Chapter Twenty-Two
‘Has anyone seen Arthur’s crown?’ Liv shrieked, standing on a chair in full tinfoil chainmail. ‘I literally just had it. It was on the prop table two seconds ago!’
‘It’s on the lighting board,’ called Bethie-as-Mordred from the wings, rustling in her own armour. ‘You put it there when you were dancing to Dua Lipa earlier. Hurry! We can’t duel if you haven’t got your crown.’
‘Right.’ Liv hopped off the chair and began pushing her way through the crowd. ‘Out the way, people. King coming through.’
Ivy ducked as a tiny Lancelot with ginger plaits ran past her, holding a wooden shield.
She lugged the stone into place and carefully ensured the sword was wedged tightly enough to be convincing when Liv pulled it free, but not so tightly that it never emerged at all.
The smell of hairspray filled the air and, somewhere near the dressing rooms, the guising band were loudly tuning up.
Amidst the discordant chorus of fiddles, concertinas, tin whistles, euphoniums and flutes, Ivy could discern the squeaky opening of Joy To the World.
‘Is it meant to sound like that?’ Ivy asked no one in particular.
‘They’ll get there,’ said Callum, bustling through with a sheaf of sheet music. ‘They just need to warm up a bit.’
To her right, Trip was talking to a Year 4 with stage fright, getting him to breathe in and out.
‘You’re going to be great,’ he said soothingly, his hands on the boy’s shoulders. ‘Just remember, you’ve got this. Remember to breathe. Remember to project.’
‘Thank goodness you’re back, dear boy,’ Mr Hargreaves said, hurrying past with a handful of reserved tickets. ‘I have to admit, I was starting to worry earlier. I wasn’t sure what we’d have done without you.’
Trip glanced over his shoulder and gave his usual sunny smile. ‘No need to worry, Mr H,’ he said. He caught Ivy’s eye. ‘I wouldn’t have missed this for the world.’
With Trip’s return, the atmosphere had swiftly been downgraded from borderline hysterical to a controlled chaos.
Beautiful, glue-encrusted, poster-paint-spattered, cobbled-together-with-masking-tape chaos.
And Ivy loved it. It reminded her of all the art shows she had put on over the years.
Dusty clothes, hair shoved up into a messy bun, paint under her nails, on her hands and knees adding last-minute detail; fixing, gluing, sewing.
She had forgotten how much fun this was.
‘You look … happy,’ said Erin, hurrying past with a basket full of toy pistols. She paused to rest it on her hip and study Ivy. ‘It’s very off-brand.’
‘I know,’ said Ivy, getting to her feet and dusting off her knees. ‘I’ve been trying to open myself up a bit.’ She paused, smiling shyly at Erin. ‘A – a friend told me things could get a bit lonely otherwise.’
Erin smiled back. ‘That’s what friends are for,’ she said.
‘To deliver the occasional home truth. You don’t get your artist card revoked for loosening up a bit, Ivy.
’ She nodded across the room, to where Trip was now adjusting the waistcoats, wigs and flowing shirts of the Fleetwood Mac tribute band.
He looked completely in his element – focused, cheek smudged with paint, sleeves rolled up.
‘Glad you found him,’ she said, with a wink, and carried on.
Ivy and Trip’s eyes met. It kept happening – as she hauled scenery into place, fixed paper crowns and hemmed robes. And each time he gave her his excited grin.
Then Trip glanced at the clock and hopped on to an upturned crate, cupping his hands over his mouth. ‘All right, people!’ he called. ‘Places, please! This is not a drill! We are starting in TEN!’
The children began to scurry to their places, led by various members of the show committee. They had rehearsed this yesterday and Ivy, shepherding a cluster of mermen, couldn’t help but think it was going relatively smoothly. Until—
‘WHERE IS MERLIN?’ screamed Mr Hargreaves. ‘Why does he keep disappearing like this? Why does—’
‘I’m RIGHT HERE,’ announced eight-year-old Merlin, emerging from a broom cupboard wearing a long silver robe and what looked suspiciously like a towel tied round his neck for a beard. He was rubbing his eyes. ‘I was meditating. Josie said it would help with stage fright.’
‘You were sleeping,’ said Mr Hargreaves crossly. ‘I distinctly heard snoring. Now, go and join Morgana.’
Ivy did a last-minute check on her backdrops.
The pretty streets of 1970s Redruth. The barn for the folk dancing.
The windswept Bodmin moor, where Jamaica Inn stood, sign blowing, dark secrets hidden within.
The earthen mound for the wrestling display.
Tintagel Castle, where King Arthur was born.
Dozmary Pool, where the lady in the lake would emerge with Excalibur.
The mighty stone with Caliburn buried inside.
Finally, the castle with a little beach below, where Arthur would meet his fate.
At that last one, she stepped back and looked at the finishing touches she’d added that morning. It was subtle, but she hoped it was enough. A little surprise for Trip.
Okay, so maybe she was being ridiculous because Trip was about to leave Fox Bay and she would never know what might have been between them. But then she recalled her tutor’s words: find what you care about. At least, in some way, Ivy had done that – even if it was painted on cardboard.
She ducked behind a curtain and looked out at the hall.
The audience had begun eagerly filtering in before the official start time, coats bundled over arms, cheeks pink from the cold.
They took their seats on folding chairs – some borrowed from the library, others from the Driftwood Café.
The front row had already been claimed by the early birds.
Ivy dropped the curtain and wove her way through the people backstage until she found Trip, eyes on the actors lining up. ‘How are you feeling?’ she asked.
Trip bit his lip, looking around at the nervous children, clutching their wooden swords and pistols, their folk instruments and guitars. ‘I hope they’ll be okay,’ he said.
‘They’ll be great,’ Ivy told him, and she meant it. ‘They’re ready, thanks to you. This is your moment of glory. Enjoy it.’
He smiled. ‘Thanks. You go and watch from the wings and I’ll see you on the other side.’
Ivy watched the audience take their seats. Ynez the postie had somehow snagged a seat in the centre of the front row. ‘Had to sprint,’ Ivy could hear her telling people. She nodded proudly towards the stage. ‘Grandson’s an exciseman.’
Ivy’s mum had also wangled a front-row seat and was talking animatedly to Fin, who was holding a large Tupperware container of gingerbread, and Josie, who was showing her pictures of the campsite she and Fin had booked in Italy next summer.
Simi was holding Lou’s hand as Kate clambered over their knees.
Tamsin was clutching a tiger’s eye crystal for good luck and Mr Trenwith took up an entire four seats with his camera equipment, bickering with his wife over lighting settings.
There were toddlers wriggling on laps, visiting students pretending they weren’t excited, and at least three dogs who had snuck in with their owners and were now curled up under chairs.
Brooke, stylish even in a puffer coat with windblown hair, slipped in and walked past the stage to her seat. Ivy stuck her head out from behind the curtain and waved to her.
‘It’s going to be great,’ Brooke called. Her gaze landed on Trip, who could just be seen making a last-minute adjustment to the smoke machine, then she looked back to Ivy. ‘Glad we got him here?’
‘Yeah,’ said Ivy. ‘I really am.’
Mr Hargreaves beamed and gave them an excitable thumbs up, practically bouncing up and down in his chair.
The room was buzzing with that particular warmth that Ivy associated with Fox Bay events.
She could hear whispers all around. ‘Looks all right this year, doesn’t it?
’ ‘Bethie’s getting to kill Arthur at the end.
’ ‘Do you think they’ll make it to the end this time? ’
Ivy couldn’t help but smile. This loyal audience kept on doggedly showing up, year after year, no matter how disastrous Mr Hargreaves’s last show had been.
There came a sudden burst of energy near the side doors and she heard someone shrieking ‘IVY!’ and a blur of purple hair and leopard print hurtled into view.
‘Raye!’ cried Ivy, waving frantically. ‘You made it!’
Raye hurtled down the hall towards the stage, her coat flapping behind her like a cape, dragging a tall, elegant girl in leggings in her wake.
Ivy scrambled down and hurried over. ‘We literally drove straight here from Cleo’s ballet recital,’ she said, talking fast. ‘She got a standing ovation and did a solo. So, you know, this has a lot to live up to. Oh.’ Raye went slightly pink and pointed to the girl standing next to her.
‘Ivy, this is Cleo, Cleo this is Ivy. You literally have to like each other, I can’t handle it any other way. ’
Cleo, breathless and amused-looking, held out her hand. She looked effortlessly cool, with cropped hair and red lipstick. But, Ivy thought, eyeing her as they shook hands, her expression was fond as she looked at Raye.
‘Hi,’ Cleo said, with a Scottish accent. ‘You must be the famous Ivy. I’ve heard a lot about you.’
‘I’ve heard a lot about you. And I can’t believe you came all this way,’ said Ivy. ‘That’s far.’
‘Well, I thought it sounded so romantic here,’ said Cleo. ‘If a bit weird, to be honest.’
‘Yup,’ said Raye cheerfully. ‘I told Cleo that Fox Bay is the cultural beating heart of the southwest. And that Mr H’s shows are guaranteed to be memorable at least.’
‘There’s nothing like a bit of winter weirdness,’ Cleo said, smiling at Raye. ‘Or a bit of winter romance either.’
Romance and weirdness. That was Fox Bay all over, Ivy thought. She hugged Raye again before she could stop herself. ‘God, it’s good to see you,’ she whispered into her friend’s shoulder.