It’s incredible what a beautiful, famous face can do for a campaign. Word spread quickly that Brooke had joined the Save the Pavilions action group and a big interview, plus photo shoot, with the Cornish Guardian under the headline WHY I GAVE UP ON CAL TO SAVE THE PAVILIONS recruited many more supporters. The journalist had asked some difficult questions about Brooke’s loss of the CAL contract and the end of her relationship with Bob, but instead of getting into mud-slinging she simply said that she was an actress and her heart lay in saving theatres rather than promoting coffee shops, and that Bob was a lovely guy but things had come to a natural end.
‘I wish Bob and Café Au Lait all the very best for their futures while I explore my own.’ The journalist bought it.
Penny had set up the ‘Save the Pavilions’ HQ in the dining room of the vicarage. As soon as that week’s Cornish Guardian went on sale, the phone began to ring, and ring and ring. Not all the callers were nutters. Some were offering genuine support. The ball was rolling.
Not content with lending her face to the campaign, Brooke showed up at HQ to lend a hand stuffing envelopes.
‘How many followers do you have on Twitter?’ she asked.
Penny looked nonplussed. ‘I don’t have a Twitter.’
‘OK, how much traffic is there on the website?’
‘What website?’
Brooke shook her head and laughed. ‘Penny, I’m surprised at you!’
‘The IT guy looks after all that,’ huffed Penny defensively. ‘I’m a creative.’
Brooke was not going to accept this pathetic excuse.
‘Social media is where it’s all at, these days. Give me the number of your IT man and I’ll brief him. But first we need to come up with a name for the campaign that rolls off the tongue a bit better. The “Save the Pavilions Campaign” is a bit of a mouthful, isn’t it?’
‘Er, I suppose.’
‘We need a name that will really stop people in their tracks …’ Brooke tilted her head to one side in an attractive fashion. ‘Hang on – that could be it: STOP! We take the initials Save The Pavilions, and—’
‘Where did the O come from?’
Brooke laughed throatily. ‘Trust me – I know what works. I’ll get hold of your IT man and we’ll get him to create a SToP website and Twitter account.’
Within twenty-four hours they were trending, with followers around the globe.
*
Piran and Helen were back at the Dolphin.
‘This is beginning to feel more like HQ than Pen’s dining room,’ she observed.
‘I can think of worse places.’
Moments later they saw the jolly, tanned face of solicitor Brian Simpkins come through the door. Piran bought him a drink at the bar and soon they were hunkered down, over a pile of papers that Brian had taken out of his stylish briefcase.
‘I think you’re going to be pleased with what I’ve found, Piran,’ he said cheerily, arranging the old, yellowing papers into some kind of order. ‘Ignore the antiquated language – this document isn’t as old as it looks. It might read as if it dates back to the Middle Ages but it’s actually from the twenties. When you asked me have a dig around, my first stop was the Land Registry, to see who holds the title to the land that the Pavilions sits on. Unfortunately, it turns out that technically it belongs to the council …’
The faces across the table from him fell. But Brian continued as cheerily as ever:
‘But when I started to delve further, I kept coming across mention of a covenant that covered the usage of the land.’
Brian paused and took a sip of his Cornish Knocker ale.
‘And …?’ asked Piran impatiently.
‘Is he always like this?’ Brian enquired good-naturedly.
‘Pretty much,’ Helen sighed.
‘Come on, Bri, spit it out.’
Brian laughed. ‘All right, keep your hair on! As you’ll know, being our local historian, in centuries past much of Trevay was common land. The people had ancient rights, permitting them to fish and keep pigs or chickens or whatever, or to help themselves to gravel and sand – I won’t bore you with the details. Suffice to say that, by the twentieth century, the commoners, in other words the local people who managed common land for the collective good, had come up with better ways of earning money and so they stopped exercising those ancient rights. But those rights didn’t go away. So even though the council have been responsible for managing the land for almost a century, the ancient rights of commoners still stand.’
Helen frowned. ‘But what does that actually mean, Brian?’
‘The rights of common land are very hard to change or overturn. Think of the New Forest and Exmoor – even today, commoners have the right to graze or keep their cattle on that land. This document in front of us states very clearly that the common land on which the Pavilions stands must continue to be managed by the Board of Conservators for the wider public benefit.’
‘So,’ said Piran carefully, ‘the council are on a bit of a sticky wicket if they sell to Café Au Lait?’
‘I’d go so far as to say that there is no way that they can sell, not without a lengthy legal battle – and folk in these parts don’t take kindly to politicians messing about with commoners’ rights,’ said Brian.
Helen and Piran’s eyes sparkled as they absorbed this new and exciting turn of events.
Piran rubbed his hands together with relish.
‘I definitely owe you more than a pint, Bri.’
*
Back at the vicarage HQ, Brooke was amazed at how much she was enjoying being a part of the campaign.
She was sifting through over a dozen photos of the 1954 opening night that Colonel Stick had brought over. There was the Colonel on stage with Max Miller, surrounded by leggy female dancers in satin shorts and bra tops, clutching enormous ostrich feather fans. No wonder Max Miller was displaying his trademark wolfish grin.
Brooke set about uploading the pictures to the website, making a note to herself to write a press release around them later.
The phone rang somewhere in the house and was answered by Penny, who walked with it into the makeshift office.
‘How lovely of you to call, Julian … yes, I’m so sorry I haven’t got back to you with dates but it’s all been very busy here, what with shooting Mr Tibbs and … No, no, of course we want you … I realise how busy you are, it’s been awful of me and I apologise … Yes, that’s right. She’s sitting opposite me right now …’ She looked across at Brooke, a puzzled expression on her face. ‘Yes, she is … Is she? I had no idea. Here, I’ll hand you over to her.’ Placing her hand over the receiver, Penny whispered, ‘It’s Julian Fellowes. He wants to talk to you.’
Brooke took the phone. ‘Hi, Brooke speaking … Yes, I’m very well, thank you … I know, it has been a long time … No, nothing at the moment … Gosh, I’d love to. Just let me know when it is all firmed up and I’ll be ready. Thank you so much. Bye.’
Penny was goggle-eyed. ‘What was that all about? Has he offered you a part in Downton?’
‘No, but he is offering to write a short play that we can put on to raise money for the Pavilions. He wants me to be in it.’
‘Can you act?’ blurted Penny.
Brooke took a deep breath and explained once again about the training she’d undergone, both at the Bristol Old Vic and the Actors Studio in New York.
Penny was flabbergasted. ‘Darling, I’m sorry. I had no idea you were a bona fide actress – I thought it was just one of those things models say. You know, something to justify swanning about with famous boyfriends.’
‘Well, that’s what bloody Milo assumed, didn’t he?’ she answered crossly. ‘That was how it suited him to promote me – his clients were all sports stars or TV presenters or models. I don’t think he had a clue about the acting world. Biggest mistake of my life, letting myself get mixed up with him.’
‘So how do you know Sir Julian?’ said Penny, curious.
‘He mentored some of the students when I was doing my training. He has a very generous spirit and gave me lots of advice at the time. He must have seen my name attached to the SToP campaign.’
‘But how exciting! Julian writing something for you!’
Brooke grinned. ‘Yes, it is exciting. By the way, what was he ringing you for?’
‘Oh, I called in a few favours from some of my contacts a few weeks ago. He’s one of them. He said he could do a night of Downton anecdotes for us.’
‘Oh, I think that must be the piece he’s writing, the one he’s just offered me a part in. When’s it happening?’
‘Don’t know. Haven’t had time to sort anything out yet. He wants dates; Maggie and Hugh have very full diaries and need to book us in.’
Brooke stopped and gawped for a moment.
‘Maggie and Hugh? You’re kidding? As in Dame Maggie and Hugh Bonneville?’
Penny airily stretched her arms over her head. ‘Yep.’
‘Bloody hell, Penny! Pass me the diary – it’s time we got organised.’
*
Simon was sitting in his chilly car, trying to get the damn thing started. The last thing he wanted was to be late for the meeting he’d arranged with Councillor Goodman. Joan Goodman was a good egg – a well-respected member and leader of the council and, as luck would have it, a member of his congregation. The moment Piran came to him with Brian Simpkins’ discovery, he’d got on the phone to Joan and asked if they could come and present their findings to her. Her opinion carried a lot of weight on the council and he hoped that between them Piran and Brian had come up with enough ammunition to persuade her that their case was a sound one.
A sharp knock on the misted side window gave him a start. It was the postman. ‘Mornin’, Vicar. Didn’t make ’ee jump, did I?’
Simon stopped his fruitless turning of the ignition key and wound down the window. ‘Morning, Colin. Car’s a bit cold.’
‘Sounds stone-dead to me,’ Colin answered helpfully, thrusting three letters and a charity brochure through the window. ‘Mebbe Father Christmas’ll bring you a new one, eh? That wife of your’n can afford it. Wish my wife could.’
‘No need for that,’ hissed Simon. ‘I can afford my own car.’
Whether or not Colin heard as he strolled off, still in his summer shorts, Doc Martens kicking at the damp leaves, Simon would never know.
He rubbed his hand across his forehead. ‘Please Lord, please let the car start.’
After trying for a further five minutes he finally gave up on looking heavenward for a solution and hurried up the garden path and into the vicarage to find Penny.
She was slouched at her makeshift desk, cradling a cup of coffee and looking at a crossword. At the sound of the door opening, she glanced up, an eyebrow raised enquiringly.
‘The car won’t … er … Any chance of a lift to Trevay? I don’t want to be late for my meeting.’
It wasn’t easy, but Penny rose above the urge to form a sentence combining the words scrapheap and Volvo.
Fifteen minutes later, she deposited him outside the majestic 1930s façade of Trevay Council headquarters.
‘Good luck, darling.’ She gave him an encouraging smile.
‘Thank you, I think we’ll need it.’
*
Councillor Goodman scrutinised the document in front of her. In her early sixties, with helmet hair and a penchant for boxy red suits, Joan Goodman looked as if she could give Angela Merkel and Ann Widdecombe a run for their money.
She peered out over the top of her horn-rimmed specs at the assembled faces of Simon, Piran and Brian.
‘Well, gentlemen, you do seem to have put forward a most compelling case.’
‘But is it good enough to stop Café Au Lait?’ asked Simon.
Joan took off her glasses and looked at Simon sternly. ‘There are myriad problems to deal with in Trevay and in this part of Cornwall and, for my own part, saving the Pavilions hasn’t been a priority …’
Simon looked at her, uncertain where this was going. ‘But the theatre is such a big part of our local identity—’
She held her hand up. ‘… Which isn’t to say that I don’t care about the Pavilions. I do. I’m a local girl, and one of my abiding memories from childhood is watching Danny La Rue in panto at the Pavilions as Widow Twanky. But I am just one member of the council. Whatever else one might say about Chris Bedford, he is tenacious. Once he’s set upon some course of action, he will stop at nothing to see it through.’
‘Chris Bedford is a lousy crook and shouldn’t even be on the council!’
Joan sent Piran a warning look. ‘Slander is a serious matter, Piran, and I won’t tolerate it in my office – understood?’
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?’
Brooke still couldn’t believe she’d made the move from London to Cornwall. It had all happened so quickly and she was close to tears at her welcoming present. ‘I’m just about to make it up with duvets I brought down from the flat. It looks OK.’
‘Here, I’ll help you. Have you unpacked everything yet?’
‘No, I …’
‘Come on, let’s get you settled.’
By the time Penny and Simon came over, an hour later, with a bottle of champagne and a ‘Welcome to Your New Home’ card, everything was shipshape. Helen was just giving Brooke some tips on how to light the open fire and filling her in on her own life story, and how she came to be living at Gull’s Cry.
‘Don’t get her onto that shit of an ex-husband of hers. Bloody useless, like all men,’ declared Penny, immediately turning to kiss Simon’s cheek. ‘Except you, my darling. You are the exception.’ She turned back to Helen and Brooke, gave them a wink and said, ‘I think I got away with it.’ Laughing her raucous laugh she instructed Simon to open the champagne.
‘I don’t know if I have champagne glasses …’ Brooke went to the kitchen and started banging cupboard doors. ‘Will wine glasses do?’
‘Jam jars will do if we’re thirsty enough.’ Penny took the open bottle from Simon and started pouring.
Simon raised his glass. ‘Brooke, you are most welcome to Pendruggan. Thank you for your help and friendship. God bless you and Granny’s Nook. May you be very happy here.’
‘Amen to that.’ Penny chinked glass on glass with Brooke. ‘To friends old and new.’