‘So you will do it?’
Carole let out a long-suffering sigh. ‘Oh, very well.’ Having made that concession, she now deigned to show a faint interest in the SADOS. ‘What play is your chaise longue going to feature in?’
‘The Devil’s Disciple.’
‘Doesn’t mean anything to me.’
‘George Bernard Shaw.’ Carole’s grimace didn’t need the support of words. ‘Not your favourite, do I detect?’
‘I once spent a very long time sitting through Heartbreak House. I’ve known shorter fortnights.’
‘Yes, he can be a bit of an old windbag. But there are still some good plays. Pygmalion, Major Barbara, Saint Joan … they still just about stand up.’
‘I’ll take your word for it. And what about The Devil’s Disciple – does that still stand up?’
Jude shook her head. ‘Haven’t seen it. Never actually heard the title until Storm mentioned it.’
Carole could not restrain herself from saying, ‘Is your friend really called “Storm”?’
‘Whether she was actually christened it, I don’t know. But “Storm” is the name by which she’s known.’
‘Oh dear. Well, I suppose it goes with the amateur dramatics.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Jude, suppressing a giggle at the Caroleness of Carole.
‘And will the good burghers of Smalting really come out in their thousands to see a minor work of George Bernard Shaw?’
‘That,’ said Jude, ‘remains to be seen. But it doesn’t matter a lot to us, because our only involvement in the production will be delivering a chaise longue.’
Little did she realize how wrong that assertion would prove to be.
Following Storm’s instructions, relayed by Jude, Carole nosed the Renault into the car park by the church, within walking distance of a fairly new Sainsbury’s Local.
The hall next to St Mary’s in Smalting was a clone of thousands of other church halls throughout the country. Built in stout red brick towards the end of Victoria’s reign, it had over the years hosted innumerable public lectures, wedding receptions, jumble sales, beetle drives, children’s parties, Women’s Institute coffee mornings and other local events. More recently its space had also accommodated, according to shifting fitness fashions, classes in Aerobics, Swing Aerobics, Pilates and Zumba. The hall, as Carole and Jude had cause to know from the time when they were investigating the discovery of some bones under a beach hut in Smalting, was also the regular venue for the Quiz Nights of the Smalting Beach Hut Association.
Like others of its kind, St Mary’s Hall had been in a constant process of refurbishment, though it was never refurbished quite as well as it should have been. The most recent painting of the doors and windows in oxblood red had not been enough to counter the institutional feeling of its cream walls. And nothing seemed to remove the hall’s slightly shabby aura or its enduring primary school smell of dampness, disinfectant and dubious drainage.
Storm’s instructions to Jude had been exact. If they arrived at six, the read-through of The Devil’s Disciple would definitely be over by then. And so it proved. The two women had manhandled the chaise longue out of the Renault, but once they were inside the hall, they were encumbered with help. Storm came swanning across to greet them with a shriek of ‘Jude, darling!’, which made Carole’s face look even stonier. For the read-through Storm’s hair had undergone another transformation. It was now black, centrally parted and with little curls rather in the manner of Betty Boop. She scattered introductions over Carole and Jude like confetti, far too quickly for the information to be taken in, and organized a couple of men to take the chaise longue into the storeroom.
‘Can’t thank you enough, Jude darling. We will look after it very well, I promise.’
‘I’m sure you will.’
‘And now, look, since we’ve finished the read-through, we were all just about to adjourn to the pub. You will join us, won’t you?’
‘Well, I don’t think—’
Cutting across Carole’s words and ignoring the semaphore in her expression, Jude replied, ‘Yes, we’d love to.’
They only knew one pub in Smalting, the Crab, and that wasn’t really a pub. It was far too poshed-up to be the kind of place that a local could drop in for a pint. It was almost exclusively a restaurant, and the tiny bar area was designed only for people sipping a pre-prandial aperitif.
But fortunately it wasn’t the Crab that Storm Lavelle led them to. Almost adjacent to St Mary’s Church was a pub called the Cricketers (though why it was called that nobody had ever thought to ask – it was miles from the nearest cricket ground), and it was clear as soon as they walked in that the SADOS members were familiar guests. And welcome guests. The landlord, a perky, bird-like man called Len, seemed to know most of the amateur actors by name. Given the declining numbers of visitors to pubs, the Cricketers was glad of any group who would fall in regularly after rehearsals on a Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday.
Early that particular Sunday evening the amdram crowd seemed to account for most of the pub’s clientele. Or maybe, just because they all talked so loudly and flamboyantly, they gave the impression of having taken over the place.
Carole Seddon felt extremely old-fashioned. She hadn’t wanted to come to the pub and now she was there all she wanted was to be back in her neat little house, High Tor. Also, although she would never admit to being ‘a slave to the television schedules’, there was a programme on Sunday nights that she didn’t like to miss. About midwives, it combined the unrivalled ingredients of contractions and nuns. Carole sneaked a look at her watch. Only twenty past six. Too early to use the show as an excuse for an early departure. Not of course that she’d ever have revealed the real reason why she wanted to get back.
Jude had moved forward to the bar and just ordered two large glasses of Chilean Chardonnay when she was intercepted by a large man with a ginger beard, whom they’d been vaguely aware of overseeing the transfer of the chaise longue to the storeroom.
‘Let me get those,’ he said in a voice with a trace of Scottish in it. ‘A small thank you to you for sacrificing your furniture to our tender mercies and bringing it over here.’
He thrust a twenty-pound note at the barman and the two women thought they were justified in accepting his generosity. He turned to a young woman also queuing at the bar. ‘Let me get you one too, Janie.’
‘Oh, you’re always buying me drinks.’
‘And it’s always my pleasure. What’re you having?’
‘Vodka and coke, please.’
‘Your wish is my command. Add a vodka and coke, Len.’ The barman nodded. ‘And a predictable pint of Guinness for me, please.’
While the bearded man was getting their drinks, the girl introduced herself as ‘Janie Trotman’. She was slender, dark, quite pretty, dressed in shiny leggings and a purple hoodie. ‘I’m playing Essie,’ she volunteered.
‘Sorry. I don’t know the play,’ said Jude.
‘It’s the only young female part, so I suppose I’m lucky to get it.’
‘You don’t sound too sure about that.’
‘Well, I’m certainly not sure about the play. Having just sat through the read-through, it all seems a bit long-winded to me.’
At that moment a short, dumpy woman with improbably red hair bustled across to them. ‘Hello, you two look new,’ she said to Carole and Jude. ‘I’m Mimi Lassiter, Membership Secretary. Also part of the crowd in Act Three, you know, one of the Westerbridge townsfolk.’