The Crows

3:2 [Meet the Locals]

Pagham-on-Sea's History Society met in the old Scouting hall a good walk out of town, sat on the end of a road that terminated at a fenced car park and scattered picnic tables overlooking the sea. It was a large, single-storey hall of dark green concrete blocks with a rusty tin roof, bearing the old remnants of the Boy Scout logo above the door.

Pushing open the heavy fire door, Carrie entered a musty land of electric heaters and utilitarian furniture, the space lined on each side with stacked tables and hard black plastic chairs that left scuff marks along the linoleum floor. The small gathering of people in the central ring of chairs turned as she approached, and Carrie found herself taking a step back.

Which one was Mr Bishop? Perhaps the older gentleman with the loud checked jacket and awful toupee. He stood up, approaching with an extended hand.

"Caroline Rickard, I presume! Thank you for your email, my dear. Welcome."

Carrie's heart leapt into her throat and hammered for release. She shook his hand as firmly as she dared, while what felt like thousands of eyes fixed her with curious stares.

"Welcome to our happy little band." Their self-elected spokesman released her from his enthusiastic grip, florid and jovial. "I am the vice-chair, Mr Bishop's second-in-command, so to speak, widely knowledgeable on several topics, but Classical History is my specialist subject, as it were. Colonel Mark Curtis, at your service." He stood to attention, a gentleman from another age.

Carrie forced her lips into a twitchy smile. "Nice to meet you, Colonel."

The Colonel's lively chocolate eyes twinkled over the bridge of his Roman nose. "Not often we get new blood in our humble circle," he said, offering her an empty chair. "Do take a seat."

Carrie, rubbing nervous hands along the seams of her jeans, made her way into the circle and sat down.

The woman across from Carrie, a severe-looking retiree with the uneven, weathered tan of a persistent gardener, gave her a faint smile. Her red blouse and high-waisted black-and-white striped skirt gave her a striking aspect.

"Lovely to meet you at last, Caroline," the woman said, pleasantly enough. "We've all heard so much about the renovations. It's all very exciting."

"Yes, indeed, but now is the time for introductions, Beverley," the Colonel admonished. "Let's do this in some semblance of order, what? Ms Rickard, this is Mrs Sheila Azeman, our secretary."

Carrie nodded in greeting at the next around the circle. There were already too many names to remember – new people on her shift, Mercy's partner from the other night, and now what felt like a whole room full. She tried to focus.

A stout lady in a smart, cool-grey trouser suit that contrasted against her warm brown skin, perhaps in her late sixties or early seventies at Carrie's best guess, inclined her head.

"You'll need to fill this out." She passed a form across to Carrie.

"Oh." Carrie hadn't intended to join. "I - I was only visiting, I don't think I can afford a membership fee at the moment..."

"There's no fee." Sheila Azeman smiled, showing two elongated canines.

Carrie took the form.

"Pen, please?" It came out as a squeak.

Mrs Azeman produced one, seemingly from thin air.

Carrie signed herself up, handing back the pen and paper when she was done, and the introductions continued. Who had been around sixty years ago? She eliminated the younger members like Dev Syal, history teacher and another fellow Londoner, and a few others.