Chapter Twenty-Two #2
‘You too,’ Raye whispered back. ‘And by the way, you sound, like, a thousand per cent happier than you did on the phone. I was getting a bit worried about you. Something or someone must have turned things around.’ She pulled back. ‘Speaking of which,’ she said, ‘did you manage to talk to Trip?’
‘I …’ Just then the lights flickered. ‘I’ll tell you later. I think it’s starting,’ Ivy said. She frowned, glancing at her watch. ‘They’re a whole two minutes early. Mr H will be freaking out.’
Someone clanged a triangle offstage and Ivy heard a muffled yelp. ‘I told you, not yet,’ someone hissed. Mei, she thought.
‘Sit down,’ hissed Ivy, climbing back on to the stage and darting back to the wings. She watched as Cleo and Raye melted into one of the rows.
‘Everything okay?’ Trip whispered, as he hurried past doing final checks.
‘Really good,’ she told him. ‘My best friend Raye made it. Er, are we ready for this?’
‘More than,’ he assured her.
‘But the triangle came in early …’
‘From this point on,’ Trip said firmly, ‘we just need to go with it.’
The murmur of the crowd quieted to a hush as the velvet curtain began to part, slowly, creakily at first – and then flew open with a loud bang.
‘Oops,’ Ivy heard Merlin whisper. ‘I think I pulled too hard.’
A banner was jerkily lowered: A (Somewhat) True History of Cornwall.
A serious-looking child in a tea-towel robe emerged from the shadows, a spotlight fixing on him as he solemnly declared, ‘We begin with Saint Piran, patron saint of Cornwall – that’s me. And also, we’ll explain how surfing made it from Peru to Perranporth.’
Three more children, all in wetsuits, came out and began to speak, their voices carrying loud and clear in the hall. The audience chuckled benevolently.
‘And now,’ the boy said, when the brief history was finished and the canvas behind him shifted to Redruth, ‘for a Fleetwood Mac medley, in honour of Mick Fleetwood’s Cornish roots.’
‘Team Stevie though,’ whispered Ivy to Trip as he sent the band on in their flowing sleeves. He laughed, as the opening chords of Go Your Own Way struck up.
The evening wore on, to regular bursts of genuine laughter and unforced applause from the audience.
There was a brief explanation of tin mining, folk dancing and a dramatic reading of Jamaica Inn (including a terrifyingly realistic depiction of the alcoholic inn owner by an utterly angelic seven-year-old called Daisy).
There was a shadowy cove made of cardboard boxes and toilet rolls and tiny smugglers wearing eye patches, swigging from bottles marked SECRET WHISKY.
The fog machine was in overdrive, with Mei going for maximum drama as instructed.
‘Great cove,’ Trip told Ivy.
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I made it myself.’
Then, after the blood-curdling theatrics there was a call and response section, in which Year 4 taught the audience certain key phrases in Kernewek to much hilarity.
After the wrestling, with the requisite audience participation – Joan from the sweetshop proving especially sprightly – it was time for Tom Bawcock’s dramatic attempt to brave the seas outside Mousehole, returning with his net full of fish, which were released to gasps from the audience on to the stage in a great, shivering shoal.
The boy playing Tom bowed while children dressed as Stargazy Pies danced in celebration.
Pushkin, reluctantly playing Tom’s cat, Mouser, looked out coldly at the audience, held in the boy’s firm grasp.
As soon as the boy set him down, Pushkin bounded into the front row and leapt on to Josie’s lap, where he glowered.
Ivy realised that Trip had joined her again and was watching, his eyes keenly following the actors. ‘Think it was worth it then?’ Ivy whispered. ‘Staying up all night making all those paper fish.’
Trip’s voice was a breath against her ear, making her shiver as he answered. ‘I think so, yeah.’
And then, Ivy knew, it was the grand finale.
The series of scenes from King Arthur’s life, from his birth at Tintagel to his death at the hands of Mordred on a Cornish beach.
Ivy prayed that the round table would hold, that the aged, gold-painted papier-maché goblets would look the part. She glanced at Trip.
‘I think you should watch this one from the audience,’ she said quietly. ‘Come on.’
He smiled down at her. ‘Okay. I think my work here is done anyway.’
Silently, they made their way down the side stairs and to the back of the hall.
The lights shifted. A hush fell. As the scene began, the backdrop fell seamlessly into place to a chorus of gratifying murmurs of amazement from the audience.
Ivy let out a sigh of relief. It was all going to plan – or at least pretty much, she thought, as Liv let out a huge sneeze that dislodged her crown.
As the actors guided the audience through the key moments from the legendary king’s life, complete with clanking armour, sloshing wine (Ribena) and dramatic declarations, Ivy found herself beaming with professional pride.
The kids were acting their hearts out, the music and sound cues were on point, the smoke machine was in full flow and, though she said so herself, the sets looked pretty damn good.
As the final backdrop fell into place with a gentle swoosh and Bethie and Liv took up their fighting stance, faces hidden by their visors, Ivy leaned forward slightly.
The beach backdrop she’d painted hung, hidden slightly in shadow, as Erin coaxed the lights to shift from sunrise to daylight, painting the hall in shades of amber.
Liv, as a valiant but slightly exasperated Arthur, declared, ‘Do your worst, traitor!’
‘Then I shall end you, Arthur,’ cried Bethie-as-Mordred. ‘Your time as king is at an end.’ They battled for a few moments in fierce silence, huffing and puffing behind their visors – then Mordred dealt the final blow.
There was a tragic silence before Merlin cleared his throat. ‘Um. Happy holidays, everyone,’ he said simply. ‘This has been fun. And now,’ he waved his hand, ‘it’s time for us to say goodbye or, as we would say in Cornish …’ He held a hand to his ear and, as one, the audience chanted back:
‘Duw genes!’
That’s when the lights came up on the backdrop that Ivy had spent the morning retouching, painting it in the rich yellows and oranges of a Cornish coastal sunset.
Her gaze flew to Trip, wondering if he would notice the additions that she had added – the white snow falling from the purple streaked sky, past the castle and on to the beach below, where it clustered in great flurries.
She’d told herself that it wouldn’t matter if Trip noticed or not.
But really, she wanted him to see and understand.
Trip leaned forward slightly, eyes scanning the backdrop, frowning. ‘Ivy,’ he whispered. ‘Did you …’
‘Wait,’ she said. ‘Just wait.’
All around them, people were applauding as the kids bowed.
Ivy took it all in – the poster paint, the wooden swords and folk dancers and squeaky instruments and kids who had acted their hearts out, their faces shining in the stage lights, basking in the praise, the cheers and whoops crashing over them.
And then, with all the cast gathered on stage, it began to snow.
Not real snow, of course. Handfuls of tiny pieces of white paper, painstakingly torn by Year 5s and stored in a bin labelled SECRET!
(DO NOT THROW AWAY!!) fluttered down like a paper blizzard, thrown by Erin and Callum up in the rafters.
It caught the light from the fairy-lit battlements, dusted the cardboard castle in glimmering white, landed on Liv’s shoulders and crowned Bethie once more.
The fans Ivy had placed in the corners blew it merrily around the hall.
The audience gasped, then applauded wildly.
The little kids shrieked and leapt off their parents’ laps, running about in front of the stage, trying to catch paper flakes on their tongues.
Trip laughed under his breath and tilted his head back to watch it fall.
The snow was catching in his hair, clinging to his cashmere jumper.
He turned to Ivy. ‘I thought you said it never snows here?’
She blushed. ‘I couldn’t let you leave without getting your dream.’
‘Snow on the beach,’ he said. He took her hand in his and squeezed. ‘Thanks. And what a show. You did it, Ivy.’
‘You did it,’ she told him. She gestured around at the hall. ‘This was all down to you. This is one for the history books – the first Fox Bay show that wasn’t an unmitigated disaster.’
Trip’s smile was open, like a kid on Christmas morning. Ivy’s chest ached, in the best way. Suddenly the town hall that smelled of sandwiches and socks, with Trip’s hand in hers and shredded paper landing on her hair, felt like the most romantic place on earth.