Clause Seven
The letter came from the parish hall committee, and it ran to two sides.
Ingram had booked the hall for his mother's eightieth — a Saturday afternoon in October, tea and about forty people. He had expected a form and a date. What arrived was a set of instructions in eleven clauses, printed in a typeface that had last been fashionable in about 1978.
“Read me clause four,” Perdita said, from the other end of the sofa.
Ingram read it out. “‘Hirers are to arrive at the hour stated on the booking form and not before. On no account is the building to be entered ahead of the booked period, as the hall may be in use by another party.'”
“Fine. That's clear enough.”
“Clause seven is where it gets interesting.” He cleared his throat. “‘The hall is to be laid out, and all tables and chairs set in position, no later than fifteen minutes before the start of the booked period.'”
Perdita put her tea down. “Say that again.”
“We're not to go in before three,” Ingram said. “And we're to be finished setting up by quarter to.”
“So we're to have laid out forty chairs in a building we're not allowed to be inside.”
“That's how I read it.”
She took the letter off him and went through the rest of it aloud, in the voice of a woman reading a legal document to a dog. Keys were to be collected from the key safe, provided that the safe had been unlocked by a committee member. Under no circumstances were the fire doors to be propped open, unless the caterer required access, in which case a member of the hiring party was to remain at the door throughout. Not until the floor had been swept and the urn switched off might the keys be returned. The hall was available until six, as long as all music ceased by half past five.
“There's nothing in here about a phone number,” Ingram said.
“Clause eleven.” Perdita turned the page over. “‘Any query regarding these instructions is to be directed to the hall manager, whose telephone number is displayed on the noticeboard in the entrance lobby.'”
They looked at each other.
“The lobby's inside,” she said.
“It is.”
“So we may not go in until we've asked, and we can't ask until we've gone in.”
Ingram took the letter back and read clause seven once more, in case it had softened overnight. It had not.
“There's exactly one way to obey all eleven clauses,” Perdita said.
“Go on.”
“We don't have the party.”
Ingram folded the letter along its old crease and put it back in the envelope. “Provided that the floor is swept afterwards,” he said.