A Seaside Affair (15 page)

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.’

The three men exchanged sober glances. This wasn’t the reception they’d anticipated.

‘I’m going to table a motion for a public meeting and I’m sure I can secure enough votes to get you a stay of execution so far as the deadline’s concerned. But that still leaves you with a mountain to climb, I’m afraid. The restoration work is going to require millions of pounds of investment – money the council simply cannot afford.’ Joan shook her head sadly. ‘It would be a shame to see off Café Au Lait and then watch the Pavilions rot away into oblivion. You’ll need to have something pretty spectacular up your sleeve if you’re going to make good your ambition of saving the old place.’

*

Despite her gloomy prognosis, the Councillor delivered on her promise to convene a public meeting. Within a week she was sitting behind a trestle table on the stage of the Pavilions along with five other members of the council, in front of what looked to be a packed house.

‘Ladies and gentlemen. Can we have some quiet! Please!’ Joan Goodman clapped her hands together to bring the meeting to order. No one took a blind bit of notice. After a moment, she raised her voice – only an octave, but it resonated around the room: ‘I am calling this meeting to order.’

There was immediate silence.

Joan gave a satisfied nod. ‘Thank you. I would like to begin by welcoming everybody …’

From the front row of the auditorium, Helen surveyed the audience behind her. The grimy lights only just illuminated them, but she could tell that virtually every seat in the stalls was taken and the balcony seemed pretty full too.

‘… As you are aware,’ Joan continued, ‘the coffee chain Café Au Lait are proposing to buy this building and turn it from a theatre into a coffee shop. However, the SToP campaigners have uncovered some compelling documentation that may prevent any change from the venue’s current use. The council’s legal team have examined these documents, and it appears that further legal advice will be required before a decision can be taken. We are therefore unable to allow the sale to go through as proposed.’

The SToP campaigners all gasped and looked at each other with happy faces. With the exception of Piran, who was too busy glaring at Chris Bedford. The conniving councillor, sitting to Joan Goodman’s left on the stage, had remained poker-faced while she made her announcement. He now sat fiddling with his tie, careful not to meet Piran’s eyes.

Joan waited for the murmurs to die down and then went on: ‘Which leaves the question of what will become of the Pavilions in the meantime. The SToP campaigners have asked for the theatre to remain open while they prepare their own legal case; they propose that the venue should continue to provide a place of entertainment for the local community, and the monies raised by these performances would got to SToP’s legal fund. This is what the committee will be voting on tonight and we are prepared to hear petitions from all interested parties. First, we will hear from Café Au Lait.’

Brooke stiffened as Café Au Lait’s PR man, Michael Woodbine, took to the stage. For the next fifteen minutes, he spoke eloquently about how the company would bring jobs to the community and provide a social hub. When he started waxing lyrical about the company’s family values, Brooke gave an audible snort, which earned her a frosty glare from Joan Goodman. He was more convincing when he described how they would overhaul the building, preserving some of its original features and making it secure and safe. This was greeted by enthusiastic applause.

The StoP campaigners cast worried glances at one another. They had their work cut out raising legal expenses, let alone funding refurbishment. Only now were they realising that this could prove a significant weakness in their case.

Now it was Simon’s turn. Penny gave his hand a squeeze as he walked towards the stage. He gave an impassioned speech about what the Pavilions meant to Trevay: ‘Our aim is to make it a thriving place of entertainment once more. The Trevay Players have agreed to stage a pantomime over Christmas and New Year, all proceeds of which will go into the refurbishment fund. My wife has been talking to some very big names and is hopeful we can produce an Easter extravaganza. And Colonel Irvine’ – the Colonel stood up to warm applause – ‘has promised to revive the first-ever show performed here, in which he appeared alongside the great Max Miller, for a sell-out summer season.’

The Colonel made a comic face and danced a little soft shoe shuffle.

Simon’s heartfelt and moving speech concluded: ‘The Pavilions aren’t just a theatre, they are our past, our heritage. They are Cornwall, they are Trevay. They are us.’

As the audience applauded, some of them rising to their feet to give him a standing ovation, Simon made to leave the stage. He was stopped in his tracks by Chris Bedford.

‘Reverend Canter,’ Bedford began, his voice dripping with mockery, ‘we’ve heard a detailed explanation from Café Au Lait as to how they are planning to maintain the building. Would you care to tell us how your little band of campaigners and a handful of amateur actors intend to keep this building from falling down? Look around you – the place is falling to bits. The dress and upper circles have had to be closed on health and safety grounds, and the roof has more holes in it than your argument!’

He smirked unpleasantly as laughter rippled around the room.

Simon opened his mouth to speak but no words came out. Piran wasted no time leaping to his rescue.

‘It’s all about big business and money to you, Bedford, isn’t it?’ he railed, ‘Well, I’ve got news for you: this town is about more than that. We pull together when things get tough – always have, always will. And there are enough people to get the job done without any help from the likes of Café Au Lait.’ He turned to address the auditorium: ‘Am I right?’

He was greeted with cheers and clapping. One member of the audience stood up.

‘I’m Ray Williams, my mum used to sell ice-creams here during the intermission. I run a big building firm and if someone will provide the material, I’ll supply the manpower to fix the upper circles.’

More cheers.

Then another person stood: ‘My name’s Phil Jennings and I’m a roofer. I’ll ’appily do what I can – anyone else want to lend a hand?’

Helen was reminded of that moment from the film
Spartacus
as one by one, local people stood up and volunteered their services.

The audience were now ecstatic. Over the noise of their cheers, Piran’s deep bass made itself heard:

‘You see, Councillor Bedford? Money isn’t everything. Trevay is bigger’n you and it’s bigger’n Café bloody Au Lait!’

As he sat down, Helen reached for his hand. She thought she had never loved her grumpy, curmudgeonly but heroic Piran more than she did right that minute.

‘Order, order!’ commanded Joan Goodman, and the room fell silent, though it seemed to Helen that the crackle of tension in the air was almost loud enough to hear. Had they done enough?

‘I think we’ll put this to the vote now. All in favour of allowing SToP to run the building on a temporary basis?’

Chris Bedford and one other councillor kept their hands down, but four hands came up, including Joan’s. The vote was greeted by the biggest and longest cheers of the evening.

*

It was a merry little band who convened that night at the Sail Loft. November seemed to be blowing in with a gale as one by one they fought their way through the door. The wind was so strong it almost whipped the door out of Brooke’s hand as she pushed it open. Once over the threshold, she had to lean on it with all her weight to get it to close again. Gone were her glam body-con frocks and stilettos. Brook was adopting the Cornish way. No make-up, jeans, warm jacket and flat boots.

‘’Tis blowin’ a hooley out there, maid,’ said Piran, who was standing at the bar paying for two bottles of red wine. ‘Sit down with the others and I’ll bring over a glass for you.’

‘Thanks, Piran.’ Brooke pushed her soft honey-coloured curls out of her eyes and made her way to the scrubbed-pine table where Simon, Penny and Helen were sitting.

A moment later Piran arrived with the drinks. Helen shifted her chair so he could squeeze in. ‘I’m so proud of you,’ she told him. ‘You really gave that creep Bedford a good drubbing.’

Piran reached over and helped himself to the chilli chips. ‘Very satisfying, even if I do say so myself. Took great pleasure in wiping the smile off that bugger’s face.’ He poured the velvety red wine into the glasses. ‘Cheers, everyone.’

‘I hate to be the voice of doom, but the battle’s not won yet,’ said Penny.

‘Come on, darling, we’re the dream team – along with all those people who came forward to offer their help.’

‘Yes, Simon, the campaign’s finally starting to come together, but we’ve an awful lot of work ahead of us. If we’re going to get this panto off the ground then we only have a few short weeks to get everything done.’

‘Ah, yes, I hadn’t thought of that.’ Simon took a thoughtful sip of his wine.

‘Less of that,’ Penny chided, taking the glass from his hand. ‘No sore heads tomorrow. I’ll have to get straight on the phone in the morning – and so will you, pinning all those volunteers down so they make good on their promises. People get carried away in the heat of the moment and things can seem very different in the cold light of day.’

‘Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help,’ said Helen. ‘I’m sure the Colonel will want to lend a hand too – he didn’t want to stay for a drink, he said he was too tired, but I’m sure he’ll be a real asset when it comes to organising the panto.’

‘What about you, Brooke? When do you have to go back to London?’ asked Penny.

‘Tomorrow morning.’

Penny’s face fell. Brooke’s boundless enthusiasm made everything seem possible; she dreaded losing her. ‘Do you have to go?’

‘I can’t afford to stay at the Starfish all the time.’

‘There are loads of places to rent down here. Winter rates are quite reasonable.’

‘But I’ve got my flat in London and …’

‘… and down here you’ve got friends, a cause to champion, work coming up – if Sir Julian is serious.’

‘Yeah, but … I don’t know.’

‘Rent your flat out and come down here,’ urged Helen.

‘Yes,’ said Penny. ‘Just till the end of next summer. I’ll miss your help in the office. We’ll all miss you. You’re one of us now!’

Everyone around the table nodded in agreement.

‘Let me think about it’ She stood up and Piran helped her into her coat. ‘Well done tonight everyone.’

Wishing them all goodnight, Brooke tripped out of the wine bar feeling more positive than she had in quite some time. Maybe she could give it a go down here in Cornwall. A gust of cold air hit her, bringing her to her senses. What was she thinking? She needed to return to London and get her career back on track. Milo James wasn’t the only agent in town, and she still had her brain and her looks.

She was so busy musing on this as she made her way to her car that she almost collided with two men weaving their way unsteadily to a waiting taxi. She was dismayed to see that the two men in question were Michael Woodbine and Councillor Bedford. Bedford in particular was rather the worse for wear.

She tried to step round them to get to her car, but it was too late.

‘Well, well, well, if it isn’t SToP’s secret weapon! Can’t remember your name – didn’t you used to be someone?’ Michael Woodbine intercepted her before she could reach her car door.

‘I’ve nothing to say to you, please move out of the way.’

‘Ooh, quite the prim and proper little madam now, aren’t we? Not quite so prim when your tits and arse were plastered all over the lads’ mags, were you?’

Brooke held her nerve. ‘I have never done that and at least I come by my money honestly, not by lying and handing out bribes.’

‘I’ve seen your type before,’ he sneered. ‘You and your tin-pot campaign group. Just wait until our lawyers have finished with you – you’ll wish you never started this.’

‘I don’t think so. You see, even though you think you’re invincible, tonight we proved that you’re not. And I’ve still got something on you – underestimate me at your peril, Woodbine.’

At this point, a staggering, drunken Chris Bedford lunged forward unsteadily and thrust his face into hers.

‘Yeah, and you tell that Cornish meathead Piran Ambrose that he hashn’t heard the lasht of this! I’ll show that loser that no one meshes with me!’ He poked his own chest with his finger.

Woodbine put his hands on Bedford’s shoulders and steered him towards the waiting taxi. When they reached the cab, he turned for a parting shot: ‘No one messes with Café Au Lait, love, least of all talentless dolly birds who don’t know their place.’

Brooke watched them depart. ‘We’ll see about that,’ she said quietly to herself.

The next morning, Brooke phoned a London letting agent and told him she was moving to Cornwall for a while …

*

Brooke found a tenant for her London flat in under a fortnight. In the meantime Penny and Helen managed to negotiate a great deal on the rental of Granny’s Nook, a two-up-two-down cottage next door but one to Helen.

‘Welcome to Pendruggan, neighbour!’ Helen squeezed through the narrow front door carrying armfuls of late chrysanthemums and holly twigs. ‘Something to brighten up the place. Simple Tony gave them to me. Have you met him yet? Once met, never forgotten. Sweet lad.’ She plonked the homely bouquet in its large kilner jar vase, onto the kitchen table and looked around her. ‘Not bad for a holiday let, is it? Furnished nicely. How’s the bed?’