Chapter 10
The sea mist hung low as Bridie walked along the promenade, gulls crying overhead.
Waves broke against the sea wall with rhythmic indifference.
Every landmark carried a memory: the beach hut in Aldeburgh where she’d first kissed Jack – they hadn’t known who it belonged to but had discovered someone had failed to lock the padlock.
The two teenagers had taken refuge inside from a sudden downpour as they’d walked hand in hand along the promenade during what had started as a lovely Sunday in spring time.
She remembered the month – it was Easter, and an April shower.
Drenched, they’d tried each beach hut, not expecting to find one open.
She hadn’t been there for years. When she occasionally visited her parents, she didn’t tend to venture to the coast, although it wasn’t far.
That had partly been Julian’s fault. He didn’t like the coast, especially the east coast with its biting easterly wind.
That wasn’t fair. It was true there was an easterly wind, but it wasn’t always harsh or ‘biting’ as he called it. In hindsight, she realised it had just been an excuse not to prolong their trips down to see her parents by visiting the nearby towns.
She’d always vowed that the next time, she’d visit her parents on her own.
She sighed as she stared out to sea, berating herself as she thought, you should be very careful what you wish for.
She was also thinking how you never knew what life was about to throw at you.
It had taken a break-up to bring her back to her favourite town on the Suffolk Coast with its shingle beach, fishing boats, little huts on the beach selling the fresh catch of the day, and the lovely old three- and four-storey townhouses, painted in different pastel colours, fronting the cosy promenade.
Bridie continued walking until she neared her favourite building of all. She was disappointed to find that it was still closed but was not really surprised. The Little Theatre by the Sea. She stared at the small venue. There was one stage inside.
She wondered what condition the interior was in.
If the outside was anything to go by, with its peeling paint and rotting windows, there was no hope of it reopening as a theatre any time soon.
It made her wonder if there would even be a demand for a theatre there.
She supposed the fact that nobody had stepped inside to revive it for so many years answered her question.
She recalled going exploring with Jack and Oliver one Saturday night for want of anything better to do. They’d discovered a stage door at the back with a broken lock and had ventured inside.
She had the impulse now to walk down the little alleyway between the cottage next door and the theatre and see if that door was still unlocked. Of course, she did no such thing. She was an adult now, not some teenager mucking around.
The memory of her outburst on the stage made the colour rise to her cheeks.
That wasn’t the behaviour of an adult. Still, she wasn’t going to make things worse for herself by getting caught breaking and entering, or, if the door was unlocked, trespassing.
She could just see something bad happening.
She pictured herself falling over something and having an accident in there.
That hadn’t happened when she’d ventured inside with Jack and Oliver.
But something else had. She recalled standing on that stage, the floor covered in dust, the curtains full of cobwebs.
Despite those things, she’d known for the first time in her life that it was where she belonged – in the theatre, and if she had any talent, on the stage.
It was where her second love affair begun, the one that had ultimately ended her first – with Jack – when she’d left for London at eighteen.
She stayed standing outside the theatre, wondering where her life would be now if, back then, Jack hadn’t watched videos about urban exploring and come up with the stupid idea to explore the old, closed-up theatre.
Perhaps she would never have joined the drama club.
Perhaps she would never have gone to live with her grandad in London, breaking up with Jack in the process.
Maybe she’d have stayed in Suffolk, married Jack, and bought a little cottage with a garden just like her parents.
But she hadn’t wanted that life. Not back then.
She hadn’t seen Jack for years, and the odd time she had bumped into Oliver when she’d visited her parents, he had been reluctant to bring up the subject of Jack. But then, so had she.
She shook her head. She remembered joining the theatre club at school, the same high school her niece now attended, but apart from the small school hall there had been nowhere to stage plays.
And then miraculously The Little Theatre by the Sea had reopened.
She didn’t remember who had come to its rescue.
She didn’t think anybody really knew. But its reopening had been short-lived.
‘Shame about the theatre, isn’t it?’ A stranger’s voice interrupted her reverie.
She turned to find a tall, slim older man standing next to her.
He wore a knee-length raincoat over his dark trousers, black shirt and waistcoat.
His rainbow-coloured, knitted scarf stood out against his dark clothing: She took in his dyed blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, accentuating his thin, angular face.
Bright blue eyes stared at her, making her feel self-conscious.
‘Yes. I was just reminiscing,’ said Bridie truthfully.
‘You look … familiar,’ he said.
Bridie inwardly groaned. Oh, god. He’s seen me online, embarrassing myself on stage.
She’d known it would happen – everyone was on the internet, even older people.
She just hadn’t expected to have to deal with it so soon.
It was why she’d avoided walking around the village where her parents lived.
But she hadn’t expected the first person she spoke to in Aldeburgh to remind her.
‘Weren’t you in a high school play that was staged here before the theatre closed down again?’
‘Oh – that.’ Bridie breathed the biggest sigh of relief. ‘You’ve got a good memory.’ She wondered if he had children. He was around her dad’s age. Perhaps they’d been in the production too. She asked, ‘Did you have children in the play too?’
‘No. No children.’
She saw his expression change. It wasn’t just women who might have regrets if they’d never had kids. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.’
‘No, don’t be sorry. It’s just a question.’
She could tell by his expression, though, that it was a sore point.
She was still surprised that he remembered her. She said again, ‘You’ve got a good memory.’
‘You remind me of someone …’
Before she had a chance to ask, he added, ‘Look – it’s you …’ He pointed.
There in the alcove outside the theatre was a display case and an old poster for a play. It was tattered and yellowed, but you could still see a photo of the cast. Bridie hadn’t really noticed until he pointed it out. ‘Oh! Well, that’s embarrassing – that was me fifteen years ago.’
The big, knitted hat hadn’t worked out for trying to go incognito, Bridie realised, taking it off.
‘You haven’t aged much. I recognised you straight off.’
Bridie wasn’t sure whether to take that as a compliment or not. She knew she should. She was just sensitive about the fact that she felt like she’d regressed by staying back in her old teenage bedroom.
‘Did I say something wrong?’ he asked.
Bridie slapped a smile on her face for his benefit. ‘Not at all.’
He turned to the theatre. ‘I recall that I was so excited back then when I found out the theatre was reopening. I bought a ticket to support the show, hoping it would reopen for good.’ He sighed. ‘It was a good production. I remember you. You were really, really good.’
Bridie wanted very much to wind the conversation down and leave before he asked what she did for a living now. She could tell now that he had not seen her all over social media.
He said, ‘Strange business.’
‘What was?’ Bridie asked.
‘The theatre reopening suddenly, then closing equally suddenly again.’
‘Yeah – maybe whoever it was ran out of money. They must have been subsidising the school performance. It costs a lot to run a theatre.’ Bridie remembered that her school year, when she was in the final year of sixth form, was the only one that had got to put on a performance in a real theatre.
It might not have done the theatre owner any favours, but it had done wonders for her future.
Nobody had been aware that during the performance, there had been a budding London producer in the audience – and of course, Bridie had not known he would become her fiancé.
If she’d known at the time that a London producer was sitting in the theatre, talent-scouting, her anxiety during her performance would have been through the roof because of how badly she’d wanted an opportunity to act on the stage.
Fresh out of college, with a new job with a London theatre, Julian’s remit had been to find new talent. Young talent. He’d found her. Just four years her senior, but with a wealth of experience, and a degree, he had talent-spotted her. The rest, Bridie thought sadly, was history.
Her career on the stage was certainly history now.
‘I must be off now,’ the man said, cutting across her thoughts. ‘I often stop outside the theatre on my walk and reminisce.’
Reminisce? Bridie looked at him. ‘You knew this theatre before it reopened when I was in high school?’
‘Oh, yes. This theatre and I go way back.’
Bridie was about to ask him more when the heavens opened. He said, ‘Oh, typical. Well, that’s my cue to get going. Best be off, otherwise my customers might wonder where I am.’
‘Your customers?’