‘I’m waiting to hear what flight he’s on. I’m heading to Newquay Airport now to pick him up.’
‘OK. Thanks.’
As the car drove away, the two young bellhops escorted her up the steps and into the hotel lobby. She was gratified to see that her super sexy Marilyn wiggle was attracting much attention along the way.
The Starfish Hotel was the smartest of Cornwall’s hotels. Built to coincide with the completion of Brunel’s revolutionary train line from Paddington to Trevay, it had offered suitably luxurious accommodation for the wealthy Victorian and Edwardian travellers who flocked to the pretty little fishing village in search of sea breezes and sunshine. With Dr Beeching’s cuts, however, the hotel had lost favour and business, sinking into unloved shabbiness throughout the sixties and seventies. During the eighties and nineties, surfers from all over the globe had used it as a form of cheap hostel. And then in the noughties a wealthy widow, Louise Lonsdale, had stepped in and saved it from decline.
Now the Starfish was the epitome of twenty-first century beach chic. Lots of glass, sunlight, luxury bathrooms and excellent food.
Brooke was swept up to her penthouse suite in the decadently ironic beach-hut lift. As Toby opened the door for her she was dazzled by the early October sunshine, blessing the drawing room with a drench of rosy gold. ‘This is fabulous!’ she said, kicking off her shoes (‘Louboutin!’ bellhop Marc swooned appreciatively) and let her feet revel in the deep pile of the sky-blue carpet as she walked to the big bay window and looked at the harbour below.
As soon as Toby and Marc had finished running through all the instructions for the air conditioning, satellite TV, electric curtains and waterfall shower, she tipped generously and they left her to it.
For a couple of hours she pottered around happily, testing the bed, unpacking her case, phoning Bob and trying out the super-comfy outsized sun lounger on her balcony-cum-deck. This was definitely the life. After a quick shower she slipped on some skinny jeans, tied a headscarf over her famous blonde hair and covered her eyes with a pair of huge sunglasses – a gift from Victoria Beckham. She was ready to explore Trevay.
It was the end of the season, so the town was quiet as Brooke plunged into the narrow back streets lined with smart shops selling local art, beach fashion and desirable home accessories. She spent a happy hour entertaining herself with a bit of retail therapy, enjoying the recognition of the shop assistants and the admiring looks of the men she passed in the street.
When at last she emerged from the maze of little streets she made a beeline for the seafront. Leaning on the railings overlooking the harbour, she took in the view. The tide was out and several boats were lying on their keels, the mooring ropes draped with curtains of green seaweed. Taking a great lungful of the warm, damp air, Brooke turned her face to the watery sun. She had to make the most of this. She’d be back in London by tomorrow night. Reopening her eyes, she scanned the headland to her left as it stretched out towards the open sea. A vast silver dome in the distance was reflecting the sun’s rays, forcing her to squint in order to make out details of the ice-cream-coloured building beneath. It looked like a theatre. Curious, she started to walk towards it.
As she got closer the signs of age and neglect grew ever more obvious. Several windows were broken, the brass handles on the main doors had a patina of verdigris from exposure to salt air and damp. Glass cases that had once held play bills advertising the shows now housed a miscellany of typed notices warning of the cancellation of the scouts’ Gang Show or requesting volunteers to help out at the next pensioners’ bingo night. She cupped her hands over the glass aperture in one of the main doors to see what the foyer looked like. A face suddenly loomed into view, staring at her from the other side of the door. She gave a shriek of surprise and jumped back. The face remained in the window, his lips moving. He was saying something to her.
She composed herself. ‘What?’ she mouthed.
The door opened and a head popped out. ‘Did I startle you? Do forgive me.’
‘I didn’t expect to see anyone, that’s all,’ she replied.
‘Would you like to come in and look around?’ he asked.
‘I … erm …’
‘Don’t worry. I come up here all the time. I have the keys.’ He patted the pocket of his worn tweed jacket.
Brooke stayed where she was and looked about, hoping that she wasn’t alone up here with a strange old man. Bad news: she was.
As if he guessed what was going through her mind, he said, ‘Or maybe you’d like to come back another time? With a friend, perhaps?’
‘Well, I …’ she hesitated. ‘I … yes, I’d love to. I’m an actress actually.’
‘Are you? How marvellous! I used to run this place, you know. That’s why I have keys – I never handed them back.’ He smiled naughtily and twinkled his milky brown eyes at her. ‘Come on in. Where shall we start …?’
*
Brooke was in her element. The old man’s stories, full of the romance and history of the place, kept her spellbound. It was as if she could hear the laughter of bygone audiences filling the auditorium as she looked out over the ripped and worn red plush seats. She could hear the band playing in the dark of the grimy orchestra pit. The old man told her to wait in the stalls while he disappeared through a door to the side of the stage. It was dark and cool as she waited. The only light came from the dome above, as the sun forced its way through the peeling silver paint.
From the wings she heard the old man’s voice announce, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the Pavilions proudly presents the one and only Colonel Walter Stick!’ He marched on to the stage, head held high, his walking stick under his arm. Stamping to a smart halt, he turned to address her. ‘What ho, chaps.’ For the next seven or eight minutes he beguiled her with a stand-up routine that was word perfect. He finished with a little song and a soft-shoe shuffle before bowing deeply.
Her heart-felt applause soaked into the empty space. ‘That was wonderful!’
‘Prehistoric humour,’ he said humbly. ‘It used to go down quite well in the fifties. People could relate to stuffy Colonel Blimp types in those days. I called myself Colonel Stick. Many locals still call me that – behind my back. But they don’t remember why.’
‘So did you run this place
and
perform here?’
‘Yes. The last of the old actor managers, I suppose. Wonderful days and happy memories. Would you like to see my dressing room? I’d give it up whenever the really big stars came down – Max Miller, Morecambe and Wise, Petula Clark …’
‘I’d love to see it.’
She climbed the steps to the stage and he escorted her through the wings into an echoey corridor, down a short flight of steps that opened into a large space with doors leading off in all directions.
‘This was the green room. A great gathering place for before, after and during shows. All these doors surrounding us are dressing rooms.’ He led her to one where a star had once hung, leaving behind a faded imprint to prove its existence.
‘This was mine.’
He turned on a light switch and the room came to life. Turkey carpet on the floor. A huge cheval mirror in the corner. A rail holding two bent metal coat hangers with a shelf above for shoes or hats. A gilt mirror with at least a dozen light bulbs round it sat above an immaculate dressing table laid with several sticks of grease paint, a magnifying mirror, two silver-backed gentleman’s hair brushes and a small box labelled ‘moustaches’.
Brooke stepped into the room and ran her fingers over the make-up sticks. She turned to the old man. ‘Is this all yours?’
‘Yes.’ He looked at his feet, shame-faced. ‘I keep it here for old times’ sake. You must think I’m a silly old man.’
She shook her head. ‘Not at all. Who owns this theatre now? Why is it in such a state?’
‘The council own it. Always have. They’re selling it though. Soon it will be no more. That is what’s called progress. A few of us are banding together to fight for its survival, but I fear defeat is inevitable.’
‘Who’s buying it?’
‘Some coffee chain or other.’ He waved her to a chair and sat down to tell the whole story.
*
Helen was at home googling, trying to find out as much as possible about Colonel Stick aka Walter Irvine.
It seemed he had been born into a family where acting and music hall was in the blood. His father, Tommy Irvine, had been a well-known theatre manager and performer in his own time, best known for his ventriloquist act with an aristocratic, bad-tempered dummy called Claude. Tommy had famously retired from performing after Claude drunkenly insulted Queen Mary during a Royal Command Performance in 1931 and ventriloquist and dummy had to be bundled off the stage by Flanagan and Allen.
As a young man, Walter had carried on the family tradition. Thanks to his father, he knew many of the stars of the day, including Max Miller, but Walter didn’t confine himself to music hall alone. A comic actor of some talent, he appeared alongside some of the biggest stars of the fifties, featuring on the London stage as well as in productions with the RSC in Stratford-upon-Avon. With Miller’s help, he’d gone on to perfect his ‘Colonel Stick’ act, which had been a sell-out in theatres up and down the country. The Korean War had truncated his theatrical career, but he’d resurrected it on his return when he took up the job of theatre manager at the Pavilions. The sixties had been the theatre’s golden era, with big-name stars coming to Cornwall to perform, whether in comedy revues, musicals or Shakespearean drama. The list read like a Who’s Who of acting royalty: Dame Peggy Ashcroft, Richard Harris, Peter O’Toole …
According to his press cuttings, Walter Irvine had been one of the finest actors of his generation, as well as a highly regarded theatrical impresario. So why had he been so completely forgotten, even in Trevay?
Helen could find no answer online. There was no mention of his private life, even on Wikipedia, and she could find only a couple of passing references to his private film collection. It was as if Walter Irvine had vanished into a black hole once the Pavilions closed down.
Helen stretched and sighed. ‘I don’t suppose I’ll crack this in an afternoon,’ she said to herself. ‘Maybe I should pay him a visit?’
To distract herself she phoned her daughter-in-law, Terri. Helen had been thrilled that her son had found such a lovely wife, and even more thrilled when the newly weds announced that she was going to be a grandmother. Little Summer was a year old now and Helen was totally besotted with her.
Within minutes of Terri answering, the baby – who was sitting in her lap – began breathing heavily down the phone to Helen. She was just starting to talk. ‘Gan Gan,’ she said. ‘Gan, Gan.’ Terri prised the phone from her sticky little hands, laughing. ‘Gan Gan is you, Helen. We think it’s baby-speak for Grandma.’
‘Well, I like Gan Gan just fine.’
Helen couldn’t wait to tell Piran, who was fonder of his almost-step-granddaughter than he liked to let on. She went into the front garden to wait for him and deadhead the last of the roses. Dusk was settling and the lights of Pendruggan farmhouse twinkled at her from across the other side of the common.
The set of the latest
Mr Tibbs
episode stood in stark relief against the grey sky. Filming was due to begin any day now and the village was enjoying its claim to fame.
She drank in the cool, still air perfumed with the aroma of autumn leaves and sent up a prayer of thanks for this new chapter in her life. Her son happily married and doting dad to a healthy baby girl; her daughter Chloe had finally found her niche working for a charity that helped provide communities in the developing world with clean water, and it sounded as though she’d found love too, with a fellow aid worker. Helen was immensely proud of both of her children. She was quietly proud of herself too, especially now that her first column had appeared in the
Cornish Guardian
. It had been a bold step to end her marriage and start a new life in Cornwall, but she was glad she’d gathered up her courage and taken the plunge. She felt that she belonged in Pendruggan, and with Piran. Theirs was a comfortable arrangement; for all that he was quixotic, untameable and sometimes downright rude, she loved him. She had been a good wife to Gray, who had walked all over her and taken lovers the way an alcoholic helps himself to another drink. Piran on the other hand, had never let her down and she truly believed he never would.
*
Brooke was thrilled with her idea. Once she explained it to them, she was confident that Milo and the Café Au Lait people would be thrilled to. She was going to enlist their help in saving the Pavilions. They could have a small coffee shop bistro in one half of the foyer, while sponsoring great plays, concerts, summer seasons and pantomimes. She would star in many of the productions and Colonel Irvine would resurrect his Colonel Stick alter ego for special performances. The papers would love the story. Trevay was, after all, the St Tropez of Great Britain – Milo had told her so.
She sat in front of her dressing-table mirror, wearing a hotel bathrobe, and made her face up carefully. The smoky eyes, coral lips and tumble of blonde curls that were the trademark of Brooke Lynne looked happily back at her. Finally she was going to make her mark. Saviour of a provincial seaside theatre and a proper actress. She’d give her publicist a call in the morning.
Her room phone rang.
‘Brooke? It’s Milo. I’m just checking in downstairs. The Café Au Lait guys will be here in twenty minutes. You ready?’
‘Almost.’
‘What are you wearing?’
‘I’m not sure. Maybe a—’
She heard him tut. ‘I’ll come up and see to it you choose right. I’ll be there in two minutes.’
She pulled out a couple of simple dresses and put them on the bed. Nothing too revealing. This was a business meeting, after all.
She answered the door at his first knock and he pushed past her.
‘Cool room.’ He gave her a sweeping look from head to toe. ‘Nice make-up. Good girl. What have you got on under that robe?’
‘My underwear of course.’
‘Shame. Where are your clothes?’