Liv, as a valiant but slightly exasperated Arthur, declared, ‘Do your worst, traitor!’
‘Then I shall end you, Arthur,’ cried Bethie-as-Mordred. ‘Your time as king is at an end.’ They battled for a few moments in fierce silence, huffing and puffing behind their visors – then Mordred dealt the final blow.
There was a tragic silence before Merlin cleared his throat. ‘Um. Happy holidays, everyone,’ he said simply. ‘This has been fun. And now,’ he waved his hand, ‘it’s time for us to say goodbye or, as we would say in Cornish …’ He held a hand to his ear and, as one, the audience chanted back:
‘Duw genes!’
That’s when the lights came up on the backdrop that Ivy had spent the morning retouching, painting it in the rich yellows and oranges of a Cornish coastal sunset. Her gaze flew to Trip, wondering if he would notice the additions that she had added – the white snow falling from the purple streaked sky, past the castle and on to the beach below, where it clustered in greatflurries. She’d told herself that it wouldn’t matter if Trip noticed or not. But really, she wanted him to see and understand.
Trip leaned forward slightly, eyes scanning the backdrop, frowning. ‘Ivy,’ he whispered. ‘Did you …’
‘Wait,’ she said. ‘Just wait.’
All around them, people were applauding as the kids bowed. Ivy took it all in – the poster paint, the wooden swords and folk dancers and squeaky instruments and kids who had acted their hearts out, their faces shining in the stage lights, basking in the praise, the cheers and whoops crashing over them.
And then, with all the cast gathered on stage, it began to snow.
Not real snow, of course. Handfuls of tiny pieces of white paper, painstakingly torn by Year 5s and stored in a bin labelled SECRET! (DO NOT THROW AWAY!!) fluttered down like a paper blizzard, thrown by Erin and Callum up in the rafters. It caught the light from the fairy-lit battlements, dusted the cardboard castle in glimmering white, landed on Liv’s shoulders and crowned Bethie once more. The fans Ivy had placed in the corners blew it merrily around the hall.
The audience gasped, then applauded wildly. The little kids shrieked and leapt off their parents’ laps, running about in front of the stage, trying to catch paper flakes on their tongues. Trip laughed under his breath and tilted his head back to watch it fall. The snow was catching in his hair, clinging to his cashmere jumper.
He turned to Ivy. ‘I thought you said it never snows here?’
She blushed. ‘I couldn’t let you leave without getting your dream.’
‘Snow on the beach,’ he said. He took her hand in his and squeezed. ‘Thanks. And what a show. You did it, Ivy.’
‘Youdid it,’ she told him. She gestured around at the hall. ‘This was all down to you. This is one for the history books – the first Fox Bay show that wasn’t an unmitigated disaster.’
Trip’s smile was open, like a kid on Christmas morning. Ivy’s chest ached, in the best way. Suddenly the town hall that smelled of sandwiches and socks, with Trip’s hand in hers and shredded paper landing on her hair, felt like the most romantic place on earth.
The applause and the bows went onfor ever. The crowd, packed on to the creaky folding chairs, stamped and cheered like they were at Glastonbury instead of Fox Bay town hall. Liv took a fifth bow and then a sixth. Bethie gave a sword flourish that nearly took out a light and even the smallest of the smugglers got their turn in the spotlight.
Mr Hargreaves ran on to the stage and flapped his hands for silence. ‘Congratulations, everyone!’ he cried. ‘Now, while the actors were all wonderful, I think we are missing some unsung heroes who deserve their own applause. Let’s hear it for the backstage production team! Trip, Ivy, Erin, Mei, Callum – get up here!’
‘Oh no,’ said Ivy in horror. ‘This is the whole point of beingbackstage. No one pays attention to you.’ She looked around wildly for an escape, but—
‘There’s Ivy!’ cried Liv, darting over to her, and before Ivy could flee, she found herself dragged physically by small sweaty hands on to the stage. But as she faced the rows of people with delighted faces, most of whom she had known all her life, Trip’shand stayed in hers, warm and sure. The applause swelled as they took their bows.
Ivy’s face was burning, but Trip took it in his stride, waving and grinning like he genuinely loved every absurd second of this. He high-fived Merlin and the troupe of sardines. In the audience, Ivy could see Josie blowing effusive kisses, her mum whistling and Raye beaming.
As soon as she could, Ivy tugged Trip down off the stage. ‘Phew,’ she said. ‘That was more intense than I—’
A slight figure barrelled into Ivy, nearly knocking the breath out of her.
‘You magician,’ Raye said into her ear, still squeezing. ‘The snow? The backdrop? The swordfight? I loved it.’
‘You hate theatre,’ Ivy managed, grinning. ‘You said you get second-hand embarrassment from all the pauses.’
‘I likedthistheatre,’ Raye corrected. She looked past Ivy and raised an eyebrow. ‘Andyoumust be Trip,’ she said, sticking out her hand. ‘I’ve heard all about you. Incurable optimist? Director of the first coherent Fox Bay show in living memory? Sunshine to Ivy’s storm cloud?’
Trip, unfazed, extended a hand. ‘That’s me. Hi. And you must be Raye, Ivy’s Fox Bay partner-in-crime and fellow creative?’
‘Guilty,’ said Raye, graciously shaking his hand. She turned and beckoned to Cleo. ‘Cleo, this is Ivy’s friend, Trip. The director of the masterpiece you just witnessed.’
Cleo smiled warmly. ‘Congratulations on the show. Completely unhinged, in the best way.’
‘Now,’ called Mr Hargreaves from up on the stage, ‘the after-party! Everyone grab a chair and stack them up and then we’ll bring out the food.’
