‘I … yes, I’d love to. I’m an actress actually.’
‘Are you? How marvellous! I used to run this place, you know. That’s why I have keys – I never handed them back.’ He smiled naughtily and twinkled his milky brown eyes at her. ‘Come on in. Where shall we start …?’
*
Brooke was in her element. The old man’s stories, full of the romance and history of the place, kept her spellbound. It was as if she could hear the laughter of bygone audiences filling the auditorium as she looked out over the ripped and worn red plush seats. She could hear the band playing in the dark of the grimy orchestra pit. The old man told her to wait in the stalls while he disappeared through a door to the side of the stage. It was dark and cool as she waited. The only light came from the dome above, as the sun forced its way through the peeling silver paint.
From the wings she heard the old man’s voice announce, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the Pavilions proudly presents the one and only Colonel Walter Stick!’ He marched on to the stage, head held high, his walking stick under his arm. Stamping to a smart halt, he turned to address her. ‘What ho, chaps.’ For the next seven or eight minutes he beguiled her with a stand-up routine that was word perfect. He finished with a little song and a soft-shoe shuffle before bowing deeply.
Her heart-felt applause soaked into the empty space. ‘That was wonderful!’
‘Prehistoric humour,’ he said humbly. ‘It used to go down quite well in the fifties. People could relate to stuffy Colonel Blimp types in those days. I called myself Colonel Stick. Many locals still call me that – behind my back. But they don’t remember why.’
‘So did you run this place and perform here?’
‘Yes. The last of the old actor managers, I suppose. Wonderful days and happy memories. Would you like to see my dressing room? I’d give it up whenever the really big stars came down – Max Miller, Morecambe and Wise, Petula Clark …’
‘I’d love to see it.’
She climbed the steps to the stage and he escorted her through the wings into an echoey corridor, down a short flight of steps that opened into a large space with doors leading off in all directions.
‘This was the green room. A great gathering place for before, after and during shows. All these doors surrounding us are dressing rooms.’ He led her to one where a star had once hung, leaving behind a faded imprint to prove its existence.
‘This was mine.’
He turned on a light switch and the room came to life. Turkey carpet on the floor. A huge cheval mirror in the corner. A rail holding two bent metal coat hangers with a shelf above for shoes or hats. A gilt mirror with at least a dozen light bulbs round it sat above an immaculate dressing table laid with several sticks of grease paint, a magnifying mirror, two silver-backed gentleman’s hair brushes and a small box labelled ‘moustaches’.
Brooke stepped into the room and ran her fingers over the make-up sticks. She turned to the old man. ‘Is this all yours?’
‘Yes.’ He looked at his feet, shame-faced. ‘I keep it here for old times’ sake. You must think I’m a silly old man.’
She shook her head. ‘Not at all. Who owns this theatre now? Why is it in such a state?’
‘The council own it. Always have. They’re selling it though. Soon it will be no more. That is what’s called progress. A few of us are banding together to fight for its survival, but I fear defeat is inevitable.’
‘Who’s buying it?’
‘Some coffee chain or other.’ He waved her to a chair and sat down to tell the whole story.
*
Helen was at home googling, trying to find out as much as possible about Colonel Stick aka Walter Irvine.
It seemed he had been born into a family where acting and music hall was in the blood. His father, Tommy Irvine, had been a well-known theatre manager and performer in his own time, best known for his ventriloquist act with an aristocratic, bad-tempered dummy called Claude. Tommy had famously retired from performing after Claude drunkenly insulted Queen Mary during a Royal Command Performance in 1931 and ventriloquist and dummy had to be bundled off the stage by Flanagan and Allen.
As a young man, Walter had carried on the family tradition. Thanks to his father, he knew many of the stars of the day, including Max Miller, but Walter didn’t confine himself to music hall alone. A comic actor of some talent, he appeared alongside some of the biggest stars of the fifties, featuring on the London stage as well as in productions with the RSC in Stratford-upon-Avon. With Miller’s help, he’d gone on to perfect his ‘Colonel Stick’ act, which had been a sell-out in theatres up and down the country. The Korean War had truncated his theatrical career, but he’d resurrected it on his return when he took up the job of theatre manager at the Pavilions. The sixties had been the theatre’s golden era, with big-name stars coming to Cornwall to perform, whether in comedy revues, musicals or Shakespearean drama. The list read like a Who’s Who of acting royalty: Dame Peggy Ashcroft, Richard Harris, Peter O’Toole …
According to his press cuttings, Walter Irvine had been one of the finest actors of his generation, as well as a highly regarded theatrical impresario. So why had he been so completely forgotten, even in Trevay?
Helen could find no answer online. There was no mention of his private life, even on Wikipedia, and she could find only a couple of passing references to his private film collection. It was as if Walter Irvine had vanished into a black hole once the Pavilions closed down.
Helen stretched and sighed. ‘I don’t suppose I’ll crack this in an afternoon,’ she said to herself. ‘Maybe I should pay him a visit?’
To distract herself she phoned her daughter-in-law, Terri. Helen had been thrilled that her son had found such a lovely wife, and even more thrilled when the newly weds announced that she was going to be a grandmother. Little Summer was a year old now and Helen was totally besotted with her.
Within minutes of Terri answering, the baby – who was sitting in her lap – began breathing heavily down the phone to Helen. She was just starting to talk. ‘Gan Gan,’ she said. ‘Gan, Gan.’ Terri prised the phone from her sticky little hands, laughing. ‘Gan Gan is you, Helen. We think it’s baby-speak for Grandma.’
‘Well, I like Gan Gan just fine.’
Helen couldn’t wait to tell Piran, who was fonder of his almost-step-granddaughter than he liked to let on. She went into the front garden to wait for him and deadhead the last of the roses. Dusk was settling and the lights of Pendruggan farmhouse twinkled at her from across the other side of the common.
The set of the latest Mr Tibbs episode stood in stark relief against the grey sky. Filming was due to begin any day now and the village was enjoying its claim to fame.
She drank in the cool, still air perfumed with the aroma of autumn leaves and sent up a prayer of thanks for this new chapter in her life. Her son happily married and doting dad to a healthy baby girl; her daughter Chloe had finally found her niche working for a charity that helped provide communities in the developing world with clean water, and it sounded as though she’d found love too, with a fellow aid worker. Helen was immensely proud of both of her children. She was quietly proud of herself too, especially now that her first column had appeared in the Cornish Guardian.
