Singing in the Rain at the Picture House by the Sea

by Holly Hepburn

  ‘Do you think there’s a chance you’ll be able to persuade Ferdie to dream up another themed ice-cream flavour?’ Gorran asked, looking hopeful. ‘I gather people are still asking for the one he made for Brief Encounter and they get very disappointed when they discover it was a one-night-only flavour.’

  Gina tried not to smile. She’d been the one who’d found the perfect recipe and, together with Elena, had persuaded a reluctant Ferdie to add it to the Ferrelli’s menu. He’d spent most of the event accepting compliments about it. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ she promised Gorran.

  They agreed on the last Saturday in April for their screening. On her way out, Gina stopped at the Ferrelli’s concession. The window in the foyer was closed but the one that looked out onto the promenade was open and Manda, one of Ferrelli’s longest-serving employees was there, stocking up for the day ahead.

  ‘Morning,’ she called, as Gina approached. ‘Can I tempt you with a cornet?’

  The freezer below the glass screen was already full of pastel-coloured goodies – strawberry, honeycomb, salted caramel – but Gina shook her head. The trouble with working in her grandfather’s dairy was that she tasted so much ice-cream that it had lost its appeal as a special treat. ‘It’s a bit early for me,’ she told Manda, smiling.

  ‘It’s never too early for gelato.’ Manda pointed to the Napoli tin half-filled with soft chocolate waves. ‘See? The sunshine has given some people the hunger already.’

  Gina smiled. ‘So I see. Any messages for Nonno? I’m heading over to the dairy now.’

  Manda looked thoughtful. ‘We need some more Strawberry Sensation, if you don’t mind – I’m down to my last two tins and I reckon that’ll go today.’

  ‘Strawberry,’ Gina echoed. ‘Got it. Anything else?’

  The other woman sighed. ‘Another pair of hands for later, when it gets busy?’

  ‘Oh,’ Gina said, startled. ‘Of course, I didn’t realise you needed help—’

  ‘Relax,’ Manda said, throwing her an amused look, ‘I’ve got it covered. You just concentrate on planning our next event. Do you know what film you’re likely to be showing?’

  Gina looked quickly around, as though she expected to find Gorran listening in. ‘We’ve got an idea but it’s top secret for now. I think you’re going to love it, though.’

  She said goodbye to Manda and headed for the car. Parking outside Nonna and Nonno’s house, she tapped lightly at the door. Elena answered almost immediately and gave Gina a warm hug. ‘Come in, come in!’ she said, planting a warm kiss on each of Gina’s cheeks. She stepped back to let Gina inside. ‘Nonno is in the dairy already – he says he’s got a surprise for you.’

  Gina accepted Elena’s offer of a cappuccino, although she declined the biscotti that were offered, and took it, plus a green tea for Ferdie, out to the dairy. He much preferred coffee too, the stronger the better, but he was under doctor’s orders to reduce the amount of caffeine he drank and Elena was insisting on drastic measures to ensure he cut down.

  The heart of Ferdie’s gelato business was in one of the outbuildings at the back of their house. The small cluster of buildings they’d owned ever since moving to Cornwall, decades earlier, was officially called the Old Dairy; town records showed it had been part of a farm in Victorian times and Gina had always thought it fitting that her grandparents had chosen this place to make their home. But there was nothing Victorian about Ferdie’s workshop; it was bright, sleek and spotlessly stainless steel, with a vast walk-in freezer and two large ice-cream machines that did most of the churning and freezing so that Ferdie could concentrate on flavour. The Ferrelli’s menu was deliberately minimal – Ferdie preferred to stick to the time-honoured, perfected gelato recipes he’d created to build up his ice-cream business back in the sixties – which was why Gina had adopted a cautious approach when she’d suggested adding a new flavour. It had taken days of secret testing and preparation before she was satisfied and allowed her grandfather to taste it, but his reaction had been worth all the time and effort. And if Gina was honest with herself, she’d enjoyed tinkering with the recipe to get it just so.

  Ferdie was leaning against a stool in the dairy, his plaster-encased leg resting lightly on the ground and his crutches beside him as he stirred a large saucepan. As Gina pushed open the door, she saw him lift a spoonful of thin creamy liquid and examine it, his bushy grey eyebrows knotted in concentration.

  ‘Good morning, Nonno,’ she said, lowering his cup of green tea to the steel work surface. ‘I thought we agreed that making the custard was my job?’

  Dropping the spoon back into the mixture and adjusting the gas, Ferdie grunted. ‘That doesn’t mean I can’t help, does it?’

  Gina took a sip of her cappuccino, savouring the rich bitterness beneath the milk: no one made coffee like Nonna. ‘Of course it doesn’t,’ she told him equably. ‘As long as you take things easy. So, what’s the plan today?’

  Ferdie reached for his cup, glanced at the contents in disgust and put it back down without drinking. He eyed Gina’s coffee with obvious envy. ‘Is that a cappuccino?’

  She wrapped her hands around it. ‘Yes, and you’re not allowed it.’

  ‘Not even if I tell you I am thinking of introducing a coffee-flavoured gelato?’ he said, throwing Gina an innocent look that didn’t fool her for a second.

  ‘Not even then,’ she said firmly. ‘Although speaking of new flavours . . .’

  She told him about the proposed screening at the Palace. Ferdie frowned. ‘I still think you should persuade that old goat Gorran to show La Dolce Vita. That scene at the Trevi Fountain is a classic.’

  Gina hid a smile; the scene he referred to starred the voluptuous Anita Ekberg frolicking in the waters of the fountain in a dress that clung to every curve. No wonder Ferdie liked it. Elena, on the other hand, favoured Roman Holiday which featured a charmingly chiselled Gregory Peck. Apart from the sex appeal of the respective leads, it didn’t take a genius to work out why Gina’s grandparents had chosen their favourites; both films were set in Rome.

  ‘We’ve been over this,’ Gina said to Ferdie. ‘La Dolce Vita isn’t well-known enough – I don’t think it’s as big a box-office draw as Singin’ in the Rain. Why don’t you let me find it on Netflix?’

  Ferdie regarded her scornfully. ‘Netflix. A film like that was made to be watched on the big screen, not a laptop or a tablet.’ He stirred the vanilla custard. ‘And I suppose you want Ferrelli’s to serve another themed ice-cream.’

  Gina took a deep breath. ‘Yes. It went down so well last time and I can make it a feature of the event – an exclusive, one-night-only new gelato from Ferrelli’s.’ She hesitated and then plunged on. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if some people are more interested in the ice-cream than the film.’

  She stopped. Ferdie liked to arrive at a decision in his own time and she’d learned from her grandmother’s example that it was best to be patient. But she had one last thing to add. ‘The trouble is, I can’t think of a flavour that suits the film.’

  He looked intrigued in spite of himself. ‘Something bright,’ he said. ‘An explosion of colour on the taste buds. Lemon, perhaps, or orange.’

  ‘The Good Morning song is pretty famous,’ Gina suggested. ‘Oranges might remind people of that – maybe we could try a sorbet.’

  She knew as soon as she’d spoken that it was the wrong thing to say. Nonno’s eyebrows bristled. ‘We make gelato, not sorbet. There’s no skill in freezing water and sugar.’

  Gina swallowed a sigh. ‘No, of course not. It was just a thought.’

  Apparently mollified, Ferdie continued to stir the custard and stared into space. ‘There’s no harm in testing a new recipe. But we won’t be able to get citrus fruits from our usual supplier – they don’t grow them.’

  Whenever he could, Ferdie bought strawberries and any other fruit he needed from a local fruit farm. Gina pursed her lips. ‘The Scarlet Hotel might be able to help – I could speak to their chef, see
if they could spare an orange or two?’

  ‘See if they’ll give you a few lemons and limes too,’ Ferdie said, nodding. ‘Just in case the oranges need a bit of oomph.’

  Putting down her coffee, Gina pulled out her phone. She’d stayed at the Scarlet, in nearby Mawgan Porth, when she’d first arrived in Polwhipple the month before and she’d been delighted to see Ferrelli’s gelato on the restaurant’s dessert menu. The owners had even loaned the Palace their cocktail guru for the Brief Encounter evening and his Steaming Passion creation had been a great hit with the film-goers. Gina tapped out a quick email, certain the Scarlet wouldn’t mind helping out again.

  ‘This custard is ready,’ Ferdie announced, peering at the back of the spoon in satisfaction. ‘Why don’t you begin chopping the strawberries?’

  Gina washed her hands and retrieved two large punnets of strawberries from the fridge. As she returned, she noticed her coffee cup was now at her grandfather’s elbow. And it was empty.

  She stared at him in disbelief, unsure whether to tell him off or laugh. ‘Did you—?’

  Ferdie did not seem in the least perturbed by the unspoken accusation. He shrugged. ‘I regret nothing.’

  Gina shook her head. ‘I can’t believe you just—’

  ‘Desperate times mean desperate measures,’ he cut in, switching off the gas hob and fixing her with a glare. ‘Now, are we making gelato or are we talking?’

  ‘Making gelato, Nonno,’ Gina said, deciding that discretion was the better part of valour on this particular occasion; Ferdie’s stubbornness was a force of nature, after all, and she had no doubt there would be plenty of other battles that mattered more than a few swigs of stolen coffee.

  She threw herself into making ice-cream, consulting the spreadsheet she’d created to keep track of orders to make sure they would have enough of each flavour. As well as keeping supplies up at the concession in the cinema, they also needed sufficient stock to fulfil orders for local restaurants and cafés. And if the weather continued to improve, she had no doubt demand for Ferrelli’s would soar.

  By lunchtime they had a freezer full of gelato, each glistening creamy-waved pan ready to go wherever it was needed. Gina cleared up then collected her empty cappuccino cup, along with Ferdie’s half-drunk green tea, to take back to Elena.

  ‘No need to mention the coffee incident,’ Ferdie told her, as they crossed the yard to the house. ‘Nonna will only become cross.’

  ‘With good reason,’ Gina said, sending him a stern look. ‘The doctor says you need to lower your blood pressure.’

  ‘Che palle!’ Ferdie growled, stomping along on his crutches. ‘I feel fine. Or I would, if the lack of coffee wasn’t making me so grumpy.’

  ‘It’s for your own good,’ Gina said but she wasn’t without sympathy. Ferdie had begun each day with a double espresso for as long as she could remember – she wasn’t surprised he was irritated by its sudden absence. She’d be grumpy if she had to give up her morning caffeine hit. ‘But I won’t tell Nonna about the cappuccino, as long as you promise you’ll cut down.’

  Ferdie was silent until they reached the back door. ‘I hate being old.’

  ‘Nonno!’ Gina exclaimed, her heart aching at the suddenly defeated look on his lined face. For seventy-eight, he was actually in very good health, although it wouldn’t do him any harm to be reminded that he was not in his twenties any more. She squeezed his arm. ‘No one is trying to make you feel old. You need to take a little better care of yourself, that’s all.’

  ‘No dancing through the puddles for me, is that what you’re saying?’ he said, lifting one eyebrow.

  Gina pulled open the kitchen door and smiled at the Gene Kelly reference. ‘Not unless you can persuade Nonna to dance with you.’

  Gina tried to squeeze in a hurried phone call with Max that evening but the call went straight to voicemail. She left a short message, asking him to phone her when he got the chance, and gazed out of the French doors at the shadowy night beyond, wondering what he might be doing. As a busy London property developer, Max often spent his evenings entertaining prospective clients or investors but he played as hard as he worked and Gina thought he was equally likely to be heading to a football match. It didn’t matter – she’d only wanted to share her excitement about the Singin’ in the Rain event with him – it would keep.

  Ben arrived at seven-thirty sharp, an untidy sheaf of papers in one hand and a bottle of Merlot in the other. ‘Happy Tuesday,’ he said grinning at her when she opened her door. ‘I thought we might need this tonight.’

  ‘Oh?’ Gina said, stepping aside to let him in. ‘It’s that bad?’

  He placed the bottle on the worktop in the open-plan kitchen and rubbed his lightly tanned cheek. ‘I’ve been tying myself in knots,’ he admitted. ‘I’m okay with the figures but making an irresistible case for restoring the train line to Polwhipple is a bit beyond me. No matter what I write, it sounds boring and rubbish.’

  Gina had a sudden flash of memory, taking her back to the summers she’d spent in Polwhipple as a teenager, when she and Ben had been practically inseparable. Surf-obsessed Ben had never been especially academic and hated school, although Gina knew he was bright and quick-witted. During her last summer in Polwhipple, the year her family had moved to Los Angeles and she’d lost contact with Ben completely, he’d confided in her that he’d been diagnosed as dyslexic. She’d forgotten all about it until now.

  ‘I’m sure it’s neither of those things,’ Gina said, her voice warm. ‘But we’re a team, remember? So, you help me with the numbers on my application and I’ll help you with the words for yours.’

  His look of gratitude warmed her. ‘Thanks, Gina,’ he said. ‘But I still think we’re going to need the wine.’

  She reached for two glasses. ‘You’ll get no argument from me.’

  They settled around the small kitchen table. Gina opened up her laptop and turned the screen towards Ben. ‘As you can see, I’ve made a start on the funding application for the restoration. I’ve explained that the structure itself is sound, but the interior is in need of significant refurbishment.’ She pointed to the relevant part of the document. ‘I’ve broken it down into four main areas – the foyer, theatre, toilets and the exterior – and then listed what needs to be done in each.’

  Ben scanned the screen. ‘I see you’re suggesting that we replace the seats. The bottoms of Polwhipple will thank you.’

  ‘That was first on the list, believe me,’ Gina said, shuddering. ‘How anyone can relax and enjoy the film when it feels as though a thousand evil springs are having a fight underneath them is a mystery to me.’

  ‘And you want to remove the chipboard from the walls.’

  She nodded. ‘Didn’t you say you thought the original Art Deco features might still be behind it?’

  ‘It could be,’ Ben said. ‘But it might not be in a fit state to restore. A lot depends on how the chipboard was put up – you’ll only know what the damage is once it comes down. And it goes without saying that you’ll need someone who knows about historical property restoration to do it.’

  Gina took a long sip of her wine. ‘Actually, I was hoping you’d be up for doing it. But I have no idea what your costs would be, or even whether you’ve got time.’

  He was silent for a few moments, as though he was thinking something through. ‘I might be able to fit it in. But it’s a big job, especially on top of the station restoration. I’ve still got the ticket office to finish there.’

  She pictured the immaculately restored station, upon which Ben had spent months and months of his spare time and attention. The building had belonged to his late father, bought when the railway line from Bodmin stopped running to Polwhipple, and Ben had inherited the building when his mother died two years earlier. It had been derelict for years by then but Ben had slowly turned back the clock to astonishing effect. Polwhipple’s station was already a thing of beauty and Gina couldn’t wait to see the end result of all Ben’s hard work.
She knew he’d do an amazing job at the Palace too, if she could persuade him to say yes.

  ‘Could we budget for someone to help you?’ she asked. ‘Obviously, it depends how much Polwhipple town council is prepared to donate.’

  If they’re prepared to donate, she added silently. She had no experience of putting together funding bids, and much less of dealing with town councils, but she hoped that the success of the first event that she’d arranged proved how much potential the Palace had to enhance life for everyone in Polwhipple. The meeting next Monday was going to be critical – they’d only get one chance to impress the funding committee.

  ‘Maybe,’ Ben said, his expression still thoughtful. ‘What does Gorran think of all this? Apart from not being able to believe his luck, I mean.’

  Gina laughed. ‘I haven’t run the detailed plans by him yet but in principle he’s happy. All he has to do is nod in the right places and sound enthusiastic at the meeting.’

  ‘I bet he’s like a dog with two tails,’ Ben said, grinning. ‘Especially since he doesn’t have to dig into his own pockets to pay for any of the work.’

  ‘So, what do you think?’ Gina pointed at the laptop again. ‘Does this all sound achievable? How much should I put down for each area?’

  ‘It’s certainly doable,’ Ben said. ‘But the costs are going to be harder to pin down.’

  They spent the next forty minutes working through the gaps in Gina’s application. Ben told her the best websites to check for the costs of supplies and materials. ‘Prices will fluctuate a bit but this should give you a rough idea of how much money you’ll need. But whoever you eventually employ to do the work should give you a quote that incorporates all that.’

  Gina nodded, trying not to look disappointed. From the way Ben was talking, it didn’t sound as though he wanted the job of restoring the Palace. And she supposed she should have expected him to say no; she knew how busy he was, after all.