Chapter Twelve
Ensconced in Winifred’s crowded dining room with Arthur lying heavily on her feet, Imogen felt like a ten-year-old, coloring
in contentedly and waiting for tea to be brought.
She heard the door being nudged open with a foot and jumped up to help.
Winifred put down her loaded tea tray and leaned over.
“That’s awfully good. You are clever, my dear,” she said, admiring the posters Imogen had already produced. Choosing a simple
design, easy to reproduce quickly, she had spelled out Save Our School , boldly emphasizing the first letter of each word so, from a distance, it read SOS , with the time and venue filled in below. She had already managed to finish three.
“We need one at each of the bus stops, then there’s the noticeboard outside the church and the other by the village hall,
plus the one for the door of the shop—that’s five,” Winifred said. “Of which, the one in the shop is the most vital.”
“Because more people will see it there?” said Imogen.
“Well, yes,” said Winifred slowly, “and, perhaps more to the point, so many more people will hear about it there, thanks to the communicatory zeal of Mesdames Joan and Muriel,” she added with a wry smile.
Later, Imogen and Genny went around the village with posters and drawing pins, gratified to see little knots of chattering
people were gathering around the notices before they had even finished putting them up.
The slither and flop of the post arriving through the letterbox made Imogen jump.
Taking the post through to the study, she leafed through, tossing the junk mail into the wastepaper bin.
Setting aside a boring window envelope from the gas supplier, doubtless a bill, she laid the two remaining letters on the
desk side by side. Still nothing that looked to be from Gabriel’s Middlemass Hall trustees. One was an expensively midnight-inked
scrawl that she delightedly recognized as Sally’s. A handwritten letter is a beautiful thing, thought Imogen, turning over
the thick vellum envelope appreciatively and then putting it to one side to enjoy later. The other was a plain brown envelope
with a Swansea postmark and what felt like a piece of card inside. Ripping it open, she whipped out the card, thrilled to
see the DVLA logo at the head. The note read, We are writing to inform you that Mrs. Imogen Hewitt has been allocated a driving test at 10.00 a.m. on 23rd December...
She whooped with glee and was rewarded by a hefty kick in the kidneys from the little one, her heart thudding quicker with nerves. It might only be mid-October now, but that only really gave her a couple of months. She suddenly felt hideously unprepared. She needed Gabriel to let her do a bit more practice over the next few weeks. It was awkward for her to ask, with his attitude toward her at the moment.
She tapped it into her online calendar both as a timed event and as an all-day, relieved to see that it was the day after
a checkup with Morag the midwife and not clashing. She had forgotten the previous one, and Morag had turned up at the house
within an hour of the appointment time, breathing fire but clearly relieved—underneath her brusque manner—that Imogen was
just forgetful and not somehow so ill she couldn’t leave the house. Her brain had turned to mush with the pregnancy and, with
no job other than her art to mark off time, she had got scattier than ever. Constantly mislaying her phone, she sometimes
needed to turn on the radio or television for a clue about what day of the week it was, let alone the date.
Pausing to savor a little fantasy about bowling up to London in an open-topped sports car, hair blowing in the wind, one hand
insouciantly on the wheel, she tore open the letter from Sally. The combination of flamboyant, right-sloping scrawl and the
relative brevity of the letter, exclamation marks scattered generously throughout, was the personification of Sally as sure
as a photograph would be.
Read your email occasionally! was the first exhortation. And switch on your mobile was the second. She had a point, admitted Imogen guiltily. Who does letters nowadays when you can scribble and launch into the ether in seconds? I can’t be doing with all that scrabbling
around for stamps and carrier pigeons, it continued impatiently.
Hope you and the little (big?) bump are well. Hectic at work so keep forgetting to call, except in the evening but then don’t, assuming you country folk go to bed with the sun.
Mentioned the scarlet woman to Alistair—hope you don’t mind—but nice to talk to him about something other than how dysfunctional
our relationship is. Al actually came up with a good idea! He suggested you get a private detective on to it to find out who,
what, and why. Personally, didn’t know they existed IRL but apparently, it’s not just detective novels and 1950s movies. Anyway,
just a thought because personally I never would have thought the old fart (dear, dear Nigel) would have had it in him but
am thoroughly intrigued, aren’t you?
Imogen thought intrigued was probably not quite the word. Since the stomach-lurching discovery of the letter from the mystery blonde, she was ashamed
to admit she had thought about his apparent betrayal less than she would have anticipated. Her brief married life with Nigel
was beginning to feel like something that happened to someone else a long time ago. Coming alone to Middlemass, waiting for
the baby, she was cocooned, existing in limbo between the past and the future. The letter from Sally was an intrusion into
the calm, a shocking blast of cold air from the real world. Disturbed, Imogen read on:
Real reason for note being, found the business card for Quentin Barker-Williams (that literary agent bloke I mentioned—met
at party, v. boring but influential apparently... no telling by appearances). Anyway, he works with an agent who’s THE
big noise in children’s books. Left them at work so call me in the office for her details ASAP!!!!
Wiping the sludge of dead wet leaves from their feet, the rain-sodden crowds filled the village hall. Condensation ran down the windowpanes as the temperature quickly rose inside. The smell of sheep from wet woolen coats was all-pervading, and voices, sharing scant information and rumor, rumbled around the hall.
Imogen pressed herself against the wall. She had been pleased when Genny had offered to give her a lift to the public meeting.
Ulterior motives had quickly become apparent, though, and she found herself making promises with a confidence she no longer
felt in the five minutes it took them to arrive at the hall. She could hardly have refused to help when Genny was so nervous.
The headmistress, Mrs. Marshall, had cried off the public meeting with a flare-up of the ill health that had kept her away
from the school for much of the term. Genny had reluctantly agreed to brief everyone herself. Imogen noticed with sympathy
that Genny was now trembling with nerves at taking on such a high-profile role.
“Frankly, stopping a class full of six-year-olds from killing themselves and each other every day would frighten most people
a lot more than talking to a bunch of adults,” Imogen had said encouragingly, but Genny had just given her a wan little smile.
“Thanks so much for agreeing, though, Imo,” she had said. “If we’ve got people like you pitching in, I know we’ll be fine.”
Imogen didn’t like to point out she wouldn’t feel fine if she had people like her on side, but she was flattered by Genny’s faith.
She was amused to see the Mothers’ Union contingent fussing with coats and capacious handbags as they claimed seats in the
front row. Winifred had been right. They may have had their meeting venue snatched out from under their noses, but nothing
would persuade them to miss such a potentially dramatic event as this.
Her eyes were drawn to the door at the back of the hall just as the flicky-haired woman from the fête—who must be the Louise
that Genny mentioned—swept in, simpering at someone behind her who was holding open the door. It was Gabriel. Of course, it
was. Imogen watched as he returned Louise’s smile and solicitously helped her take off her coat—as if she had lost the use
of her arms, thought Imogen sourly. The vibe was entirely of casual, happy intimacy as Imogen watched her reach up to pick
a piece of fluff off his collar, smiling up at him winningly.
“Sit near the front, won’t you, Imo?” pleaded Genny, interrupting her thoughts. “I don’t want just those old gasbags in my
sight line,” she said, indicating the Mothers’ Union ladies, who were now firmly installed, chatting and passing around a
bag of humbugs.
“Of course, I will,” Imogen assured her.
“Good, you can sit between me and Gabriel, then,” said Simon, materializing at Imogen’s elbow. She saw Gabriel looking stony-faced,
now following behind having off-loaded Louise at the back of the hall, where she seemed to be queuing to sign the petition.
“There’s strength in numbers, and that way we can shout down the hecklers together,” Simon added, grinning reassuringly at
Genny.
“Hecklers?” she quavered, turning a shade paler.
“Okay, no hecklers, but we can lead the applause from the front,” amended Simon.
“Not much to applaud, sadly,” said Genny.
“There will be,” said Simon. “People always rise to a challenge. Just tell ’em what needs to happen, and we’ll all make sure
it does.”
“I’m surprised Winifred isn’t here,” observed Imogen, having scanned the crowds thoroughly. “She’s been right behind this
whole thing.”
“Ah,” said Simon. “Sadly, I think I know why. Her old dog died last night. I bumped into her just this morning... She was
being terribly brave, but you could tell she was very upset.”
“Oh no!” Imogen gasped. “I only saw him yesterday...” Her heart ached for the older woman. The creaky old chocolate Labrador
had been her constant companion. She must go and offer condolences.
“I think we should start now, darling,” said Simon to Genny encouragingly, shooing her and the others toward the front.
“Er—oh—okay,” stammered Genny. “There’s quite a lot of noise,” she added nervously when they got to the top of the room, turning
reluctantly to face the crowd as the stragglers slid into their seats.
Imogen, keen to have Simon sit between her and stony-faced Gabriel, tried to maneuver as far away as possible, but Gabriel
swept in next to her at the last minute, along with Louise, who had popped up again, giving Imogen a basilisk stare before
taking the seat Gabriel was offering on his other side.
Simon squeezed Genny’s arm reassuringly and raised a hand. “Let’s all hear what Genny has to say, shall we?” he said in a voice that seemed barely raised, but the authority was absolute. The noise immediately died to a murmur and then stopped.
“Th-thank you all for managing to come along tonight, I know we are all very busy—” Genny began quietly.
“Speak up, love,” shouted a male voice from the back.
“S-sorry,” said Genny, louder. “I—er—Mrs. Marshall sends her apologies to you all. She isn’t too well, as many of you know,
but I’ll try to explain what’s going on at the school as best I can, then we need to see how we can all get together to sort
it out.” Genny’s color and confidence returned as she spoke.
It took ten minutes for Genny to go through the details. Voices tutted and gasped as the scale of the problem unfolded, and
outraged chatter burst out briefly when she explained the Education Authority’s plan to merge the school with Latchfield.
She had come well prepared, and Imogen was touched at how people cooperated, listening carefully and asking questions to clarify
points as they were raised. A community with such a range of ages and characters all unified in a common quest. It was a community
she felt proud to belong to. She stroked her bump, feeling unaccountably moved.
As Genny waved the builder’s eighty-thousand-pound quote for the essential repairs and restructuring work, voices murmured,
“Where’s Bill?” and “What about Bill taking a look, that’s never going to cost that much, surely... especially if Bill
would take it on.”
Bill Cromer was sitting toward the back of the hall, a ruddy-faced man in his fifties, solid rather than fat, with huge, rough hands, Imogen noticed, and an air of quiet authority. He put out his hand to look at the paperwork that was eagerly passed back by those sitting in front of him.
“Give me a minute, my love. I’ll need my glasses...” he burred, waving at Genny to carry on and then reaching into his
shirt pocket for a pair of wire-rimmed glasses that he put on ponderously.
Imogen sat, armed with the paper and Biro that she had brought to take notes of who had volunteered for what. She had already
assiduously written down that the Mothers’ Union en masse had volunteered to organize a cake bake. Muriel would chair the
first committee meeting to plan it next week.
A desiccated, bespectacled man volunteered to manage correspondence with the Local Education Authority, including the delivering
of the petition against the merger with Latchfield. Murmurs of approval throughout the hall greeted this news, and those sitting
on either side patted him on the back.
Gabriel touched Imogen on the arm, making her start violently.
“That’s Mr. Fielding, the solicitor,” he said, regarding her strangely.
“Yep. Right,” replied Imogen in a whisper, trying to sound alert and efficient.
“So, you might want to write it down, then,” he continued, pointing at the paper.
“Right,” said Imogen again, blushing and bending her head to the page.
After that, she drifted off a little, lulled by the warmth and the drone of voices as they talked back and forward about the best approach to take with the Education Authority.
Dreamily twiddling a lock of hair with her Biro, perusing in her head the sketches she had done that morning for a new Tango
and Ruth storyline, Imogen suddenly realized Genny had said her name.
“It’s just so brilliant we have all these people with the skills and the will to help,” Genny was saying. “Imogen, who hasn’t
even been in the village for long, has really kindly promised to help us decorate the school with some brilliant new murals,
haven’t you, Imogen?”
Imogen nodded, tugging frantically where the pen had got snarled up in her hair.
“I know there are a couple of things Imogen needs, and also, you may not all know her by sight,” Genny continued, not noticing
the struggle. “Imogen, would you like to just introduce yourself?”
Giving the Biro a last abortive wrench, Imogen stood up and turned to face the crowd, Biro dangling just below her ear. She
felt Gabriel and Louise looking up at her. She didn’t dare to catch Gabriel’s eye.
“Er, yes, hi, everyone, I’m Imogen, and I just thought it would be really nice to do some colorful murals in the school once we’ve finished the refurbishment. It should be good fun, and I hope lots of people will get involved.” She shifted from foot to foot nervously. “We’re going to need quite a lot of emulsion paint, doesn’t matter what colors because we can tint them to get what we need. So, if anyone has any cans of emulsion left over that they don’t need—pale colors are the most useful—it would be great to have them. Also, the more brushes we can get—all sizes—the more people can give me a hand if they’d like to,” Imogen said with a shy smile, ducking her head and sitting down.
“That would be a great way to get the kids involved,” said a voice.
“Don’t talk stupid,” said another. “They’d just mess it up, wouldn’t they?”
“Not at all,” replied Imogen, half standing up again. “I could easily do a sort of ‘painting-by-numbers’ system. It would
be wonderful to have the children’s help.”
Imogen blew a sigh of relief when attention turned to the next matter on the agenda.
“I think you’ve lost an earring,” hissed Gabriel, shoving another Biro at her. “At least, this looks like a match for the
one on the left.”
“Oh, ha ha,” she muttered mirthlessly, finally managing to wrench the pen free and taking a chunk of her hair with it. She
could see Louise out of the corner of her eye, smirking delightedly. “So, what do you think, Bill?” said Genny, looking hopefully
at the builder raising his hand for attention.
Slowly, he got to his feet.
“Well, my love, from the look of this quote—and I’d have to see the job for myself—there’s quite a bit of work to be done,”
he said. Genny’s face fell.
“Yes, there is, of course...” she said sadly.
“Now, now, I’m not saying it can’t be done, mind,” he continued. “I’ll tell you something, you can knock about fifteen grand off the materials costs, there’s healthy profit built into this quote by the look of the quantities involved. No, with the discounts we can get for buying at trade prices, there’s no need to worry about us taking profits on that.”
Murmurs of support filled the hall, a buzz of optimism beginning tentatively to build.
“The other big cost is the labor, of course,” he continued. “Now, we’re going to need some skilled workers for this, but a
heck of a lot is just humping and carrying. It’ll be hard work, but if a few of the lads in the village don’t mind workin’
up a sweat, then I don’t mind bossin’ them about a bit. We can cut out a few thousand on that alone, and I can ask my own
lads if they can give a bit of time for free in the evenings an’ that.”
“It all sounds absolutely wonderful, Bill,” said Genny, her eyes beginning to shine with hope. “When do you think we can get
things underway? Money allowing, of course.”
“Oh, don’t you worry about money up front, my love,” said Bill. “If we can be startin’ a bit of the groundwork as soon as
the kids break up for the holidays—just a bit in the evenings, like—we can schedule the main stuff for the break between Christmas
and the New Year, I reckon—that’s always a dead time for us, see.”
“Perfect,” Genny breathed. “If we could get it done before the start of the new term...”
Bill held up a restraining hand. “That’s assuming we can sort out the bodies to help,” he said, looking expectantly around
the hall.
Several of the men put up their hands, and Imogen noticed a lot of stern-faced women elbowing spouses to volun teer. Gabriel stood to see who was offering and fed names to Imogen for her list.
“And me, of course,” he said finally when she got to the end.
“Didn’t have you down as the bottom cleavage type,” joked Imogen.
“Didn’t have you down for the type that went weak at the knees at the first whiff of a bit of manly sweat.”
“Well, I’m not, actually,” said Imogen hastily. He obviously assumed she was flirting. Perish the thought.
“No, of course not, it’s a pinstripe man that turns you on, isn’t it? Just one hint of a city salary and an expense account,
and you’re anybody’s, I should imagine—as long as he’s called something like Jeremy or Rupert, and he’s prepared to deal with
everything, so you don’t have to,” said Gabriel, leaving Imogen breathlessly searching for a crushing reply as he wandered
off to say something to Joan. She felt like she had been led into a silly flirting game and then immediately slapped sharply
across the face for falling for it. That wasn’t going to happen again. Gabriel was disappearing toward the rear of the hall
now, his back view radiating his bad mood. Imogen was too far away to hear, but she noticed with irritation that both Muriel
and Joan immediately simpered archly at him and that Louise was prowling beside him, deflecting anyone who got too close.
She wondered what the hell was eating him. Whatever it was, he seemed to think it was her fault. If this was the mood he was in, she was glad he had not mentioned offering any further driving lessons, despite his earlier promises. She sure as hell wasn’t going to bring it up herself. And then she remembered his terrible loss when Annabel was drowned. It was hardly surprising he got down at times. And maybe his taking it out on her was a compliment of sorts. He felt comfortable enough to let out his feelings with her. Or something. Or maybe it was because he actually cared? No, that couldn’t be it... If he wasn’t making it obvious himself, then that Louise woman was clearly keen to communicate she had some sort of hold on him.
In the interests of discipline, Imogen stopped herself from calling Sally about the literary agent first thing. Instead, she
stuck with her recently established routine. First was a bike ride to the village shop for milk, bread, and a newspaper. Then,
it was back to the house to post something—anything—on her Insta. Usually shy about showing her artwork, she had—as a discipline—got
into the habit of uploading her work, or perhaps a photo of her daily walk, to her @Storybook_Ending Instagram account every
single morning without fail. She was now watching with amazement as the likes and followers climbed from one day to the next.
The truth of it was, social media made her feel exposed, and she hated carrying her phone everywhere, pinging away and destroying
her concentration, so once she had posted in the morning, she generally switched it off. No wonder poor Sally had been complaining
about her being incommunicado. Once the social media chore was done, Imogen would settle down to drawing and painting in the
crooked little attic room next to her bedroom. Later she would have lunch, and the afternoon usually involved a walk.
Ruth and Tango had taken on an existence of their own, occupying her thoughts throughout each day. They even gate-crashed her dreams with snatches of storylines and vivid, detailed images that made her want to grab her pad and pencil as soon as she woke.
Today, she was determined to finish a demanding double page of illustration, and when she finally laid down her brush, it
was already two o’clock. After cheese on toast, Imogen even thought about delaying her call to Sally until the following day,
keen as she was to set out on her walk without wasting more of the precious late autumn daylight. She could spend the time
when she was walking mentally planning out the mural for the school. But then, realizing further prevaricating would make
her look ungrateful for the trouble Sally had gone to, she put down her post-lunch coffee and reached for her phone.