A Seaside Affair Read Free Page A

is, not because of his job. The Worst Vicar’s Wife in Britain – that’s me. Hey, that’s a great idea for a programme, let me write it down.’ Penny pulled out her iPhone and spent a few moments typing. When she’d finished, she couldn’t resist checking her emails. Thanks to the huge success of
Mr Tibbs
,
a series based on Mavis Carew’s popular crime novels
– filmed locally and starring Dahlia Dahling – she was being fêted by TV executives worldwide, eager to get their hands on a second series. She was also being inundated with screenplays and requests from writers and their agents, convinced that Penny Leighton Productions had the Midas touch.
    As she checked her emails, the phone rang and she answered it.
    ‘Hello, Simon. I’m in Trevay with Helen … No, I haven’t seen the paper … The local one? … OK … I’ll get it now … Why? … Oh! What do they expect you to do? … Me? … Let me look at it and then we can talk later … Love you too, bye.’
    ‘What was that about?’ asked Helen.
    ‘Something about saving the Pavilions. Let’s get a paper and I’ll buy you a coffee … maybe even a glass of vino.’
    *
    Piran Ambrose was in his office at the Trevay Museum, hurrying to finish the day’s tasks so that he could get out in his boat and catch the tide for a spot of mackerel fishing. He swore under his breath when the phone on his desk rang, his hand hovering over the receiver indeci-sively before picking up.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Piran? It’s me, Simon.’
    Piran breathed a sigh of relief. He and the vicar had been friends for many years, supporting each other through some difficult times.
    ‘Simon! Welcome home, how was the holiday with your maid?’
    ‘Simply wonderful. Marriage is to be recommended, Piran.’
    Piran decided to ignore the obvious implications in this comment. ‘How can I help you, Simon?’
    ‘It’s the Pavilions – there’s a report in the paper that the council are about to sell the place to a coffee chain. Possibly Café Au Lait.’
    ‘Good idea. The building is falling apart. It needs money spending on it, or knocking down.’
    Simon was shocked. ‘You can’t mean that? You’re our local historian – surely you of all people want to save the old place?’
    Piran put one leg up on his desk and tipped his chair back, glancing at the clock on the wall. If he didn’t get a move on he’d miss the tide. ‘It’s an eyesore, Simon. We’re not talking about some Frank Matcham theatre of distinction here. The Pavilions is a fifties, flat-roof, jerry-built dinosaur that hasn’t made any money in decades.’
    ‘But the Sea Scouts and the WI and … the Trevay Players …’
    Piran sniffed with disdain at the mention of the local amateur dramatic company.
    ‘… and the Arts and Crafts Show, and … er …’
    ‘Exactly. It’s not exactly a top-drawer venue, is it?’
    ‘Piran, please. I’ve already had emails from all sorts of people asking me to be on the board of an action committee. I thought you might want to lend us your support, maybe dig out some facts of historical importance.’
    Piran scratched his beard and pulled on the gold hoop in his ear. ‘OK. Let me think about it.’
    ‘I knew you’d help.’
    ‘Hang on, I haven’t said I’d help. I’ve said I’ll think about it.’
    The men rang off, each hoping the other would see sense. Swinging his leg off the desk and springing to his feet, Piran hurried out of his office before the phone had a chance to ring again.
    Down in the lobby, Janet, the museum receptionist, was so engrossed in her newspaper that she didn’t look up until he called, ‘Bye, Janet. I’m finished for the day. See you tomorrow.’
    ‘Piran, sorry I didn’t hear you. I was reading this –’ She held up the front page so he could read the headline:
    THE END FOR THE PAVILIONS?
    ‘I’d be ever so sad to see the old place go. My parents used to take me there every summer to see the big shows. Remember when Morecambe and