Fern Britton - A Seaside Affair

He turned away. ‘Well, I must get on. Things to do.’

Penny could feel the hot itch of guilt and duty creeping up the back of her neck. Bloody Pavilions, what did any of it have to do with her?

‘Oh, all right,’ she sighed.

Simon’s face lit up and he stepped forward to kiss her, but she restrained him with a gentle hand on his chest.

‘No, darling, I’m not saying I’ll do it. I’m saying all right, I’ll think about it.’

‘Really?’ He beamed at her in delight. ‘Oh, Pen, I knew you wouldn’t let us down.’

‘No promises, Simon. This won’t be easy and I’m not a miracle worker.’

‘Oh yes you are,’ said Simon, giving her a hug before heading off to prepare for morning service.

‘And don’t forget,’ Penny called after him, ‘I’m doing this for you, not Audrey bloody Tipton!’

*

In the Tiptons’ kitchen, Geoffrey was dutifully congratulating his wife. ‘Well done, Audrey. You were magnificent.’

‘Thank you, Geoffrey.’

‘When did you get Piran on board?’

‘I haven’t actually spoken to him – Simon was supposed to do that, but he went about it in his usual wishy-washy way and got a wishy-washy response in return. He can’t go backing out of it now though, can he!’ she announced smugly.

‘Aud, you’re a genius!’ Geoffrey was about to say more but was interrupted by the phone ringing. He lifted the receiver: ‘Good morning, Tipton residence – Geoffrey Tipton speaking.’

An angry voice growled, ‘Is your meddling wife there?’

‘Excuse me, but who is calling?’

‘Piran Ambrose.’

Geoffrey felt a squirt of fear in his stomach, ‘I’ll just get her for you.’ Thrusting the phone at his wife as if it were a hot potato, he whispered, ‘It’s Piran – he wants a word.’

Audrey’s lips, stained with carmine matte lipstick, curled in something approximating a grin. ‘So, the mountain has finally come to Audrey Tipton,’ she said, sotto voce, holding out an imperious hand for the receiver.

*

Piran’s truck rattled loudly as he hit a lump of dry mud, left by the tyres of some long-gone tractor. ‘That woman thinks she’s Margaret Thatcher. She’s touched in the head! “No, no, no, Mr Ambrose –”’ Helen was reduced to giggles by his booming attempt to emulate Audrey Tipton’s dominating voice – ‘“We are not going to let the Pavilions go without a fight, Mr Ambrose.” I’ll give ’er a fight, all right.’

Despite his protestations, it looked to Helen as though Audrey had indeed got the better of Piran – for now.

They were on their way to the Pavilions, where Audrey had organised an emergency press conference.

They pulled up in the car park, its once smooth tarmac now a craze of cracks, rudimentary repairs and an astonishingly lovely display of willowherb gently going to seed.

A small crowd had formed on the steps to the theatre. Audrey was standing on the top step, and as Helen and Piran approached they could hear her penetrating voice, hectoring the group and one man in particular.

‘Councillor Bedford, you call yourself a man of principle, a man of Cornwall – nay, of Trevay. We, on the other hand, call you “Liar”!’

‘Now steady on, Mrs Tipton.’ Councillor Bedford, a pugnacious man in his forties, squared up to her. ‘This is all a storm in a coffee cup! I want the best for the community. If the council comes to a satisfactory agreement with Café Au Lait, the Pavilions will have a new lease of life and there will be many more jobs for local people.’

There was a smattering of applause from the crowd. Audrey quelled them with a look. ‘So, we have traitors in the ranks, do we? We think a few jobs and the loss of an important community facility is OK, do we?’ The crowd shuffled and looked at their feet.

Helen, standing a short distance away, was distracted by the arrival of a small white car containing the journalist from the Trevay Times and a photographer. She nudged Piran, but failed to get his attention as he was listening to Councillor Bedford, who was beginning to lose his rag.

‘ Mrs Tipton , if you or any of your followers had bothered to look after this building, to use it and support it over the last decades, we wouldn’t be in this situation. People like you are hypocrites. If you hadn’t sat idly by, this theatre could have been saved years ago.’

‘How dare you speak to my wife that way, you insolent pipsqueak!’ Mr Audrey weighed in. ‘I demand an apology.’

‘You’re not getting one,’ snarled Councillor Bedford. He turned to the wider audience: ‘You have five weeks from today to come up with a viable business plan for this place. After that, the council’s negotiations with Café Au Lait enter the formal stages of agreement. Good day to you all and good luck.’

‘’ang on a minute, Councillor.’ Piran moved to bar his way. ‘What will you and Café Au Lait be agreeing on? There are rules to follow about this sort of thing – planning applications, consultation with local businesses and residents, public hearings … Seems to me like Café Au Lait are being given a fast track through the back door.’

Councillor Bedford looked Piran up and down with contempt and spoke at a level only the two of them could hear. ‘Oh dear,’ he hissed. ‘She’s got our eminent local historian involved now, has she? You’ll find, Ambrose, that there are no flies on me. Oppose our plans and things could get tricky the next time you want the council to do something for you. Without easy access to archaeological sites and public records, you might find it that much harder to do your job. So think twice before you try making my job harder.’

‘Are you threatening me?’ growled Ambrose, moving in closer, fists clenched. ‘Mess with me and I’ll soon sort you out.’

‘First slander and now threats,’ trumpeted Bedford. ‘What a charmless bunch of no brainers this “Save the Pavilions” brigade is turning out to be.’

‘I’m warning you, Bedford – any funny business over this Café Au Lait deal and I’ll be on to you so fast you won’t know what’s hit you.’

Councillor Bedford leered up into Piran’s face.

‘Watch. This. Space. Yokel.’

The punch was so swift it took everyone by surprise.

As Councillor Bedford sprawled on the moth-eaten tarmac, Piran, rubbing his knuckles, turned to address the wide-eyed bystanders.

‘Sorry about that. Just tidying up a bit of unwanted rubbish. I’ll do some research on the old place and see if it is worth saving.’ He turned to the Trevay Times reporter. ‘Wayne, can we count on you to dig around and find out what this little shit’ – he pointed at a winded Councillor Bedford, who had picked himself up and was now tentatively checking his nose for damage – ‘and his cronies are up to.’

Wayne grinned and gave him the thumbs up. ‘You can count on me, Piran. Nothing like a bit of local dirt to boost circulation!’

But as soon as Bedford saw the reporter making a beeline for him, he did a sharp about turn and began trotting in the direction of his car. Wayne was immediately waylaid by Audrey Tipton, who launched into a lengthy diatribe about multinational conglomerates riding rough-shod over small communities. By the time he’d managed to extricate himself, the crowd had dispersed and there was no one left to interview. As things stood, the best he could hope for was a couple of paragraphs on page seven – or so he thought, until his photographer excitedly beckoned him over.

‘Hey, Wayne, look at this!’

Wayne leaned over his colleague’s shoulder and peered at the LCD display on the back of the camera. It showed a perfect shot of Piran’s fist connecting with Councillor Bedford’s nose. Wayne’s face lit up.