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Occasional bumps and lumps appeared in the stage curtain. Most of the audience members were far too busy greeting friends and exchanging news to pay them any attention, but Julia, already in her seat, with Sean next to her and his hand in hers, watched the bumps and lumps appear and vanish and wondered what was what – elbows and knees, bits of furniture? The chatter swelled and seemed to bounce off the high vaulted ceiling.

The hall was full to bursting. Julia waved at a few people she knew – there were a lot. She was surprised to spot Jim McEnroe in the audience, and wondered if he was perhaps going to review the show for the newspaper. But no, this appeared to be a social rather than a business visit – his new girlfriend Moira was leaning into him in an intimate way. He put his hand on her knee. He must have felt Julia’s gaze because at that moment he looked up and caught her eye. He gave her a little nod and a sheepish grin in greeting.

The last few stragglers came in, craning their heads to find free seats. Julia caught sight of Tabitha amongst them. She had been backstage, doing a last check on the props. Julia hoped she’d remembered to take the gun from the cupboard, where Julia had put it that afternoon, and put it in the pocket of the coat, and the coat on a hatstand, ready for Oscar to wear. Knowing Tabitha, everything was in its place. On top of Tabitha’s wild grey curls was the red beret that had been rejected as too dramatic for Nicky to wear. Unlike the Shy Young Lass, Tabitha could carry off absolutely anything, no matter how bold.

Julia stood up and waved, catching Tabitha’s eye and gesturing to the empty seat next to her. Julia had saved it by plonking her handbag and jacket on it in a proprietary manner. As the hall filled up, it had been mildly awkward. People had come over looking for an empty seat, and she’d had to shoo them politely away, sometimes to head-shaking or tutting. So she was pleased when she could remove her territorial markers, and let Tabitha sit down.

Tabitha squeezed Julia’s arm. ‘Thanks for saving the seat; I know you hate doing it.’

‘Oh, I don’t mind!’ Julia said, untruthfully. They both laughed.

‘Hello, Sean. Gosh, isn’t it full! Half of Berrywick and most of Edgeley must have come to see the play. Anyway, here we are. Warm, isn’t it?’

‘Certainly is. I’m overdressed in my warm jacket, that’s for sure.’

Tabitha fanned herself with the programme which had been made up by Guy’s daughter, who was doing Art for A levels. She’d created it on her laptop, and printed it off on Guy’s small home printer.

‘Is it time?’

Julia looked at her watch. Sixp.m. on the dot. Hector, the prompt, slipped his head and shoulders through the curtains, frowned earnestly into the hall, and retreated. He must have reported back to the director that the village hall was full, and the audience ready for the show, because no sooner had he disappeared than Roger Grave appeared from the same spot between the curtains. It still seemed strange to see him dressed not in his sombre superintendent suit and shiny black shoes, but in slim black jeans, a dark grey polo neck pullover and thick-soled black trainers. He was tall and slim and the clothes sat well on him. His sandy hair, which was usually combed sternly into place over his head, left to right, was now gently and stylishly tousled – had it been gelled, Julia wondered?

He addressed the audience, his voice warm and confident, his face relaxed.

‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the South Cotswolds Players’ performance. Everyone involved – the actors, wardrobe people and other helpers – are amateurs who love theatre, as indeed am I, the play’s director. They have worked very hard and put their hearts and souls into this play, A Night to Remember . Written by our very own Tabitha Fullergood, and performed by a cast of talented local folk – I thank them all. I have no doubt that, as promised by the play’s title, they will give you a night you won’t easily forget.’

Roger took one last, satisfied look at the full hall before him, gave a small bow in acknowledgement of the enthusiastic applause, and disappeared back from whence he had come. Minutes later, the curtains opened to reveal a well-furnished sitting room. Julia recognised the props that she had arranged for the Players to borrow from Second Chances, the charity shop where she worked – a rather ugly but dramatic oil painting of a ship at sea in the sunset, a few side tables, striking red cushions on the sofa, a mantel clock, and, below it, a firescreen in front of a non-existent fire.

‘Well, I must say, the stage set is rather good,’ whispered Sean. ‘Well done.’

When Nicky came in sporting the little yellow hat, Tabitha gave Julia a hard poke with her elbow. They exchanged glances, and shared a small rush of pride in their work. The hat was perfect. Jaunty, yet modest.

The Charming Good-for-Nothing followed her in his midnight-blue velvet jacket.

‘There’s Graham,’ said Jane Powell, in a stage whisper from the row behind them, presumably to her neighbour. ‘That’s a fake moustache.’

‘It’s right realistic, though, isn’t it?’ whispered her neighbour, admiringly. ‘Looks just like he grew it himself. You’d never guess.’

‘He’s fooling people, all right,’ said Jane.

Dylan came on briefly and acquitted himself well as the Dashing Young Rogue. He had few lines, but he delivered them with panache – not too much, just enough, a pause, a little shrug. He had a certain presence about him. Julia had promised her daughter Jess a report of his performance, and she was pleased that she could give a good account. The youngsters had agreed that their holiday romance had to come to an end when Jess returned to Hong Kong, but Julia happened to know that they were in almost daily communication. The flame still burned, it seemed.

Although she’d seen bits and pieces of the play in the previous weeks, Julia hadn’t watched it from beginning to end. The story carried her along quite briskly, and the acting was surprisingly good, for the most part. There was a brief flash of terror when Guy, playing the Postman, who only had four lines to say, froze on the third one. A stressful couple of moments passed while he stood rooted to the spot, gaping like a fish. Excruciatingly long moments for Guy, no doubt, but also for Julia.

Just when Julia thought she would expire from the awkwardness, there came a hiss from offstage: ‘No news is good news, sir.’ It was Hector speaking from the wings.

‘No news is good news, sir,’ echoed Guy, relief washing over his face.

Sean squeezed her hand, knowing Julia would have felt stressed in sympathy, along with Guy. ‘Poor chap,’ he whispered.

She squeezed back.

Tabitha leaned in to whisper in her other ear, ‘Better hope nothing happens to Graham.’

Julia gave a silent snort of laughter at the wry comment. Guy was the leading man’s understudy. Guy might know the lines, but it certainly didn’t look as if he’d have the nerves to deliver them in a big role.

The play was a drama, but it did offer a few laughs – most of them intended, and one or two not. Within ten minutes of curtain-up, Graham’s moustache had detached itself from the upper left corner of his lip and was inching its way slowly upward. Soon it was well on the diagonal. When it reached the edge of his left nostril, forty-five minutes later, it must have started to tickle, because Graham gave a huge sneeze, followed by another. The force of the sneeze further loosened the errant facial hair, which now hung down vertically over his lips, attached by a mere thread of glue, interfering with his delivery of the lines.

Subdued titters came from the audience, and a horrified whisper – ‘Oh, what will people think, Graham?’ – from his wife in the row behind them. Julia smiled to herself. Jane was permanently distracted by the question of what other people thought.

Unfortunately, the facial hair malfunction coincided with a particularly dramatic moment in the play. The denouement was at hand!

Oscar, playing the Upright Husband, stormed in from the wings to confront him about his treacherous lecherous behaviour .

‘You cad!’ he shouted, producing a gun from the pocket of his brown tweed coat.

The audience gasped. And – oddly – giggled.

Oscar stopped short, looking out at the audience in surprise. Why were they laughing at the dramatic end to the play? He looked at Graham and saw the problem immediately. The moustache was hanging comically from his face, swaying gently. Graham seemed not to know what to do about the awkward situation. He was struck dumb and motionless, blinking into the hall.

Oscar, quicker on the uptake, stepped forward, reached out his left hand and gave the moustache a sharp tug, removing it. Graham let out a small yelp. Oscar tossed the strip of facial hair into the wings and picked up where he’d left off.

‘You cad,’ he shouted again, waving his gun at the Charming Good-for-Nothing.

‘Let me explain!’

‘There’s nothing you can say! You must take your punishment.’

Oscar lifted his arm, steadying it with his other hand, the pistol aimed straight at his rival’s chest.

Nicky came running in, shouting, ‘No!’

But it was too late for the Shy Young Lass’s intervention. The dramatic tale of love and deception had only one possible end.

The Upright Husband looked down the gun at the Charming Good-for-Nothing, and pulled the trigger.

A great crack rang through the hall.

The Charming Good-for-Nothing had his comeuppance. He crumpled, thudding heavily onto the wooden boards.

Nicky screamed, a high, ear-splitting shriek.

Lights out. The stage went black. The curtains closed, muffling the sound of Nicky’s screaming.