbing shoulders with the greats – not just music-hall greats, but the biggest stars of the theatre world. He was friends with the likes of Laurence Olivier and Vivien Leigh, John Gielgud and Richard Burton. And seeing as he was so keen on capturing everything on film, I reckon those old home movies of his could turn out to be some very rare and highly desirable footage.’