The Summer Theatre by the Sea

by Tracy Corbett

  Jonathan rubbed his left arm, his exasperation unmistakeable. ‘I don’t want problems, people, I want solutions!’ He waved his hand about. ‘Lauren, you say it.’

  ‘But I’m Peaseblossom.’ Lauren cowered when Jonathan marched onto the stage.

  ‘It doesn’t matter! Just say the ruddy line!’

  Barney’s attention reverted to Charlotte, who was balancing on a set of stepladders as she tried to reach the top of the netting. Much as he wanted to stay put and admire the view, his chances of getting up close and personal again would be severely hampered if she fell off and broke her neck. He shot over and caught the ladder before it toppled over, one hand catching hold of her calf.

  Charlotte steadied herself. ‘That was a close one.’

  He looked up at her. ‘Do you have a death wish?’ Her hair was wavy, the top button of her shirt was undone, and he had to stop himself sliding his hands up the inside of her skirt.

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘I’ve certainly cavorted with the devil of late.’

  He smiled. ‘And for that, I am truly grateful.’ He felt instantly warm when she returned his smile. ‘I assume you’re referring to me?’

  ‘Who else?’ Her cheeks coloured. ‘Evil man.’

  ‘Do you need to go to confession?’

  ‘I’d be too embarrassed.’ Her fingers fiddled with the button on her shirt.

  ‘Why? It was just sex.’

  She wobbled on the ladder. ‘Keep your voice down.’ Her eyes searched the room, checking no one had overheard. ‘And remove your hand, please.’

  Barney noticed Kayleigh frowning at him from across the room. He didn’t care, but removed his hand anyway. ‘You didn’t ask me to move it Saturday night.’

  Charlotte’s blush deepened. ‘That’s because I was tipsy and hoodwinked by that story of yours.’

  ‘It’s not my story, it’s legend.’

  ‘And embellished, no doubt, for your own gain.’ She looked cute when she was embarrassed.

  ‘Can you blame me? You’re gorgeous.’ He stroked her arm. ‘You had fun, didn’t you?’

  She chewed on her bottom lip, eventually conceding with a nod.

  ‘Well then, no harm done.’ He let his fingers trail over her skin. ‘We could even try it again … slower this time.’

  Her intake of breath was audible.

  A commotion at the front of the stage drew her attention away, much to his annoyance. Jonathan was yelling at the kids; he was unhappy that they’d laughed when Sylvia said, ‘“I shall seek the squirrel’s hoard and fetch thee new nuts.”’

  ‘Don’t emphasise the word nuts, Sylvia! We’re not in a school playground. This is a serious piece of theatre.’ Jonathan clutched his chest, as if proving the point. His face contorted into a series of odd expressions: distress, anger, pain. When he dropped to his knees, Barney’s first thought was that he was being a little overdramatic, even for Jonathan. But the sight of him collapsing face down alerted him to the seriousness of the situation.

  Jonathan wasn’t acting.

  As realisation dawned, the place broke into pandemonium. Screaming, crying, yelling. General confusion and panic ensued.

  Lauren appeared next to him. ‘Do something! Jonathan’s had some sort of seizure.’

  It was like being transported straight back to the medical wards. Everyone was looking for him to step up and save the day. This was why he’d left medicine. He was not equipped to deal with emergencies.

  Ensuring Charlotte wasn’t about to fall off the ladder, he ran over to where Jonathan lay on the floor. Time seemed to slow. The noise was deafening, heightened by the rain pounding against the roof, making it hard for him to think. All eyes were on him, faces were in various states of panic and upset, and people were mouthing words he couldn’t hear above the whirring in his head.

  His instincts were slow to kick in. He was out of practice. All his insecurities raced to the surface. The memory of being called to Mrs Kapoor’s bedside to find her without a pulse, and being expected to take action ahead of the crash team arriving.

  But there was no support. It was just him. Think, he told himself.

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’ Freddie stared down at a motionless Jonathan.

  It was a bloody good question. What was wrong with him?

  ‘Okay, can everyone please move away. I need space.’ Barney knelt down. ‘Take the kids next door, please.’ He checked for a pulse. Nothing. He checked Jonathan’s neck just to be certain, hoping he was wrong. Still nothing. Breathing? Was the casualty breathing? And then he mentally kicked himself. If there was no pulse then he wouldn’t be bloody breathing, would he, you daft sod. Concentrate.

  He rolled Jonathan onto his back so he could check his airway. Christ, he was heavy. Barney was used to tending patients lying in hospital beds at convenient heights, not sprawled across the floor. ‘Someone call 999. Tell them the casualty is unresponsive.’

  Someone wailed. Sylvia, probably.

  Tony appeared in front of him. ‘What can I do?’

  Barney positioned himself over Jonathan’s body, ready to start chest compressions. ‘I need the defibrillator. It’s in the kitchen with the first-aid kit.’

  ‘I’m on it.’ Tony ran off.

  Barney interlocked his hands. Using all his weight, he pressed down. Just as with Mrs Kapoor, he heard a sickening crack. He’d broken a rib. Bile rose in his throat. He pressed again. Another rib. It felt so brutal, like assaulting someone, not trying to save them. He could feel sweat dripping between his shoulder blades. Another crack. Lauren was on the phone talking to the emergency services. Her words ‘there’s a doctor in attendance’ didn’t ease his stress levels.

  Tony appeared with the defib and first-aid kit. Thankfully, he knew how to set it up.

  Nate crouched down next to him. ‘You need me to do the breaths?’

  Christ, yes. ‘Please, mate.’

  Chest compressions were exhausting. No more cracks, which meant all Jonathan’s ribs were broken. Barney felt for a pulse. Still nothing. This was not good.

  Nate opened the protective polythene and placed the mask over Jonathan’s mouth. ‘Tell me when.’

  Barney stopped pumping. ‘Go. Two breaths.’

  Nate began administering breaths.

  Barney took the pads from Tony and placed one at the top of Jonathan’s chest and one at the side. He listened to the woman’s voice on the defib giving him instructions. ‘Stand back, please.’

  Nate and Tony moved away, ensuring everyone kept clear.

  The defib wouldn’t fire.

  ‘Why isn’t it working?’ cried Sylvia.

  ‘It won’t work if it detects activity in the heart muscle,’ Nate said, helpfully fending off questions.

  Barney wiped the sweat from his forehead, his eyes were stinging like crazy. He felt sick.

  ‘You okay?’ Tony touched his shoulder.

  No, he was not okay. ‘There’s no heartbeat – he’s in asystole. He needs adrenaline. How long until the ambulance gets here?’

  Tony looked up at Lauren.

  ‘Five minutes,’ she said, relaying information from the operator.

  By Cornish standards, five minutes was bloody good. But it was still too long. If Jonathan had flatlined, his heart needed restarting, but if the defib was detecting electrical impulses, causing the muscle to quiver but not actually pump blood, then it was a lost cause. Just like Mrs Kapoor. When the crash team had arrived and said, ‘No need to continue,’ he’d felt like a failure.

  Had he made matters worse? Should he have done more? It was history repeating itself.

  But he couldn’t give up. It was better to do something than nothing, his consultant had said. If you kept going, you gave someone a fighting chance. However slim that chance might be.

  Barney resumed chest compressions, ignoring Glenda, who was unhelpfully singing ‘Stayin’ Alive’ next to him, as per the Vinnie Jones advert, trying to aid his rhythm. After thirty compressions, he stopped
, waiting for Nate to administer two breaths before continuing. His arms were aching. His hands hurt. Five minutes had never seemed so long.

  And then he heard activity by the door. Lauren was shouting to the medics, telling them where Jonathan was. They appeared by his side.

  ‘He needs adrenaline,’ was all he could manage.

  ‘I understand you’re a doctor?’ The female paramedic searched out a vein and inserted a catheter quicker than he’d ever seen anyone do it before.

  Barney nodded. ‘He needs adrenaline,’ he repeated.

  ‘Okay, we’ve got this. What’s his name?’ She hooked up a drip.

  ‘Jonathan Myers.’

  ‘Jonathan, can you hear me?’ She leant over him.

  Why was she doing that? He was gone, wasn’t he?

  She administered adrenaline and checked again. ‘Okay, we have a pulse.’ She was on her feet, loading Jonathan onto a trolley. ‘Excellent work, doctor. Call ahead, Gavin. Let the primary angioplasty coordinator know we’re coming. Let’s go.’

  And they were off. A flash of green, in and out within minutes.

  ‘I’ll go with him.’ Daniel ran after the paramedics, his words almost lost amongst the aftermath. People were talking. Praising Barney. Telling him what a good job he’d done.

  ‘You saved his life.’ Sylvia hugged him.

  Barney didn’t feel like he’d done anything. Once again, he’d frozen. His skills had been left wanting. He hadn’t been in control. He’d fallen apart.

  He realised he was shaking. A mixture of hot and cold ran over his skin. Jonathan would be lucky to survive the journey to A&E.

  ‘There was nothing more you could’ve done,’ Tony said, as if reading his mind, as he peeled Sylvia away from Barney.

  Then why did Barney feel as though he’d messed up? Why did he feel so bloody useless and inadequate? His nausea increased. He needed air. He needed a drink.

  Fending off the multitude of questions being fired at him, he made his excuses and ducked outside. He started running, and didn’t stop until he was sure no one had followed him. On reaching the quayside, he leant over the railing, dragging air into his lungs, trying to catch his breath. He stood in the rain, shivering from the comedown of spent adrenaline and the wet soaking through his T-shirt.

  And then he threw up.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Friday, 29 July

  Charlotte flicked through the TV channels just to make sure she hadn’t missed anything. She hadn’t. God, she was bored. She checked her watch. Ten past nine. The evening was dragging. After a long day on her feet, she’d expected to feel tired. The kids had broken up for the summer holidays and, as Lauren had an early shift at the café today, Charlotte had offered to take Freddie and Florence to the nearby trampoline park. She’d even been persuaded to have a go herself – another attempt to relinquish control and ‘drop the stick’. But bouncing around on the springy contraption had been painful and exhausting. It had also served as a reminder of bouncing around with Barney Hubble at the jousting challenge, so she gave up and resigned herself to watching her niece and nephew from the sidelines.

  The three of them had enjoyed fish and chips at the Coddy Shack, followed by a walk up to Morholt Castle to tackle the maze. Another mistake. The impressive castle ruins had evoked thoughts of a different kind of ‘bouncing’. The memory of which left her feeling slightly stunned. Had she really done that?

  Lauren had arrived home from work looking tired, and complaining of a headache. She’d gone to bed early, leaving Charlotte to feed the kids peanut butter sandwiches, and oversee bath time. By seven-fifteen both kids were tucked up in bed, worn out from their day. She’d taken the opportunity of a quiet night to work on her bundle for the upcoming employment tribunal hearing. Even though it had taken her nearly two hours to draft a witness statement and schedule of loss, she’d finished the task. With nothing else to occupy her, she was now feeling somewhat bored. Not the most exciting way to spend a Friday night.

  She got up from the lumpy sofa and washed her cup in the sink. The flat was eerily quiet. Last night, she’d been disturbed by the sound of her sister crying. It had felt too intrusive to knock on her door and ask if everything was okay. She couldn’t imagine Lauren welcoming an audience, so she’d stayed put, relieved when, in the early hours, the crying had stopped. Lauren had appeared for breakfast wearing dark sunglasses, looking drawn and subdued. Something was very wrong. But Charlotte was at a loss as to how to get her sister to confide.

  Drying the cup, she hung it back on its hook. She wasn’t ready for bed. She’d finished her latest book, painted her nails and folded her laundry. In London, entertainment was on her doorstep – not that she’d had much time to enjoy it, but that was beside the point, it was there if she’d wanted it. But in Penmullion, unless it was a rehearsal night, there didn’t seem to be much else to do. And there’d been no rehearsal last night: it had been cancelled following Jonathan’s heart attack. Everyone was still in shock, even though he’d miraculously survived … just.

  She noticed an entry scribbled on the calendar pinned to the fridge. Friday 29 July – Barney’s gig, Smugglers Inn. She dumped the tea towel on the side, frustrated that her efforts to avoid thinking about him had been thwarted again. She didn’t want to dwell on how much fun she’d had with him, or how alive and exhilarated she’d felt at having succumbed to such physical pleasures. It wasn’t going to happen again, so what was the point in replaying every touch … every kiss … every stroke of his hand … Stop it, she told her traitorous brain, not helpful. It’d been a one-off. A moment of weakness. A lapse in concentration. Keeping her distance was the only sure-fire way of ensuring she didn’t unravel again … and, boy, had she unravelled. Bloody hell. It’d never been like that with Ethan.

  She ran her hands under cold water, trying to dampen the heat building within her.

  After a few deep breaths, she was back in control, her mind no longer allowing such inappropriate images to surface. Good.

  Back to the matter in hand. Her boredom. Was she going to allow a man to dictate her social life? No, she most certainly was not. If she wanted to enjoy an evening listening to live music, then no one was going to stop her, not even Barney Hubble. And she wouldn’t be alone with him, would she? A crowded pub would be perfectly safe.

  Before she could change her mind, she swapped her jeans for her favourite brown-satin Ghost dress, freshened up her make-up, and left the flat, convincing herself she was simply alleviating her boredom. There was no other motive.

  Smugglers Inn was situated on the other side of the quay. Unfortunately, this meant she was forced to negotiate the footbridge. Frequent visits to her dad’s boat hadn’t made crossing the construction any less daunting. Wearing wedge heels didn’t help either. Her centre of gravity lurched to the left as she tried to walk across. She kept her eyes fixed ahead, resisting the urge to hold on to her dress when a gust of wind rolled in from the sea and exposed more bare thigh than she was happy with.

  Safely across, she walked up to where the main collection of restaurants and hotels were situated, overlooking the bay. It was a pretty sight. Lights from the establishments danced happily across the water, inviting the tourists inside. The pubs were busy, the restaurants full, and the neon lights advertising Frenzies nightclub flashed manically.

  Smugglers Inn was set on the waterfront. It wasn’t a new building, but it had been modernised and looked appealing. She could hear music before she reached the doorway. The venue was a reasonable size, refurbished using natural wood, with a modern twist. The designer in her approved. As she waited for her eyes to adjust to the dim lighting, she looked around. On the right-hand side, a long bar ran the length of the room. Nate was behind it, pulling pints of beer for a group of lads. She hadn’t realised he worked here as well as being a postman.

  The left side of the pub was scattered with a series of small tables, currently packed with punters enjoying a night out. At the far end was a small stage.
Perched on a stool, playing an acoustic guitar, was Barney Hubble. Despite a lack of supporting musicians, she could still hear him above the noise of the pub. She recognised the song: The Arctic Monkeys, ‘Baby, I’m Yours’. He had a good voice. He could play too. It was a nice sound. But she didn’t want to stand around watching him like some sad little groupie so made her way to the bar.

  When Nate finished serving, he came over. ‘Hi, Charlotte.’ His eyes searched the space behind her, a hopeful expression on his face. ‘Lauren not with you?’

  She shook her head. ‘Just me, I’m afraid. She’s having an early night. Bad headache.’

  He frowned. ‘She’s not ill, is she?’

  Nate Jones might look like Johnny Depp’s bearded younger brother, but underneath the cool exterior was a right softie. How she wished Lauren would let him into her life. ‘I don’t think so.’ Although, it might explain why her sister had been so out of sorts of late. Maybe she’d suggest Lauren visit her GP for a check-up?

  Thoughts of doctors drew her attention to Barney. He was lost in his own world, his love of music freeing him from the realities of his situation, no doubt. And then she realised Nate had asked her a question. ‘Sorry, what was that?’

  ‘Has Lauren had any strange visitors come to the flat?’

  What an odd question. ‘Not to my knowledge. Why?’

  ‘No reason.’ He rubbed the back of his neck. ‘What can I get you to drink?’

  She was about to order her usual white wine spritzer, when she remembered her sister’s advice to push the boat out a little. ‘What can you recommend? A beer, maybe?’

  As her first attempt at ‘letting go’ had resulted in the loss of her knickers, she had resolved to trying something that wouldn’t put her at risk of an indecent exposure charge.

  ‘Ginger Tosser or Cornish Knocker.’ Nate pointed to the bottles of beer in the cabinet behind. ‘They’re both produced locally. Quite fruity, but not too heavy.’