Chapters (49)
- Cover
- Table of Contents
- Also by Graham Hurley
- LIMELIGHT
- Copyright
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- AFTERWARDS
In the afternoon, I take another nap. Evelyn brings me tea around half past five and we spend a girly half hour debating what to wear for the coming event. My choices are very limited. I’ve only brought a single suitcase but that doesn’t matter because I feel very happy in black jeans and a loose crimson top. Evelyn, on the other hand, has an entire wardrobe at her disposal.
After trying on various outfits, we agree that none of them quite hits the mark, and in the end she settles for the beautifully subdued two-piece – a sublime confection in soft blues and greys – that she wore for her event in St Peter’s Church. This, I tell her, has the merit of reminding certain members of the audience about her London pedigree. All those books, all those bestselling authors. Mitch, newly returned from setting up the public hall, agrees.
‘It’ll work for the media people, too,’ he says. ‘They love all that literary shit.’
We set off for the public hall with half an hour in hand. Mitch offers to drive us but both Evelyn and I prefer to go on foot. It’s a lovely evening, still and cold. A full moon is rising above the line of rooftops as we leave the cul-de-sac and link arms and walk down the hill. Already, couples are emerging from their front doors, checking their watches, and setting off in the same direction. Might these people be heading for the public hall as well? The answer, we quickly discover, is yes.
By the time we arrive, the hall is already packed, standing room only at the back and along the side aisles. Mitch has had the foresight to run cables out for a pair of loudspeakers on the apron of hardstanding in front of the hall, and his trusty volunteers have been despatched for supplies of garden chairs to let these good folk take the weight off their feet. Cars and trailers are arriving from every direction, and men twice my age stand ready to offload yet another stack of plastic chairs. Among them, I recognize Bill Penny. He’s supervising the layout of this supplementary arena, a shallow crescent of white and dark green plastic seating, fast filling up.
‘Thank God for the croquet club.’ He’s beaming. ‘I knew those bloody awful chairs would come in handy.’