Katie Ginger - The Little Theatre on the Seafront - The perfect uplifting and heartwarming read

Selena swung around and headed back to the shop and Sid looked down to find what she’d been staring at. His Star Wars T-shirt was clean on this morning and his flies were done up. Weird.

He walked on to the record shop. Selena Fleming had looked a lot different without all that weird make-up and she and Hayden clearly hadn’t lasted. It was strange how people always ended up coming home to Greenley. Sid quickened his step and thought no more of it. Nick at the record shop had put aside a rare album for him so he’d better hurry. He was due to open at any minute.

In her living room, an hour before the committee meeting, Lottie paced back and forth, forcing her nerves down until finally, she lost the battle altogether. Unable to bear the ticking of the clock and its agonising countdown any longer, she grabbed her coat and car keys and headed off. Now here she was, twenty minutes early, sitting in the main meeting room clutching her laptop, waiting for the rest of the committee to arrive.

The grand, grey stone columns of the town hall belied its rather dull interior. When the mayor was appointed, he’d refurbished it to make it a modern conference space, and as such it had lost all character and historical importance. No one used it for conferences. The only people who used it were the camera club and they hated it – and him. They never failed to tell Lottie when she covered their exhibitions or the annual general meeting that took about ten million hours and made her long for death.

Earlier that week, Sarah Powell, the committee secretary, had been less than helpful when Lottie tried to have her presentation added to the agenda, telling her that, ‘Only the chairman can approve last minute additions and Mayor Cunningham is a very busy man.’

After much negotiation, Ms Powell said she’d do her best to contact Mayor Cunningham and would let Lottie know the result. When she called back, she said with evident disdain that Mayor Cunningham had graciously made room for her on the agenda. Yippee.

In the harsh fluorescent light, Lottie took her nan’s letter from her handbag. Seeing the fragile spidery handwriting, it felt like she was there speaking to her. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing,’ Lottie said to the letter before refolding it and putting it back.

‘Miss Webster?’ asked Mayor Cunningham as he marched into the room. He was a tall man in his late forties. His balding hair had been cut close to his head, but the remains of a small island on the front of his forehead bobbed in a sea of pink flesh. It was slightly triangular shaped as if it stayed there pointing to where the rest of his hair could be found, hiding at the back. His suit was a good fit, but the cheap fabric shone in the unforgiving light, like he’d been sprinkled with glitter. An evil Liberace. Ms Powell followed close behind, a puppy at his heels.

‘You only needed to come for your agenda item, Miss Webster. You didn’t need to attend the whole meeting.’

‘Oh, sorry,’ said Lottie. She felt her neck and cheeks get hot. This wasn’t a good start.

‘I’m surprised that Ms Powell didn’t tell you that.’ Mayor Cunningham walked to the head of the table and placed his black briefcase down, unclipping the shiny brass clasps. It popped open and he pulled out some papers organised with various coloured Post-it notes.

‘I did,’ Ms Powell replied quickly.

‘I don’t think you did,’ said Lottie.

Ms Powell’s eyes shot to Mayor Cunningham, fearful of disapproval.

Lottie felt her nerves rise up and she cleared her throat. ‘I have a presentation on my laptop. Is there a projector?’ Presuming one would be all set up she began to panic at its absence. Lottie wasn’t technically minded and the prospect that should one be found she’d have to set it up herself caused her stomach to churn.

‘Ms Powell will set it up for you, if you really require it.’

‘I do,’ Lottie answered, trying to sound confident. Mayor Cunningham turned to Ms Powell and without speaking pointed to a cupboard in the corner of the room and she hurried to follow his unsaid instructions.

There was something quite unlikeable about Ms Powell, Lottie decided. She had the walk of someone who was perpetually neat and tidy and very, very efficient. Her face, which could look kindly if relaxed, was pinched and her eyes looked out at the world suspiciously. She appeared to have no sense of humour whatsoever. A perfectly smooth chin-length bob framed her face accentuating her small features.

As Lottie struggled to connect the relevant wires to her laptop, Trevor Ryman ambled in. He placed his own briefcase on the floor, brown this time, and battered, and pulled out his bundle of papers, bereft of even a single Post-it note.

‘Shall we begin?’ asked Mayor Cunningham, just as Lottie finished fiddling. She sat listening to the other agenda items with more interest than she’d expected. The theatre had a small fund that wasn’t nearly big enough to do all the work required. The building was structurally sound but needed the roof patched up and the inside needed general refurbishment before any productions could be put on. It wasn’t looking good.

‘As I’ve said before, it’s more work than a small committee and our town council can handle,’ said Mayor Cunningham. ‘I do believe the land would be better sold to provide more affordable housing. We may have to cut other services if we don’t make our budget this year and we don’t want to be the ones responsible for that.’

‘I agree,’ said Ms Powell, nodding.

‘I see what you mean,’ said Mr Ryman. ‘But I do feel we need to explore all options before we throw in the towel.’

‘I don’t see why. No one in this town would bother coming to a production, even if we could put one on,’ Mayor Cunningham replied.

Lottie, who was busy making notes in her pretty notebook, raised her head. ‘I disagree. I think people would come—’

‘Miss Webster, with all due respect this has nothing to do with you.’

But it might, thought Lottie, and carried on. ‘But look at these.’ She pulled out the programmes her nan had kept over the years and laid them on the table.

‘May I remind you, Miss Webster, that you are not a member of this committee and are here for one item only.’

Lottie simmered with annoyance but continued on regardless. ‘I realise that, Mayor Cunningham, but I think we need to acknowledge that the nearest theatre is over an hour away. I think people would come to local productions if we had decent facilities and a good programme. That’s why my nan never stopped working towards re-opening the theatre, she believed it too.’

Ms Powell stared at Lottie as if she had just walked up to Mayor Cunningham and punched him in the face. Mayor Cunningham stared at her too, unspeaking. Mr Ryman picked up the programmes and flicked through them. ‘There does seem to have been an appetite for the theatre at one point.’

‘But that was years ago,’ said the mayor, throwing the leaflet he’d picked up back into the pile. ‘Before on-demand TV and Netflix.’

‘Still, there might be an interest now.’

Lottie couldn’t help but nod. ‘The Christmas pantomimes were particularly well attended, and the summer Shakespeare. I thought we could look at doing something more modern. Something easier to understand that would appeal to even more people—’

‘Moving on,’ said the mayor, looking down at his agenda. Then his face fell. ‘Oh, Miss Webster, I see it’s your turn, anyway. And you’d like to address the committee in Mrs Elsie Webster’s place?’

‘Yes, I would,’ she said. The moment had finally arrived. Lottie stood and clicked on her presentation. It projected onto a pull-down screen at the end of the table and she slid her notes out of her folder. A surge of nerves threatened to loosen her fingers but she held firm and began.