‘Just because something is small, doesn’t make it unimportant,’ Trip said firmly. ‘Look at Cassatt, Morisot, Emin. Kids in the bath, an unmade bed. That’s life too, isn’t it?’
This time, Ivy stayed quiet.Just because something is small, doesn’t make it unimportant.She could feel something – a prickle of interest that said this was worth investigating.
‘I’ll think about it,’ she said at last. They walked on. She imagined sketching these cobbled streets, shining under the streetlights. Old Bill folding up the rope that would never be used. Fin’s silhouette as he moved around his silent bakery …
Her phone beeped and she fumbled for it. ‘It’s your sister,’ she said, reading the curt text. ‘She’s hell bent on us seeing Seal Island tomorrow morning and she’s persuaded Kate to take us out before work on Old Bill’s boat.’ She sighed. ‘Why the suddeninterest in the meagre sights of Fox Bay and why is it always soearly? Is Brooke’s approach to every holiday so organised?’
‘I think she’s just enthusiastic about Cornwall,’ said Trip, but she noticed he didn’t meet her eye. ‘Hey, is that the hall?’
The glow of the town hall lights appeared ahead, and the unmistakable sound of small children shrieking drifted towards them.
‘Brace yourself,’ Ivy said. ‘If you think Fox Bay is magical and idyllic, you’re in for a rude awakening. Things are going to get real, fast. And by real I mean feral and maybe a bit scary.’ She thought for a moment. ‘We should have a signal.’
‘A signal?’ said Trip, the corners of his mouth lifting in a smile.
‘Yeah, like if you can’t take it any more and you need me to get you out of there, stat. I can fake an emergency with the best of them. Or trigger the fire alarm.’ She thought. ‘How aboutlighthouse. You say that and I know it’s time to scram.’
Trip beamed. ‘Excellent. Lighthouse it is. Not that I’ll need it. Come on Ivy, have some faith.’ He nudged her. ‘Let’s make theatre.’
The old town hall smelled as it always did; of varnished wood, instant coffee, biscuits and a hint of damp. Ivy knew that smell from childhood. The playgroups she had attended as a toddler and then the countless bake sales and school shows that had taken place here over the years. She knew the battered plastic chairs, the thick, faded red velvet curtains and the temperamental trapdoor in the floor of the stage that had once catapulted Ivy into darkness during a primary school nativity. The space where the audience would sit in only a couple of short weeks had been cleared; a tuneless upright piano sat off to one side. Other than that, it was hard to imagine a show taking place here at all.
Ivy slunk in behind Trip, taking in the scene. There was Mr Trenwith (cargo trousers and all) talking loudly and gesturing angrily at the script. Kids scurried about, one shaking a tambourine, another tangled in a fishing net. A group of parents sat on the stage, drinking coffee from Styrofoam cups and idly chatting, clearly tuning out the whole mess. Mr Hargreaves pleaded with everyone for silence and was roundly ignored. Pages of the script were scattered like leaves in the wind. Liv,Bethie and their friends were sitting on a ladder, watching with wide eyes.
‘Look at this,’ said Trip, sounding genuinely thrilled. ‘This is great.’
‘Is it?’ whispered Ivy. ‘It looks like this is one step away fromLord of the Flies.’
Trip shook his head firmly. ‘They just need direction. Don’t worry, Ivy. I thrive on chaos.’
Ivy took in a child hitting one of the parents around the ankles with a wooden spade and another eating what she thought was papier-mâché from a bucket. ‘Then it looks like you’re in for a treat.’
Mr Hargreaves saw them and scuttled over, hands outstretched. ‘I’m so glad you’re here,’ he said, casting a hunted look over his shoulder. ‘Mr Trenwith says the twins needmorelines, but they already have the bulk of the dialogue. And two of the seagulls are off sick. The folk band are refusing to work under these conditions. And—’
A shrill whistle rang out and the crowd, startled, fell silent. Trip clapped his hands loudly. ‘Quiet, everyone,’ he called, a note of authority in his voice that Ivy had not yet heard. ‘Now, my name is Trip –’ he ignored the chorus of sniggers from the older kids – ‘and I’m going to be taking the reins while Mr Patterson is in hospital. I have a lot of experience with community theatre –’ Ivy saw the dull-eyed parents look up with interest – ‘and I’ve familiarised myself with the concept. Interesting stuff. I know that we can pull this into a great show.’
‘In less than two weeks?’ called one of the parents.
‘Absolutely,’ said Trip firmly. He dug a huge ring-bound folder out of his backpack, stuffed with paper. ‘Mr Hargreaves has given me a copy of the working script and, in my opinion, we have the makings of a hit on our hands. We just need to work together and, er, make some adjustments.’ There was a flurry of murmurs and he held up a hand, again with such authority that everyone fell silent. ‘But before we doanything, we need to go back to basics. Get to know each other.’ He pointed to Mr Trenwith. ‘Can you help Mr H carry this table into the centre of the room? And you guys,’ he pointed at Bethie and Liv, ‘bring some chairs.’ He smiled around at them all. ‘We’re going to start with a table-read.’
It turned out that Ivy shouldn’t have worried. Trip had, naturally, been a hit.
Less than three minutes into the table-read, he had gently interrupted the painfully shy second lobster’s inaudible monologue with his first tactful, encouraging suggestion. He had slashed seven pages of exposition about the rock formation of Cornwall. Then he had suggested shifting the mermaid chorus to the start, thrilling the Year 4s and, when he added that the smugglers should enter accompanied by claps of lightning, there was a round of applause. He was authoritative, decisive, tactful. It was a whole new Trip that Ivy hadn’t seen before.
Ivy, listening in while painting a stormy backdrop, could practically feel the hall draw a collective sigh of relief at being in safe hands at last. Mr Hargreaves nodded enthusiasticallyevery time Trip spoke. Even Mr Trenwith seemed to decompress, especially when the twins were allotted the key roles of narrator. The PTA parents, previously bristling with competing agendas and what appeared to be decades of barely hidden grudges, softened. The Year 5 boys, who had sat through everything so far with crossed arms and expressions of utter disdain, were soon animatedly explaining the rules of Cornish wrestling to him, basking in his genuine interest.
About half an hour in, Ivy noticed the door opening and Mei sticking her head round it, followed by Erin and Callum. ‘Hiya!’ Mei said tentatively. ‘Is it still okay to come in?’
‘Sure!’ said Trip, bounding over and ushering them inside. ‘Come in! Everyone, this is Callum, Mei and Erin. They’re going to be joining us on the backstage team.’ He produced a sheet of paper. ‘I’ve got your spec here. Callum, all the sound tech is over there in the corner and the Year Fives are up for helping. Mei, here’s the script and the lighting cues. And Erin, I thought you could vet this for historical accuracy?’ He squinted at the script. ‘I’m not sure this bit about King Arthursurfingto victory can be right?’
As they went off to their respective corners of the hall, Ivy, who had been staring open-mouthed, turned to glare at Trip.
‘What are they doing here?’ she asked.
‘What?’ he said, shrugging. ‘I asked them to come. They seemed keen the other night. I thought it would be nice for us all to hang out.’
It felt like all of Fox Bay was getting involved. Even Simi turned up halfway through with a tray of sausage rolls ‘for thecreative team,’ she said. ‘I told Lou to hold off on the carrots this time. I don’t know what’s got into her. Her tastebuds are all over the shop these days.’
Ivy, painting on the sidelines but unable to resist watching, began to feel a tingle of optimism as the rehearsal unfolded. Somewhere, underneath the confusion, she could sense Trip pulling it all together. Yes, it was chaotic. Yes, the show was still completely unhinged in concept. But somehow, in spite (or perhaps because of) Trip’s bizarre and boundless optimism, for the first time it was … working. Taking shape.
