Chapter Eleven
On Thursday evening, a little before six, Imogen walked the five minutes from Birdie’s house to the village hall, marvelling at how close together everything was in Mistingham, and that most of it was within sight of the sea.
Now nearly three weeks into November, it was fully dark, the grass damp and spongy underfoot.
But the hall windows glowed and there was a large, shimmering sprig of mistletoe adorning the front door.
She pushed it open, stepping into a wall of light and chatter, blinking as her eyes adjusted from the dark night.
‘Imogen!’ Jazz was wearing a rainbow-striped jumper, and jeans that had far too many rips to be sensible at this time of year. ‘I’m so glad you could come. Here’s our motley crew.’ She gestured, and some of the children who were sitting on giant cushions in a circle waved at her.
‘Hello!’ Imogen put on a perky voice without thinking about it, and two identical-looking girls giggled.
‘Everyone, this is Imogen,’ Jazz said, and Imogen saw there were as many adults there as children. Some she assumed were parents, as they were sitting on chairs directly behind the children, and some looked to be in their seventies and eighties. ‘She’s one of the newest residents of the village.’
‘Hi everyone.’ Imogen greeted them a second time and immediately felt foolish.
‘You’re responsible for the mistletoe,’ an older man said. He was wearing a thick red scarf, despite the hall being hot almost to the point of stifling. ‘Painting it unnatural colours.’
‘Christmassy colours,’ Jazz said.
‘And it’s water-based spray-paint,’ Imogen added.
‘It looks ghastly!’ This came from the woman sitting next to the old man. Her greying hair was permed into tight curls, her blue floral dress reaching to her ankles. ‘You wouldn’t go around spray-painting Christmas trees, would you?’
‘We decorate them, though,’ said a woman with long blonde hair, sitting behind a boy whose colouring matched hers exactly. ‘We cut them down, then decorate them.’
‘And you get white trees,’ added another mum, with dark eyes and shiny black hair, her little girl playing with a cuddly tomato. ‘All those fake ones with LED lights. I think they look lovely.’
‘Fake trees,’ said the older woman. ‘Just awful!’
‘Frank and Valerie,’ Jazz said firmly, ‘please be nice to Imogen. She’s new, she’s already helped the village out—’
‘Helped out Harry, you mean,’ Valerie muttered.
‘And she wanted to come tonight because I told her this was a great group, and it was a lot of fun. You’re starting to prove me wrong.’
The old man – Frank – looked chastened. ‘Sorry, Jazzy.
We do want to be here, don’t we Val?’
Valerie folded her arms. ‘What’s the point if we can’t voice our opinions?’
‘This isn’t a village forum,’ Jazz said.
‘That’s a great idea, though,’ said a cheery man with only a few thin wisps of white hair covering his shiny scalp.
‘That’s a suggestion for Ermin, not me,’ Jazz said briskly.
‘I’m here for Story Time. And, considering this started out as a session for children, I think we can safely say that some of us do listen.
I could have sent you all away, couldn’t I?
But this is inclusive, which means I don’t want anyone to feel left out. ’
‘All right, all right,’ Frank grumbled, ‘you’ve made your point.’
‘What are we reading today, miss?’ one of the boys asked, his arm stretched up to the ceiling.
‘So.’ Jazz moved two large cushions so they were facing the semi-circle.
‘I thought we could start something Christmassy, as it’s November and the nights are already cold and dark.
’ She gestured for Imogen to sit next to her.
‘What do you think about A Christmas Carol?’ She held up a slim hardback with a russet red cover, a miniature-style painting on the front.
There were gasps and oohs from the children, which Imogen thought was probably their default noise to anything Jazz said in her spooky voice.
‘Great book,’ Valerie said, still sounding as if she was pissed off with the world.
‘I love that one,’ added the man with the wispy hair.
‘I’m so glad, Gerry.’ Jazz returned his smile.
‘I know some of you might be worried that it’s a scary book, because it can be, in places, but we can deal with that together.
If any of you start feeling scared or there’s a bit you don’t like, then you have to say it out loud, OK?
Like we’ve talked about. Say “Jazz” or “Miss” or “Oi”. Don’t sit there quietly suffering, OK?’
There was a chorus of ‘Yes, miss,’ and ‘Yes, Jazz.’
‘Right. Five minutes to get drinks. Fiona is in the kitchen, and she’ll help you. Then we’ll get started.’
‘Can I put my hand up if I don’t like it?
’ Valerie asked, after the children had discarded their cushions to get squash, and some of the adults had gone for a cup of tea.
‘Of course,’ Jazz said, ‘the rules apply to everyone. But it has to be something you don’t like about the book, not the world in general. ’
‘Fair enough,’ Valerie muttered. Frank leaned in close, whispering something in her ear.
‘I started Story Time for children,’ Jazz told Imogen.
‘The hall is used for some events, but it’s standing empty a lot, so I asked around, put up a post on the village Facebook group about activities residents might want, and Story Time was a popular suggestion.
We don’t have our own library here, so it made sense.
I started reading to groups of children, mostly after school, some weekend sessions, and it just …
spread. It can be hard to find things that are appropriate for everyone, but the adults don’t mind children’s books, and there are some, like the Philip Pullman series, that I think could work well next year. ’
‘They probably like coming for the company as well as the entertainment,’ Imogen said.
‘They need someone they can moan at,’ Jazz added with a grin.
‘And I purposely didn’t mention A Muppet’s Christmas Carol because the small ones would be disappointed that we didn’t have any actual muppets.
But usually, if you put on enough voices, enough dramatic pauses, they’re happy. You did this in London?’
‘A bit. Though it was mostly toddlers, so I was reading picture books with four words to a page.’
‘Do you want to be Marley tonight? He’s in the first chapter.’
‘Oh, I’d love that. Thank you.’
‘Here you go, then.’ Jazz passed her a glass of water. ‘You’ll need it. The crazy heaters in here combined with the eternal dust means your throat will be dry in about five seconds.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Ah, and this.’ She handed over a second copy of A Christmas Carol, this one a tatty, well-read paperback.
Imogen took it gratefully, her pulse ratcheting up as it always did before any kind of performance.
It was a familiar sensation, and she suddenly felt like herself again, rather than a lost, confused, runaway bride with no plans for her future.
As everyone settled on their chairs and cushions, Jazz turned the main lights off, leaving battery-operated tealights flickering around the room.
A standard lamp behind her and Imogen’s cushions provided illumination for them to read by.
Imogen crossed her legs, opened her paperback to the first page, and waited for Jazz to start.
‘And being – from the emotion he had undergone, or the fatigues of the day, or his glimpse of the Invisible World, or the dull conversation of the Ghost, or the lateness of the hour – much in need of repose, went straight to bed, without undressing, and fell asleep upon the instant.’ Jazz slapped the book closed, and there were nervous titters from their audience.
Imogen, too, felt jolted. She had loved being a part of it, putting on a deep, wobbly voice for Marley that had made the children laugh, and Jazz had built the atmosphere brilliantly, her confidence unwavering.
There was a moment of silence, then the adults started clapping, and the children joined in. The twin girls had fallen asleep on each other, and the little blond boy was on his mum’s lap, staring at Jazz as if she’d grown three heads.
‘That’s the end of our first instalment,’ she said. ‘Please thank Jacob Marley for turning up.’ She gestured to Imogen, and Imogen received her cheers and applause as she did a weird, seated bow.
‘Thank you for having me,’ she said in her Marley voice, and a few children squealed.
When Jazz turned on the lights, Imogen saw Fiona sitting on a chair at the back.
The older woman caught her eye and nodded, her smile warm but reserved.
Apart from the grumbles about her mistletoe earlier on, Imogen had been met with nothing but kindness from the villagers, and it felt like she was living inside a luxury hot chocolate, with cream and marshmallows sprinkled on top.
She didn’t know how she was supposed to give it up and go back to London, which was more like standing on the edge of a very high precipice, waiting to either be pushed off, or for her will to run out so she flung herself off.
‘That was awesome,’ Jazz said, when everyone started to disperse, the chill of the evening cutting through the fug of the hall now the door was open. ‘You weren’t kidding about being good at it.’
‘I loved it,’ Imogen said.
‘Want to be the Ghost of Christmas Past next week?’
‘Definitely. Do you want me to wear a fruit basket?’
Jazz laughed. ‘Are you misremembering the Muppet film?’
‘Probably. I just get this impression of a whole lot of fruit.’
‘Maybe we should do a rewatch before next time, to prepare.’
‘Maybe we should.’
Jazz gave her a hug, then Imogen put on Birdie’s green coat and, after saying goodbye to everyone who was left, went out into the cold, drizzly night.
Even like this, Mistingham seemed magical, with its glowing streetlights and the shops all hunkered down, quaint and quiet on Perpendicular Street.
She walked back to Birdie’s with a spring in her step, satisfied and cosy in her blissful hot-chocolate bubble.