A Seaside Affair: A heartwarming, gripping read from the Top Ten bestseller

‘It took some persuading, but no – thank God. It seems being a vicar is a bit like being a doctor: the minute people find out your profession, particularly in a confined space like a boat, they start coming to you with their problems. He’d have had everyone asking him to marry them, or cast out demons or whatever.’

Helen couldn’t suppress a snigger at the thought of Simon casting out demons on a cruise liner. She shook her head in mock reproach. ‘Penny, you’re an awful vicar’s wife.’

‘Tell me about it! I keep reminding him that I married him for who he is, not because of his job. The Worst Vicar’s Wife in Britain – that’s me. Hey, that’s a great idea for a programme, let me write it down.’ Penny pulled out her iPhone and spent a few moments typing. When she’d finished, she couldn’t resist checking her emails. Thanks to the huge success of Mr Tibbs, a series based on Mavis Carew’s popular crime novels – filmed locally and starring Dahlia Dahling – she was being fêted by TV executives worldwide, eager to get their hands on a second series. She was also being inundated with screenplays and requests from writers and their agents, convinced that Penny Leighton Productions had the Midas touch.

As she checked her emails, the phone rang and she answered it.

‘Hello, Simon. I’m in Trevay with Helen … No, I haven’t seen the paper … The local one? … OK … I’ll get it now … Why? … Oh! What do they expect you to do? … Me? … Let me look at it and then we can talk later … Love you too, bye.’

‘What was that about?’ asked Helen.

‘Something about saving the Pavilions. Let’s get a paper and I’ll buy you a coffee … maybe even a glass of vino.’

*

Piran Ambrose was in his office at the Trevay Museum, hurrying to finish the day’s tasks so that he could get out in his boat and catch the tide for a spot of mackerel fishing. He swore under his breath when the phone on his desk rang, his hand hovering over the receiver indecisively before picking up.

‘Yes.’

‘Piran? It’s me, Simon.’

Piran breathed a sigh of relief. He and the vicar had been friends for many years, supporting each other through some difficult times.

‘Simon! Welcome home, how was the holiday with your maid?’

‘Simply wonderful. Marriage is to be recommended, Piran.’

Piran decided to ignore the obvious implications in this comment. ‘How can I help you, Simon?’

‘It’s the Pavilions – there’s a report in the paper that the council are about to sell the place to a coffee chain. Possibly Café Au Lait.’

‘Good idea. The building is falling apart. It needs money spending on it, or knocking down.’

Simon was shocked. ‘You can’t mean that? You’re our local historian – surely you of all people want to save the old place?’

Piran put one leg up on his desk and tipped his chair back, glancing at the clock on the wall. If he didn’t get a move on he’d miss the tide. ‘It’s an eyesore, Simon. We’re not talking about some Frank Matcham theatre of distinction here. The Pavilions is a fifties, flat-roof, jerry-built dinosaur that hasn’t made any money in decades.’

‘But the Sea Scouts and the WI and … the Trevay Players …’

Piran sniffed with disdain at the mention of the local amateur dramatic company.

‘… and the Arts and Crafts Show, and … er …’

‘Exactly. It’s not exactly a top-drawer venue, is it?’

‘Piran, please. I’ve already had emails from all sorts of people asking me to be on the board of an action committee. I thought you might want to lend us your support, maybe dig out some facts of historical importance.’

Piran scratched his beard and pulled on the gold hoop in his ear. ‘OK. Let me think about it.’

‘I knew you’d help.’

‘Hang on, I haven’t said I’d help. I’ve said I’ll think about it.’

The men rang off, each hoping the other would see sense. Swinging his leg off the desk and springing to his feet, Piran hurried out of his office before the phone had a chance to ring again.

Down in the lobby, Janet, the museum receptionist, was so engrossed in her newspaper that she didn’t look up until he called, ‘Bye, Janet. I’m finished for the day. See you tomorrow.’

‘Piran, sorry I didn’t hear you. I was reading this –’ She held up the front page so he could read the headline:

THE END FOR THE PAVILIONS?

‘I’d be ever so sad to see the old place go. My parents used to take me there every summer to see the big shows. Remember when Morecambe and Wise had a season here? Sold out every night. They were on the same bill as … oh what were they called … The Bachelors, that’s it! Lovely boys, they were. Great music.’

‘Not exactly The Beatles, were they?’ sniffed Piran, unimpressed. ‘Not my thing, Janet, see you tomorrow.’

Janet persisted, ‘But it’s heartbreaking. There’ll be a lot of people with a lot of memories.’

‘It’s a white elephant and an architectural mess.’

Leaving Janet shaking her head in disbelief he stamped out of the door with Jack, his devoted Jack Russell, scampering behind him.

*

Out on the balcony of the Sail Loft, the new wine bar overlooking the inner harbour, Penny was reading the paper too, with Helen squinting over her shoulder at the photos.

‘It’s rather a sweet building, isn’t it?’ she said.

‘If you like the garish fifties Festival of Britain look,’ snorted Penny.

‘That was a great era,’ protested Helen. ‘The war was over. Rationing was coming to an end. Women could wear full skirts and feminine clothes again.’

‘And Trevay built the Pavilions.’ Penny began to read aloud. ‘It says here, “The opening summer season in 1954 ran for twelve weeks. Local man, Walter Irvine, was the first theatre manager. He called in favours from stars he’d worked with before the war, including top comedian Max Miller. Miller, best known for his risqué jokes, topped the bill and made the theatre one of the most successful entertainment venues of its day. It’s hard to imagine that now. The building is succumbing to half a century of Atlantic gales battering it from all sides on its prominent position on the Trevay headland. It is thought that the new owners may be Café Au Lait, the coffee chain well known for buying up buildings of interest and investing multimillions in redevelopment. Could they be the Pavilions’ saviour? Have your say: email your thoughts to … blah blah blah.”’ Penny closed the paper and picked up her glass of wine. ‘Another lost cause for Simon to get involved with.’

Helen chinked her glass with Penny’s. ‘Welcome home!’

They sat without speaking, enjoying their own thoughts and easy in each other’s company. Helen’s eyes wandered up to the headland and the familiar outline of the Pavilions. From this distance it looked rather grand. Onion domes either side of the grand entrance, silvered central cupola above the auditorium and the tall fly tower behind. The building was still painted in its sugared-almond colours of pale blue, pink and yellow, albeit now cracked and faded. It was in a good location, away from the ancient narrow streets of Trevay, with the spectacular backdrop of the Atlantic Ocean behind it. With all that open space it had the benefit of a large car park (now used for car boot sales) and no neighbours to complain about noisy late-night exoduses.

Helen sipped on her chilled glass of wine and shifted her focus back to the harbour. The tide was high but on its way out. She looked along the floating pontoons to the spot where Piran kept his boat tied up. It was still there. He’d better hurry if he was going to catch supper and get back before low tide. Then she saw him; his familiar gait, slightly bow-legged in his faded, shabby jeans, but very attractive. His arms hung loosely by his sides, the wind ruffling his long dark curls, lifting them to reveal the grey at his temples. His hands, nut brown, were pulled from the pockets of his salt-stained fisherman’s smock in order to pick up little Jack and help him into the boat. Helen smiled as Jack went straight to the bow and put his paws up on the ledge, almost like a living figurehead.

‘Look, there’s Piran,’ said Penny.

‘Mmm, I saw him. I wonder what he’ll say about this Pavilions business?’

‘He’ll be all for saving the place, I should think. As the local historian, he’s bound to be part of this action committee Simon was talking about. I’ve a sinking feeling that this campaign is going to be the bane of both our lives if we’re not careful.’

*

‘Hi, honey, I’m hoooome!’ sang Penny as she shut the front door of the vicarage behind her.