Marjorie had clearly noticed Bridie staring. Bridie saw that she had a large flask under one arm. Mabel said, ‘We brought a big flask of tea in case the coffee machine doesn’t work.’
Hannah piped up, ‘Good plan. Electricity might not work.’
‘We’re going to find out soon enough,’ said Marjorie.
Bridie put all thoughts of Jack, and what might have been, to one side. As her grandad always said, there was no use crying over spilt milk. And besides, would she really have been happy with Jack, if it had meant giving up the other great love of her life – the theatre?
Bridie stopped ruminating on the past and cast her gaze around the people gathered at the theatre entrance. ‘You didn’t have to do this,’ Bridie said to them all.
‘Yes, we did,’ they all said in unison.
Hannah touched her arm, and said, ‘Remember, it takes a village …’
Bridie could feel tears welling up in her eyes. She wasn’t used to this – people helping her, believing in her.
Marjorie said, ‘We’re not just here to clean. We thought we’d all come with you for moral support.’
Bridie tried not to cry. ‘This is … a lot of moral support.’
‘You’ll need it,’ Oliver muttered, surveying the seafront theatre. ‘I’ve passed it countless times over the years, but I’ve never stopped to really look.’
Bridie sighed. ‘It’s pretty grim, isn’t it?’
Still, the sight of them – this mismatched, well-meaning group – gave her comfort. She was glad she wasn’t visiting the theatre for the first time alone after all.
The walk along the front was short, but her stomach had churned the entire way. The few times she’d been inside the old theatre, she’d been a teenager. The first time, she’d peered in through cracked glass imagining velvet curtains and applause, before she and her two friends had gained entry. Then when the theatre had reopened briefly, some time later, it had been done up a bit, but Bridie imagined in the intervening years since it had closed down again, it would have deteriorated. Now she was coming back as its … owner? Beneficiary? Accidental custodian? She still wasn’t sure why she’d been given the place.
It looked even more defeated than she remembered – its paint blistered, the sign hanging by a single rusted screw. The wind coming in off the sea made the door rattle softly, like something inside was pacing.
‘Well,’ Reggie said, leaning on a broom handle, ‘shall we storm the castle?’
The key in Bridie’s hand was heavy, old brass, the kind that fitted into locks built before anyone had invented modern security. She felt everyone watching as she slid it into the keyhole. It turned reluctantly with a long, metallic groan.
The smell hit first.
Damp. Mould. Old things quietly rotting.
She pushed the door open with difficulty, looking into the gloom. Although it was dark outside, the seafront was well-lit by street-lamps, and there were lights on in the windows of the homes and holiday lets along the promenade. She realised too late that she’d forgotten to bring something with her. ‘Has anybody brought a torch?’ She turned to find everyone standing there holding up their mobile phones.
‘Oh, of course.’ Bridie covered her face from the glare, feeling quite foolish. She got out her phone and switched on the light too.
A couple of people who were passing by, walking their dogs along the promenade, stopped to look at them. Bridie raised her eyebrows. She wanted her companions to get inside before they attracted any more attention.
She pushed the door harder. Then Oliver and Joss took over and put their shoulders to the door, giving it a shove.
They discovered they’d been pushing against a mountain of flyers, local papers, and some sweet wrappers. There was even a discarded chippie paper from the local chippie; Bridie recognised the logo – a blue fish on the paper bag. Someone had posted it through the door as if the theatre was a rubbish bin.
‘I’ll sweep this lot up to start with,’ said Reggie, getting out a roll of black bin liners he’d brought with him.
‘No – wait! I want to see what they all are, in case there’s a letter addressed to the previous owner.’
Reggie looked at her. ‘Of course.’ He slapped his forehead. ‘I like your thinking. Let’s sort through it first.’
But nobody did a thing immediately. All eyes were staring around the foyer.
Dust drifted through the beams of mobile phone torches as if the place had been holding its breath for years. Torn posters peeled on the walls. The red, patterned carpet squelched slightly beneath their feet. Never a good sign, thought Bridie. The old-fashioned counter where there had once been rows of sweets and crisps, drinks, and a popcorn dispenser, were empty apart from a solitary discarded crisp packet – a brand that had been discontinued years earlier.
A gust of wind blew the pile of flyers and old newspapers around the foyer.
