Fern Britton - A Seaside Affair

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 …