The Little Theatre on the Seafront. Katie Ginger
Lottie dumped her bag on the sofa and flopped down too. ‘I guess I’ll have to tell the committee the truth. Maybe show them the letter?’
Sid nodded.
‘But that isn’t going to guarantee anything, is it?’ Lottie thought out loud. ‘I think the mayor is acting chairman at the moment. He stepped up when Nan got sick and he didn’t like her anyway so he could easily say no. I think her constant campaigning over one thing or another got under his skin.’
Sid shook his head. ‘Nah, it would look too bad. How could he say no to a lovely old lady’s final request? But you still need to show you’re up to the job. I think you should give them an action plan or something. At the very least give them some ideas for what you could do to make it popular again, or get more funding.’
‘A presentation?’ asked Lottie, her voice shrinking. She hated speaking in front of people. Public speaking was as scary to her as wearing a bikini.
‘What else are you going to do?’
Lottie thought for a moment but couldn’t come up with a better idea. ‘Okay then. But I’ve got no qualifications, or experience that’ll help in any way.’
‘That doesn’t matter,’ said Sid, cheerfully. ‘Just talk about how you’re going to make it successful. Be positive.’
‘And how am I going to do that?’
Sid scratched the back of his head. ‘I don’t know. What plans did your nan have for the theatre?’
‘I don’t know actually. I guess I could read through Nan’s stuff and see if there’s anything in there?’
Sid stretched out his long arms then rested them behind his head. ‘When’s the next committee meeting?’
Lottie went to the dresser, pausing as her eyes scanned the photos of her and her nan together, and searched through the pile of letters. She found the boring black and white newsletter and read the dates. Her face froze. ‘Oh, shit, it’s next Thursday.’
‘Oh dear,’ replied Sid. ‘We’d better get cracking if we’ve only got a week.’
Lottie groaned and trudged over to a stack of boxes at the back of the living room. The house remained untouched since Elsie’s death and her possessions were everywhere. Though Lottie had tried several times to get rid of things, each time her sorrow had taken over and she’d stopped.
‘Aren’t we eating first?’ asked Sid, concerned. ‘I’m starving.’
‘Can we get started with this lot and then eat, please?’ Lottie’s new diet only allowed twelve hundred calories a day and if she ate lunch too early she’d be an angry maniac by dinner time, raiding the fridge, or eating cornflakes straight from the box. And she’d already eaten half an Easter egg in the car.
‘Okay,’ he conceded, pretending to be huffy. ‘Got any biscuits to tide me over?’
‘In the tin.’ Lottie grabbed a large cardboard box with ‘Save Greenley Theatre’ written on the side. Sid moved the coffee table so Lottie could drag it between them, then she sat on the floor, cross-legged, and removed the lid. A mass of papers slid out and Lottie groaned in response.
‘I’ll make tea, shall I?’ said Sid and headed off to the kitchen. When he returned a few minutes later with two steaming mugs, Lottie was surrounded by mounting piles of paper, the box not even half empty.
‘Look at this,’ said Lottie, handing a theatre programme to Sid. ‘It’s really professional. I thought it would all be black and white photocopies or printouts that someone did at home with crappy clip art.’
‘And look at the list of names for the am dram group,’ he replied, nodding in agreement. ‘They had quite a big cast. Sometimes you get people playing loads of parts, but it must have been quite popular.’
Lottie picked up a dozen more and waved them at Sid. ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Hamlet, King Lear …’
‘Who knew Greenley loved Shakespeare?’
‘Here are the Christmas ones. Oh look, this one is so pretty.’ She shoved a programme for Aladdin into Sid’s face. Lottie gazed at the window seat, her favourite spot in the house, and the light pouring in chased a memory in her mind. ‘Do you know, I think I remember Nan taking me to a panto when I was little.’
‘So do I, actually. And we went in Mrs Thompson’s class in primary school, do you remember?’
Lottie tried to picture the day Sid was talking about. ‘Just about.’
‘You must do,’ said Sid, smiling at the memory. ‘Ben Humphreys wet himself because we wouldn’t stop for the toilet and that horrible Reece called him Potty Poo Pants for the rest of the trip.’
‘Oh yes, now I do.’ Lottie laughed and then, picking up another bundle of papers, groaned again.
Sid scowled. ‘Can you stop making that noise, please? It’s like a cross between a stroppy teenager and a dying cat.’
‘Sorry.’ She cupped the mug of tea in her hands hoping the warmth would make her feel better. ‘It’s just that I always assumed the theatre was just another one of Nan’s causes. She was always on one crusade or another.’
‘She did love this town. What’s that lot?’ asked Sid, pointing to a different bundle of papers before taking another sip of tea.
Lottie rifled through. ‘It’s the minutes from the committee meetings.’ She skimmed a couple. ‘There’s loads of good ideas in here from Nan and they’re all vetoed.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like starting a youth theatre, or asking local businesses to fund some of the renovations in exchange for their names on the brochures.’
‘Not bad,’ replied Sid, leaning forwards. ‘Who vetoed them?’
‘The rest of the committee.’
‘And who’s that?’
‘Umm …’ Lottie flicked through the pages. ‘There’s Mayor Cunningham, but it just has him down as a committee member. It doesn’t look like he’s there in his official capacity, just a normal person.’
‘A normal person in Greenley?’ asked Sid.
‘Well, relatively normal.’ It was true that Greenley had more than its fair share of eccentrics. ‘The secretary’s Sarah Powell, and the treasurer’s Trevor Ryman. There’s some spare seats too.’
‘Well,’ said Sid, sitting back. ‘Mayor Cunningham probably wants to be chairman to sell the land to a developer. He did that with the hospital, didn’t he?’
‘Oh yes. Everyone was campaigning to save it and he and his council cronies pushed through the sale before anyone could do anything about it.’ Lottie tutted. The whole town had felt hoodwinked and her nan had been apoplectic with rage.
‘And Sarah Powell works in my doctor’s surgery,’ Sid carried on. ‘She’s fancied Cunningham for years so she’s always going to vote the same way he does.’
Lottie’s eyebrows knitted together. ‘In this day and age? What a wimp. Who’s Trevor Ryman? Does he own the solicitor’s in town?’
‘Ryman, Wayman and Galbraith? Yeah, his dad set it up and he took it over when the old man retired. I remember covering it. They gave him a carriage clock.’
Lottie laughed. ‘A carriage clock?’
‘I know, shocking, isn’t it? The poor man built the business up from scratch, worked there for fifty years and his idiot son gives him a carriage clock as a retirement gift.’ He shook his head. ‘Terrible.’
Lottie took a swig of her tea and held up the papers. ‘Listen to this: “Proposal