Praise for the Star and Sixpence series:
‘A fresh new voice, brings wit and warmth to this charming tale of two sisters’ Rowan Coleman
‘You’ll fall in love with this fantastic new series from a new star of women’s fiction, Holly Hepburn. Filled to the brim with captivating characters and fantastic storylines in a gorgeous setting, Snowdrops at the Star and Sixpence is simply wonderful. I want to read more!’ Miranda Dickinson
‘The Star and Sixpence sparkles with fun, romance, mystery, and a hunky blacksmith. It’s a real delight’ Julie Cohen
‘Like the dream pub landlady who always knows exactly what you want, Holly Hepburn has created the most delightful welcome to what promises to be a brilliant series, in the first Star and Sixpence. The sisters who inherit a tired local and must bring it back to life are warm and intriguing, the neighbours are (mostly!) friendly and the gossip is utterly addictive. I was very sad when it was time for last orders, and am already looking forward to the next round. Especially if a certain blacksmith happens to be at the bar . . .’ Kate Harrison
‘Warm, witty and utterly charming, Snowdrops at the Star and Sixpence is the perfect book to curl up with on a cold winter’s day. It left me with the most wonderful happy glow’ Cally Taylor
‘Warm, witty and laced with intriguing secrets! I want to pull up a bar stool, order a large G&T and soak up all the gossip at the Star and Sixpence!’ Cathy Bramley
‘A super sparkling star of a story and I can’t wait for part two’ Alexandra Brown
For anyone who sings in the rain
Chapter One
It had been the wettest Easter anyone could remember.
Gina Callaway shifted in her battered leather armchair beside the flickering fireplace in the Mermaid’s Tail Inn, gazing out of the picture window that overlooked Polwhipple’s sodden beach. Raindrops spattered against the glass, racing in rivulets to the dark wooden frame below. Beyond the thickened bull’s-eye panes, the clouds were a sullen, gun-metal grey, driven across the sky by gusting winds that also whipped the waves into a white-tipped frenzy and whistled around the old pub. No one was braving the blustery sands, not even the hardiest of dog-walkers, and there was certainly no sign of the surfers who usually rode the waves. The beach was deserted, apart from the occasional seagull.
Gina cradled her half-drunk cup of coffee and sighed. The Easter weekend had been a wash-out as far as the weather was concerned and she’d spent a restless few days cooped up in her apartment, watching the relentless rain and venturing out only on Easter Sunday for a hearty roast dinner at her grandparents’ house. Unable to bear the thought of a long Bank Holiday Monday on her own, but equally reluctant to impose herself on Nonna and Nonno again, Gina had packed up her laptop and headed for the cosy Mermaid’s Tail, where she’d been greeted with a smile by the landlord, Jory.
‘All right, Gina,’ he’d called across the bar, with a welcoming nod as she’d entered the low-ceilinged snug. ‘What can I get you?’
‘Just an Americano, please,’ she’d replied, shaking the rain from her coat.
He’d gestured towards the coat rack on her right. ‘Hang your things up there and warm your bones by the fire. I’ll be over with your coffee dreckly.’
Gina had settled into the armchair nearest the flames with a grateful smile. It had been over a month since she’d arrived in Polwhipple to help her nonno, Ferdie Ferrelli, run his ice-cream business after he’d broken his leg, and she’d mostly stopped noticing the Cornish lilt that coloured the words of almost everyone she met. But every now and then, a word or phrase caught her ear and reminded her where she was – dreckly, meaning ‘sometime soon’, or my ’ansum, which was a common term of endearment whether you were male or female – and Jory’s speech seemed to be more peppered with distinctly Cornish phrases than most people she encountered. It had taken her a few seconds to mentally adjust, the first time she’d heard Jory hail one of his regulars with ‘All right, shag,’ and then she’d remembered that it was another friendly greeting rather than an instruction.
‘Still pizen down, then,’ Jory commented now, appearing with an insulated silver jug to top up her coffee.
Gina held out her cup, nodding. It was hard to believe it right then but the forecast for the next few days was better; blue skies and unseasonal highs of fourteen degrees, if the Met Office was to be believed. And if Polwhipple was to be blessed with sunshine, the demand for Ferrelli’s ice-cream would increase too. Gina planned to spend the rest of the week in her grandfather’s converted dairy, whisking and churning and freezing so that the restaurants and paying public of Polwhipple were not disappointed when the sun finally showed its face and they felt a craving for gelato.
‘Thanks,’ she said to Jory, adding a splash of milk from the little jug on the table beside her. ‘I imagine rain is bad for your business too.’
The landlord shrugged. ‘It takes more than a downpour to keep our regulars away. But we’re only proper busy during the summer. Even then, Polwhipple ent as heaving as Newquay or Padstow.’ He stared out at the rain-lashed beach. ‘There’s not much to come here for, save the scenery, and there’s plenty of that elsewhere.’
Gina opened her mouth to argue; as a teenager, she’d spent several idyllic summers in Polwhipple and, from what she could remember, the beach had always been packed with families. There was a small surfing contest in August, nothing like the international tournaments held elsewhere on the Cornish coast, but well regarded enough to draw a good crowd of visitors to the town. But she knew what Jory meant – in the warmer months, there were parts of Cornwall where it felt as though you couldn’t move for tourists. Unfortunately for the local businesses, Polwhipple wasn’t one of those parts. What they needed was an irresistible attraction – something that would draw visitors in and encourage them to see what the sleepy seaside town had to offer. Gina glanced down at her laptop and the funding application that sat on the screen; what they needed was money.
The door creaked open and a petite brown-haired woman stepped into the snug. She glanced around and beamed when she saw Gina.
‘You’re a sight for sore eyes,’ she said, hurrying over. She glanced up at Jory. ‘A pot of tea, please. Got any warm pasties left? I’m starving.’
Jory smiled. ‘Afternoon, Carrie. I’ll see what I can do.’
He threaded his way behind the narrow bar and disappeared into the door that Gina imagined led to the kitchens. Carrie tugged off her coat and hung it next to Gina’s, then pulled up a chair at her table.
‘Thanks for giving me an excuse to escape,’ she said, warming her hands against the fire. ‘The shop is so dead this morning that I thought I might actually die of boredom. There are only so many times I can pretend I’m Elizabeth Taylor winning an Oscar.’
Gina grinned, picturing her friend standing among the silk- and satin-covered clothes rails of her vintage boutique further along the promenade, graciously accepting an award from an imaginary host. ‘I know what you mean. I needed a change of scene too and Jory makes a mean cup of coffee.’
‘Not to mention the food,’ Carrie said, patting her stomach. She nodded at the open laptop resting on Gina’s knees. ‘What are you working on? Please tell me it’s another awesome movie extravaganza.’
She meant the Brief Encounter screening Gina had arranged at the Palace, the old Art Deco cinema next door, soon after she’d first arrived in Polwhipple. Carrie had found Gina the perfect outfit for the event and the two of them had hit it off immediately, which turned out to be a very good thing since the owner of the Palace, Gorran Dew, had been blown away by the success of the night and
had begged Gina for more events. Never one to shy away from a challenge, Gina had decided to go one better: she had proposed a complete renovation of the rundown picture house and recruited local builder, Ben Pascoe, to help.
‘Not exactly,’ Gina told Carrie, pulling a face. ‘But it is to do with the Palace. I’m due to meet Ben tomorrow night to go through a few things and I want to make sure I’ve got most of the details worked out before then.’
Gina had known Ben for years – they’d been almost inseparable during the summers she’d spent in Polwhipple – and she’d been elated to discover he was still living in the town. They’d quickly slipped back into their old, easy-going friendship and he’d played a large part in making the Brief Encounter event such a roaring success. Afterwards, she’d approached him to help her submit a funding application to Polwhipple town council, to restore the faded Palace to its former glory, and he’d agreed, on the condition that she helped him put together a similar request to the Bodmin and Wenford Railway Preservation Society. Ben was a volunteer on the tourist-friendly steam line that ran from Bodmin Parkway to nearby Boscarne Junction; he’d spent years restoring Polwhipple’s old station in his spare time in the hope that the Preservation Society would extend the line from Boscarne to Polwhipple and bring a much-needed boost to the town’s shops and businesses. His efforts to convince the heritage trust in the past had failed but he hoped Gina’s creative flair might give him the edge.
Carrie gave her a sideways look. ‘And has he got you doing the paperwork for the train line too?’
‘No,’ Gina said thankfully. ‘He’s doing that himself, which is a good thing because you could fit what I know about steam trains and heritage lines on a very small Post-it note.’
‘You and me both,’ Carrie observed. ‘Although I could probably find him a very fetching station master’s outfit if he needs one.’
Gina tried to picture sandy-haired, surf-loving Ben in a smart uniform and failed. ‘I’ll be sure to mention it to him,’ she promised, as Jory appeared with a Cornish pasty that was bigger than the plate on which it rested. The smell was amazing, and breakfast suddenly seemed like a long time ago; Gina felt her mouth begin to water. ‘I don’t suppose—’
Jory grinned. ‘Had a feeling ’ee might say that. Hang on, I’ll go and fetch another.’
Carrie glanced at her own pasty and hesitated, as though she wasn’t sure whether she should wait. Gina waved her on. ‘Get started before it gets cold. Mine won’t be long.’
The other woman bit into the golden pastry and the scent of beef and vegetables with a tantalising hint of pepper wafted towards Gina. ‘Sorry,’ she said indistinctly, round a mouthful. ‘Skipped breakfast.’
Jory was as good as his word and Gina soon had a crisp pasty of her own to tuck into. It was every bit as mouth-watering as she’d anticipated. Carrie finished first. ‘I needed that,’ she said, sitting back with a satisfied sigh. ‘So, what else have you been up to?’
Gina popped the last piece of curved crust into her mouth and crunched. ‘Arguing with Gorran over the film choice for our next event, mostly,’ she said, once she’d washed the pastry down with some water. ‘He’s determined we should show The Shining.’
Carrie tipped her head. ‘It is a great movie.’
‘But not a timeless romantic classic,’ Gina countered. ‘And I can’t see it having quite the same appeal as Brief Encounter. I’m not sure the cosplay would be quite as classy either.’
‘Good point,’ Carrie said, who’d supplied half the town with costumes to match the chic 1930s theme at the last event. ‘Maybe save the horror for Halloween. So, what’s your preference?’
That was half the problem, Gina thought ruefully; she didn’t really have one. Unfortunately, it wasn’t just Gorran who had strong views about what the next film should be – Ferrelli’s had produced a themed ice-cream flavour last time and it had proved extremely popular. That meant Ferdie thought he had a say in choosing the theme for the next event, and Gina’s nonna, Elena, had her own ideas. And none of them agreed.
‘I was wondering whether we should do a musical,’ she told Carrie, who looked instantly enthused.
‘Brilliant idea – what about The Rocky Horror Picture Show? Plenty of cosplay opportunities there.’
Gina smiled as she pictured the basque and suspenders outfit Dr Frank-N-Furter wore in the film. ‘I’m not sure Polwhipple is ready for that yet. I was thinking more High Society or My Fair Lady.’
Carrie pursed her lips. ‘Both great movies, but not what I’d call true classics. Have you thought about Singin’ in the Rain? That’s definitely one of the greats.’
It was, Gina thought, wondering why she hadn’t thought of it herself. It also contained one of the most iconic scenes in movie history, where Gene Kelly danced through raindrops and puddles, which seemed even more apt considering how wet Polwhipple had been over the last few days. It was a movie about making movies too, meaning the glamour of cinema was at the heart of the story, and gave plenty of opportunities for dressing up. Gina felt a shiver of excitement as she considered the possibilities; it was the perfect choice for an event. They might even sell out.
‘You are a genius,’ she told Carrie, beaming at her. ‘I can’t think of anything better.’
Carrie grinned back. ‘Let me know if Gorran agrees and I’ll start looking for props. Did you know that Debbie Reynolds kept a lot of the costumes from the film? She sold them at auction years later so they’re out there somewhere.’ Her expression became wistful. ‘Imagine wearing the actual dress she danced in for Good Morning.’
‘I’m not sure I’d be a good Kathy Selden,’ Gina said, thinking of Debbie Reynolds’ short brown hair and luminous on-screen beauty.
Carrie eyed Gina’s long black hair thoughtfully. ‘I think you’d make a fantastic Cyd Charisse.’
Gina laughed as she pictured the lithe, beautiful dancer who’d run rings around Gene Kelly in one of the scenes. ‘As long as no one expects me to dance like her, then we won’t have a problem.’
The rain hadn’t abated by the time Gina left the Mermaid’s Tail and made her way back to the car park at the end of the promenade. The Palace was in darkness as she passed and the shutters were down on the window of the Ferrelli’s concession: no one was buying ice-cream today. She glanced at the glossy Brief Encounter posters in the holders on the wall – Gorran really should update them but there hadn’t been any posters at all previously, and something was definitely better than nothing. Some Singin’ in the Rain posters would look great – bright and eye-catching; she made a mental note to suggest to Gorran that he order some. Assuming he agreed to the film choice, that was . . .
She was so deep in thought as she crossed the almost-empty car park, that she wasn’t really paying attention, just dodging the puddles absent-mindedly as she headed for her grandmother’s little Fiat. She needed to buy a car of her own, except that she would only be in Cornwall for another two months and neither she nor her boyfriend, Max, had need of a car to get around London. Elena’s powder-blue Fiat was doing a very good job at getting her from A to B, especially when the rain seemed to be never-ending.
Gina only became aware that there was a car speeding across the tarmac at the very last second. She heard the engine first and glanced up, startled, to see a red Audi TT heading towards her. With a yelp of alarm, she leapt for a nearby kerb, avoiding a deep puddle as she did so. The car seemed to slow a fraction, then continued onwards through the puddle. The spinning wheels sent a wave of cold, dirty water washing over Gina, drenching her from head to toe. She gasped and turned her dripping face to stare after the car, which had zoomed through the exit and turned left to vanish along the high street.
Gina stared after it for a few shocked seconds, then shook herself down and wiped her face. Whoever had been behind the wheel of that car needed a lesson in driving skills, not to mention good manners, she decided irritably, resuming her journey towards Nonna’s car. There was no need to drive through
the puddle – it could only have been done on purpose. A kid, Gina thought, as she got into the Fiat and rummaged in her bag for something to dry herself with. Someone who thought it was funny to soak other people for fun.
If she ever found out who it had been, there would be serious trouble.
Chapter Two
The sun was starting to burn off the rain clouds on Tuesday morning as Gina dropped by the Palace. She found Gorran in his cluttered, chaotic office, looking as though he might drown in paperwork as usual. His shock of white hair almost quivered with anticipation when Gina passed on Carrie’s suggestion for the film. ‘Marvellous!’ he said, his ruddy cheeks glowing. ‘When can we do it?’
‘We’ll need a few weeks to get the word out but I can use the mailing list I built from our last event to do that,’ Gina replied. ‘How soon can you get the film?’
The Palace’s projection room ran on old-fashioned reels, which Gorran staunchly insisted were more authentic than newer digital projectors. Gina assumed the cinema owner would need to arrange for the film to be delivered, but he surprised her. ‘I’ve already got it – it’s in our archive.’
‘Of course it is,’ Gina said, snapping her fingers. ‘I saw it there when I was looking for the lost Brief Encounter reel.’
The lost reel that had almost snatched disaster from the jaws of triumph, she added to herself but didn’t say. ‘Actually, it’s been a few years since I watched Singin’ in the Rain. Do you think you’d be able to run it for me one afternoon?’
‘Of course,’ Gorran replied. ‘Let me know which day suits you and I’ll arrange for Tash to be here.’
Tash was the Palace’s part-time projectionist and arguably the most important person on the picture house payroll – without her to coax the aged projection system into cooperation, there would be no screenings. The trouble in the past had been that both Tash and Gorran had taken a relaxed attitude to movie start times, which had meant customers had sometimes faced a lengthy delay before their film began. Gina couldn’t help wondering whether the erratic screen times had something to do with the usually woeful ticket sales, although Gorran’s enthusiasm for showing obscure foreign language films probably didn’t help.
Singing in the Rain at the Picture House by the Sea Page 1
