Chapter Nine
True to her word, Ivy attended the meeting the next night.
She walked in just as Mr Hargreaves had proudly declared a compromise; Mr Patterson would trim his vision of a full-blown pagan ritual into a modest interpretive dance with scarves and lanterns.
In exchange, he had reassured the committee that there would be plenty of sea shanties and Cornish history to satisfy the traditionalists. Everyone was happy.
Sort of, at least. Ivy had a feeling it would only be a matter of time before another argument erupted. The rehearsal seemed … haphazard.
Ivy sat near the back, sketching rough scenery ideas in a notebook balanced on her knee, but also watching the chaos unfold.
At the front of the hall, a gaggle of kids were arguing over who should be King Arthur.
One was crying. One was attempting to abseil up the stage using the curtains.
Two were picking their noses. Mr Patterson seemed oblivious, directing a group of ten-year-olds through a silent storm dance sequence, which involved a lot of uncoordinated spinning in capes.
‘Hi!’ came a piercing voice.
Ivy turned to see Erin’s sister, Lucy.
‘They said you’re doing props,’ she said cheerfully. She thrust a piece of paper at her. ‘So here’s the list!’
Ivy took it. ‘The list?’
Lucy beamed. ‘Of everything Mr Patterson said we need by next week.’
Ivy took the sheet. It was as long as her arm and written in frantic black biro with doodles and scribbled notes. Ivy made out the words ‘stone circle’, ‘Stargazy Pie’, ‘giant mackerel’, ‘trident?’ and ‘shoal of fish’.
‘Shoal of fish?’ Ivy asked.
‘Oh yes,’ said Mr Hargreaves, rushing past. ‘Mr Patterson needs those for the set piece with Tom Bawcock. He’s envisioning hundreds, cascading down on to the stage in different colours.’
Ivy looked at the stage, where a child had just tripped over a lobster trap. ‘This is a lot of work,’ she said, ‘for one person and some papier-maché.’
Lucy nodded solemnly. ‘That’s what Mr Hargreaves said. But he also says you’re a genius.’
As the meeting dissolved into disarray, Ivy began to curse her mum for signing her up to this nightmare.
From what she could overhear, the show was a classic Mr Hargreaves shambles in the making, with a confusing script, hordes of unfocused children and competing ideas. It was only a matter of time before another argument kicked off.
The next afternoon, Josie decided that the shop still didn’t look nearly sparkly enough.
She staggered in with a huge bag full of holly and silvery winter branches and insisted they strew it around the shop, before covering every available surface in fairy lights.
She also found an old record and set it to play in the corner, cranking out crackling, warbling tunes.
By the time they had smothered the shop in foliage to Josie’s satisfaction, it was time for another Story-time Adventure.
The Sunday session was always packed and Trip was out hiking with Brooke so she couldn’t even delegate to him.
Ivy read stories until her throat was hoarse.
The theme was fairies and sparkle, and she couldn’t have felt less sparkly as she worked her way through a big book of fairy tales.
When she was done, Ivy staggered into the kitchen for a break and to call Raye.
‘Why didn’t I get a job back in Truro?’ she croaked to Raye down the phone as she splashed tepid coffee into another stupid pun cup. This one showed a cat wearing a flapper headdress and smoking a cigarette, with The Great Catsby spelled out in theatre lights. ‘I blame you.’
‘Me?’ said Raye, sounding remarkably unbothered. She was clearly walking outside, somewhere windy. ‘How is this my fault?’
‘You told me the shop would be a breeze – well it’s not.
There are hundreds of Kathleen Lee fans here on a daily basis, taking selfies of themselves with glass bottles.
And this Fox Bay show! It’s sucking the lifeblood from me.
’ She sighed, looking around the little kitchen, at the inspirational quotes stuck to the walls, Josie’s signed photo of some random 70s Russian poet.
‘Do you ever question, like, all your life choices?’
‘Well, aren’t you a ray of sunshine these days?’ Raye said. Ivy could hear voices in the background and snatches of laughter. ‘Cheer up. The tourists and Kathleen fans will get bored of Wildest Dreams soon and the shop will calm down. What are Josie’s guests like?’
‘Weird,’ said Ivy, lowering her voice. ‘Like, very weird.’
‘How? They can’t be weirder than that tantric couple.’
‘It’s this guy and his sister. She’s some sort of driven exec type with a shadowy job who barely says two words and he’s …’ Ivy trailed off, trying to think how best to describe Trip. ‘He’s like, insanely cheerful.’
‘Okay.’
‘You don’t understand. It’s exhausting,’ whispered Ivy.
‘He’s relentlessly positive. He does yoga every morning.
His entire wardrobe is expensive knitwear, like he’s starring in a Cornish drama.
He’s constantly bringing people coffee and – and being nice,’ she finished. ‘And his name is Trip. Trip! Really?’
‘Sounds terrible,’ drawled Raye. ‘Listen, I’ve got something to tell you that will cheer even you up.’
‘Go on.’
‘Mum and Dad are determined I’m coming home for this show – it’s all they can talk about, you know how intense everyone gets about Mr Hargreaves’s productions – so I’ll see you in a few weeks. Then you can meet Cleo.’
‘She’s coming here?’ said Ivy, faltering. Raye, partner-in-crime Raye, fellow loner Raye, had a girlfriend serious enough to bring home for the holidays?
‘Yeah!’ Raye’s voice was happy. ‘She’s dying to see where I grew up. I’ve told her loads about you and Fox Bay and all the bizarro traditions. I can’t wait for you to meet. I know you’re going to love her.’
‘I’m sure,’ said Ivy. So she could feel like a loser around her best friend too. Fabulous. ‘You sound very cheerful.’
‘I am,’ said Raye. ‘The sun is out, which is pretty special in Glasgow. I’ve just eaten a vegan sausage roll the size of my head. The vintage shops are all open. And Cleo and I are going to a gig tonight. It’s that band we were meant to see last month, only we ended up going to this club …’
Ivy wedged the phone under her ear and poured yet more coffee as her friend chattered on about her uni exploits. When had Raye, her moody, quirky, fellow weirdo become so … chill? Another person having an amazing time at uni?
Just then, she heard a chorus of shrieks from next door, louder than usual, interrupting Raye’s story of yet another fun night.
‘Sorry, Raye, I’ve got to go, the children are either killing each other or something worse. Speak soon.’
She hung up and burst into the kids’ area to discover that Story-time had, somehow, turned into Sales-time, thanks to Liv and her best friend Bethie’s entrepreneurial zeal.
They had taken up positions by the door and were corralling unsuspecting customers with festive tickets and hand-drawn posters for the show.
Notes exchanged hands and Josie looked on benevolently.
‘Please come to our show?’ said Liv, smiling winningly at a customer. ‘It represents Cornish culture. With stories and song and dance. And maybe some smugglers.’
‘It’s to save the library,’ Bethie was telling a smart woman in a Barbour, rattling a Quality Street tin. ‘You like books, right? The library has books.’
Trip, appearing in the doorway in another expensive-looking jumper, dropped a tenner into their tin. His sister, elegant in her yoga gear, stood next to him. ‘Look at you two,’ he said fondly. ‘You’re like tiny entrepreneurs.’
‘Mr Hargreaves told us to seize any opportunity to sell,’ Liv said determinedly. ‘And Story-time seemed like an opportunity. “A captive audience”, that’s what he said.’
At the front counter, Ivy wiped the sticky marks off the glass. Why were children so sticky? she wondered.
‘It’s very sparkly in here,’ said Brooke, glancing around at the foliage and lights. ‘Very Hallmark. I like it.’ Her gaze narrowed and her tone became businesslike. ‘Ivy. I’ve been wanting to talk to you.’
‘I’ve been right here,’ said Ivy. ‘Literally nowhere else to go.’ I wish, she thought.
‘You’re a proper Fox Bay local, right?’
‘Right,’ said Ivy. ‘Because my mum has terrible taste in men and unfortunately most of them seemed to live in Cornwall.’
‘That,’ said Brooke, ‘is more information than I wanted. But if you want to make a bit of extra cash, I’ve got a proposition for you.’
‘Okay,’ said Ivy cautiously. She’d already been burned by getting signed up to the show without her knowledge and she didn’t really have any free time now. Still, the thought of extra cash was tempting. ‘What is it?’
‘I’d like you to be my tour guide,’ Brooke said briskly.
She pulled out her iPhone and flipped it round to show Ivy her notes app.
‘I wanted to see some Cornish sights but I’ve done all the standard stuff and you mentioned that Fox Bay has secret things.
I’m wondering whether Fox Bay is an untapped resource – more hidden things like that lighthouse, for instance. ’
Ivy thought for a moment, casting her mind over all that Fox Bay had to offer.
‘The lighthouse up on the cliffs is worth seeing. The Mariner’s Arms is meant to be an old smugglers’ pub – you can see the hidden cellar where they stashed their whisky.
Seal Island is pretty special – you can only get there by boat.
There’s a little cove round the bay, where locals swim as it’s quiet.
It’s where the Kathleen Lee book launch was held. ’
Brooke shook her head. ‘See? I knew I needed a local’s knowledge. This is exactly what I’m looking for. I’ll pay you to show me around. Like a real tour guide. The more picturesque, the better.’
‘Fox Bay does do picturesque well,’ said Ivy. ‘I’ll check when I’m next—’
‘I was thinking tomorrow at seven,’ said Brooke. ‘We could hike up to the lighthouse as soon as it gets light.’
‘7 a.m.?’ asked Ivy, bewildered. ‘Why do we—’
Just then, the bell over the door jingled and Mr Hargreaves burst in, silk scarf askew, looking windblown and utterly frantic.
‘Ivy! Thank goodness. Why aren’t you replying on the WhatsApp?’
‘I muted it,’ Ivy told him frankly. ‘Why?’
‘Have you seen your mother? I’ve looked everywhere. No one is answering their phones.’
‘Well, it is a Sunday,’ Ivy said. ‘People have lives, lie-ins. At least that’s what I hear. What’s happened? A theatrical emergency?’
She was joking, but Mr Hargreaves only flapped his hands anxiously.
‘Yes! It’s Mr Patterson. He’s in hospital!
Appendicitis, poor thing! He can’t direct the show and the committee’s in absolute bits.
No one has that level of experience, no one can make sense of his script.
Half of it is written in Kernewek. And his show is so ambitious! We might have to cancel—’
Ivy heard a loud gasp and turned to see Liv, looking as though someone had died. Her eyes filled instantly with tears.
‘Cancel?’ Liv whispered. ‘But we sold seventy-seven pounds and fifty pence worth of tickets today!’
Bethie also looked horrified. ‘What about the giant Cornish pasty Fin was going to make? He’s been practising for weeks. He said we might get into the Guinness Book of Records!’
Ivy looked at their stricken little faces and turned back to Mr Hargreaves. ‘Hang on, you’re going to cancel the show? Because one teacher has appendicitis? That seems a bit dramatic.’
‘No one else has the experience,’ Mr Hargreaves wailed. ‘We need someone who knows theatre and staging and lighting and—’
‘I’ve been to theatre camp!’ Trip piped up.
Everyone turned to look at him.
‘Oh no,’ Ivy breathed. ‘Trip, save yourself. Don’t do it.’
‘Theatre camp?’ said Mr Hargreaves, taking an eager step forward, trembling. ‘Tell me more, young man.’
‘Every summer.’ Trip began to tick off his credentials on his fingers. ‘Full musicals, blocking, props, ensemble management. I can work a fog machine. And I’ve been CRB and DBS checked because I toured with an international youth world music group two summers ago.’
Fragile hope dawned on Mr Hargreaves’s face. ‘You – you could direct? At such short notice?’
‘I’d love to,’ Trip said, without a flicker of hesitation. ‘Be my honour.’
Liv screamed, launched herself at Trip like a small hurricane in fairy wings, and hugged him. Bethie applauded. Mr Hargreaves mopped his brow. Brooke let out a small, weary sigh as though this was entirely to be expected.
Ivy gripped Trip’s arm and pulled him aside.
‘You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into,’ she hissed.
‘The people of Fox Bay are fairly deranged at the best of times, but this play has sent them over the edge. You’ve seen how stressful it all is.
No one can agree on anything. This show is like one walking red flag. ’
He grinned down at her. ‘Hey, someone’s got to save the show.’ He looked past her at where Bethie and Liv were jumping up and down, the coins in their tins rattling. ‘Look at them. They’re so happy.’
Ivy dragged a hand down her face. ‘You’re meant to be on holiday.’
‘Seriously, Ivy, this will be fun for me. I like a project. I get bored doing nothing.’
Ivy turned pleadingly to Brooke, who was watching them with wry amusement. ‘Tell him not to,’ she implored. ‘They’ll eat him alive. These people need a firm hand, not Mr Nice-and-Enthusiastic.’
Brooke shrugged. ‘Don’t underestimate Trip,’ she said. ‘He once stage-managed Les Misérables in the Santa Cruz mountains with a cast of ten-year-olds, two cats and a budget of fifty dollars. The play is in good hands, Ivy.’
Ivy groaned. ‘Don’t do it, Trip,’ she repeated.
But Mr Hargreaves was already outlining the rehearsal schedule while messaging the WhatsApp chat the good news, Trip was rapidly taking notes on the back of a receipt and Liv and Bethie were loudly and tunelessly practising their big Arthurian number.
It seemed like the show would go on after all, Ivy thought.
She only hoped that Trip wouldn’t be broken in the process.