The hall was hung with dusty red velour curtains. There were orange plastic chairs stacked against the wall, and a trestle table bearing an unwashed coffee mug, a free newspaper from yesterday afternoon, a ruptured tennis ball and a discarded umbrella with its workings mangled by a strong wind. One door led into the church next door; the other said FIRE ESCAPE and led into the mite-filled alley between the hall and the neighbouring barber’s shop.
The barber, Antonio Anthonis, born in Athens, raised on Eurovision, described the hall as “a nice enough place for the kids, yes?”
The vicar’s wife, who handled all the hiring and scheduling of events, described St Christopher’s Hall as “a friendly community venue where people of every age and disposition can come together in celebration of each other and their local area.”
The vicar, the Reverend Adam Weir, with a more liberal understanding of most things than his missus, described it as “twenty-five an hour and you’ll wonder why you’re forking out so much, but, believe me, when you see the other places you’ll just be thrilled. Price goes down to twenty pounds an hour if you can convince me you’re doing something moral or pious, and fifteen an hour if there’s free tea and biscuits. Church reserves the right to take leftovers and I don’t drink Earl Grey.”
Sharon explained what they did.
The vicar listened. His eyes had run politely but thoroughly over Sharon as she’d talked, taking in her ankle-high purple boots, cropped jeans with the tattiness left in, orange tank top and the streaks of electric blue dyed into the front of her hair. He nodded appreciatively at the key bits, though his eyes did eventually start to glaze over.
“So,” she concluded, “I think, yeah, that it’s… it’s moral and has biscuits.”
“Tell you what,” he said. “Throw in an extra packet of Jammie Dodgers and we’ll call it a tenner.”
That was five weeks ago.
She’d had to wait two weeks for Gospel Singing (Level 2) to finish their rehearsal period in the hall, and also, Power Dance (Dance Your Way to the New You!) had got in first to the slot she’d wanted, forcing her to push things back another three weeks. Following her posting of time and place on Facebook and Twitter, the feedback was generally good, though some people did ask if there was a discreet way in.
It had of course been one of the things she’d checked in advance.
She arrived early, while the hall was still occupied by Youth Judo (Discipline, Fitness and Safety for Your Children), and waited outside until the mums had collected their small robed warriors. The instructor was the last to leave. He was a short man with dreads down to his hip and a white duelling shirt that warped under pressure from within. His face was the brown of soil after rain, and his smile was dazzling.
“Dan,” he said, gripping Sharon’s hand with fingers that could have squashed coconuts like a wet sponge. “You must be… What do you guys do?”
“Support group,” Sharon explained.
“First time here, yeah? Where were you before?”
“Nowhere. This is our first meeting ever.”
“Wow, that’s great. Hope it goes well for you.” Another flash of teeth, brilliant in the fading light of evening. “Have a good one, yeah?”
And he too left.
For a moment Sharon stood alone in the hall.
Outside, the sky was a cloud-scudded grey-blue, sliced with falling autumn leaves. From the pub on the corner she could hear students from the local hall of residence discovering just what the deal was with cider and, importantly, what happened after. The smell of paprika drifted in from the restaurant two doors down. Someone dinged their bell as they cycled by. In Exmouth Market, lined with cafés, bars and boutiques, darkness was an invitation to raise the volume. The church and its community hall was a box of silence against the rising sounds of laughter and the clatter of glasses.
She put down her plastic bags on the table. They contained five packets of custard creams, six of Jammie Dodgers, two of chocolate fingers (milk) and two of chocolate fingers (white). A bag of apples to make up for the sweetness of all that had gone before and a bunch of bananas for those who didn’t like apples because, frankly, who didn’t like bananas? A large box of builder’s teabags, a smaller box of Earl Grey. Another small box–of herbal teas (mixed) for those who didn’t like tea–a litre of milk, a box of white sugar, a packet of plastic teaspoons, a packet of plastic cups, a packet of foam cups (heat resistant) and a bundle of paper plates. Two packs of bright red napkins because you never knew, one bottle of instant coffee in case no one drank tea, two litres of orange juice from concentrate, one litre of apple. A kettle. Small, white, plastic. Just in case.
Turned out, the hall had its own kettle. After all, the leaflet did say “amenities provided”.