Helen and Brooke were sitting in Colonel Stick’s cosy sitting room, wondering why he’d invited them over. Helen had noticed that he’d been unusually quiet at yesterday’s meeting, and when she got the call asking her to come over for a cup of tea, her first thought was that the old boy was feeling bereft and in need of company. Instead it was Brooke who looked to be in the depths of despair, as if she hadn’t slept a wink since the fire.
‘You really must stop blaming yourself,’ Helen told her. ‘It was a complete accident and the whole building is like a tinder box anyway. Right, Colonel?’
‘Indeed, a complete accident. Retreating into yourself won’t help anybody, my dear girl. We must all do our bit. Which is why I have asked you both to come here today.’
‘Have you had a bright idea?’ asked Helen hopefully.
‘Better than that. Follow me, both of you.’
Helen and Brooke followed the Colonel down the corridor into his cold study. Much of the clutter had been cleared away and in the centre of the room a projector and screen had been set up. Helen noticed a box that appeared to be full of reels of old 8mm film. Two seats had been set up in front of it.
‘Please, take a seat if you would. I’m terribly sorry about the cold in this room. Never seems to warm up, no matter what the time of year it is.’
Helen and Brooke looked at each other, not sure what to expect.
‘Helen, my dear, I owe you an apology. Some time ago, you asked me if I knew anything about a film archive. I’m afraid I was lying when I said I couldn’t help. Nothing could be further from the truth.’
The women looked at each other and then back at the Colonel. ‘Go on.’ They chorused.
‘Yes. I didn’t tell you what I knew because … well … I suppose I have become so used to part of my life being secret that old habits die hard. You see, I never married, but if I could have married … it would have been Peter.’ His eyes wandered to a photograph of the young and handsome man. ‘We were soul mates. He and I met many decades ago and bonded for life. The London theatre scene has always attracted … shall we say “flamboyant” gentlemen, but in the fifties and sixties it was still very dangerous to be openly homosexual. It was illegal; we could have gone to prison, so relationships were conducted in secret, away from prying eyes. Even in the permissive sixties exposure could prove very damaging to one’s career. Peter was a respected director, but jealousy and spitefulness are universal, I’m afraid, and some unkind and cruel colleagues had started a whispering campaign against him. He and I decided that life in Trevay would be infinitely quieter and happier. We moved here and never regretted it. The Pavilions and the people of Cornwall gave us a wonderful life together.
‘What happened to Peter?’ asked Brooke.
‘The same thing that will happen to us all, child, but Peter was cruelly struck down by cancer well ahead of his time.’ His voice started to break. ‘I’ve been without my love for nearly thirty years now.’ He took a clean hanky from his trouser pocket and wiped his eyes.
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Helen, getting up and kneeling beside the grief stricken Colonel.
‘Thank you. But these past couple of days have been a wake-up call for me.’ He blew his nose and sat up straighter. ‘One can’t go on living in the past, and I’ve kept silent for far too long already. The survival of the Pavilions is at stake and I have something that may just help …’
He stood, placed his handkerchief back into his pocket and went across to draw the curtains, then moved to the ancient projector and clicked a switch. In front of them a creaky black-and-white home movie started to play.
They were looking at a theatre stage, where a man was moving chairs around a table. Brooke recognised him at once.
‘It’s Peter.’
‘Correct,’ said the Colonel. ‘Keep watching.’
From stage left, a man and a woman appeared and started to chat with Peter. They all laughed at something the woman said and then Peter offered a packet of cigarettes to each of them. The woman took one, lit it and inhaled deeply as the camera moved in towards her face.
Helen and Brooke both let out gasps of astonishment.
‘It can’t be!’ exclaimed Helen.
‘It is!’ said Brooke.
They were looking at Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton. Burton was craggily handsome, captured in his prime, before all the drink had taken its toll. Taylor was surely as beautiful as she had ever been. Other figures appeared at the edge of the stage and the two actors began reading from a script. For the next fifteen minutes, Brooke and Helen watched as Burton and Taylor rehearsed, relaxed and laughing with the other cast members, teasing and affectionate with each other.
When the reel finished, Helen and Brooke sat transfixed.
‘There are sound tapes too,’ said the Colonel. ‘But I don’t have the technology to play them here. I expect someone somewhere will know what to do to get them working.’
‘Where on earth did this come from?’ asked Helen.
‘Burton performed Doctor Faustus in Oxford in the sixties. His wife, Elizabeth, had a part in it too. It has become the stuff of legend.’
‘But the film …’ interjected Brooke.
‘Peter was involved because he was a friend of the director.’ He stood and began to thread another film reel into the machine. ‘By the way, your friend Piran was wrong about one thing,’ said the Colonel, his eyes twinkling mischievously at Helen. ‘It was Peter who was the film buff, not me. He loved making home movies of his work, and this box here is just one of many. All the greats of the London stage are there: Alec Guinness and John Gielgud, Laurence Olivier and Ralph Richardson … And then there are the comedy greats like Morecambe and Wise – who came to Trevay for a summer season at the Pavilions – and Peter Sellers, Joyce Grenfell, Kenneth Williams. They’re all here.’ He indicated the box of film reels. ‘There’s such a wealth of material, I’ve rather lost track.
‘Colonel, this is incredible! This is something that people would pay good money to watch,’ said Brooke.
‘That is what I am hoping. Peter filmed these for his own pleasure, but he loved to share them and never would have wanted them to be locked away, gathering dust. I haven’t been able to watch them since he died. Too painful, too many memories. But if Peter were here, I know what he would want me to do. Helen, do you think Piran would be willing to help me organise these?’
‘I’m sure he will,’ said Helen.
‘I’ll help too,’ said Brooke.
‘You have both already helped me more than you can imagine,’ said the Colonel, his eyes misting again with tears.
*
Helen was on the phone to Piran immediately.
‘And here’s me not believing in miracles,’ he told her.
Once word was out, it didn’t take long before Piran’s mobile was ringing non-stop. Representatives from institutions all over the world had heard about the archives and a bidding war had started.
‘But do you want to sell them?’ Piran asked the Colonel as the two of them sat in the small study, working through reel after reel of footage. Piran had lost count of the many gems that they had rediscovered.
‘If selling some of the films helps to keep the Pavilions going, then I know that is what Peter would have wanted. He loved the place as much as I do.’
Piran and the Colonel agreed on selling two or three movies of Laurence Olivier and Vivien Leigh to a wealthy Japanese film school. The money was wired overnight.
Penny was on cloud nine. ‘The Colonel’s films have raised enough to pay a professional shop-fitting company to come in and replace the damaged flooring and carpets, as well as paying for the material to repair the damaged dressing rooms and corridors and mend the stage curtain.’
With seven days to go until Hats Off, Trevay! was due to open, Simon and Piran went to see the bank. Thanks to the Colonel’s contribution to the fund, the bank agreed to give them an extension on their overdraft against future ticket receipts.
Penny phoned Jonathan and Simon with the news: ‘It’s time to rally the troops.’
*
Over the next few days, Trevay showed what it was really made of. The whole town turned out to help and Brooke was able to pull a few strings with Louis, who turned up at the theatre and took lots of great photographs. The story of the Pavilions and the bad luck which seemed to be dogging the theatre had now made national news. BBC South West ran a feature on its early evening magazine programme and Louis’ photos made the Daily Mail under the headline ‘Last Chance Café for Seaside Landmark’. And that was just the beginning; Liz Parker had got plenty more publicity lined up.
In the meantime, while the cast continued their rehearsals at the church hall, Piran had been supervising the building work. He certainly seemed to have succeeded in galvanising the team of shop-fitters, the dehumidifiers were on full blast and within days the dressing rooms had been repaired, new carpet and flooring were in place – everything seemed to be coming together nicely.
‘Do we dare hope that we can pull this off?’ said Penny.
‘I daren’t jinx it by even hoping,’ Helen replied, as they sat watching the frenzied activity in the theatre auditorium. ‘I spoke to Queenie on the way in. She’s doing wonders in the box office. Apparently, tickets are selling like hot cakes.’
‘Even though we haven’t officially got the go-ahead from the council?’
‘Seems that way.’
‘Speak of the devil.’ Penny had spotted the square, businesslike bulk of Joan Goodman walking up the central aisle.
‘A word, if you please, Reverend Canter.’
Simon, who had been lending Piran a hand directing the works, welcomed the councillor and offered her a newly refurbished seat next to Helen and Penny.
‘I must say, Vicar, I’m amazed at what you have managed to achieve in so short a time.’
‘Colonel Stick’s contribution was the miracle we were waiting for. God moves in mysterious ways.’
‘Indeed He does,’ said Joan. ‘I think He may have been moving for you in another department too. I’ve had word from the fire service investigation team this morning. Apparently, they’ve discovered that the fire was caused by an electrical fault and was nothing to do with the candle. The wiring in the whole building is a problem. It should all have been replaced years ago – by the council.’
‘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.’