The Westwich Writers Club

The Westwich Writers Club. 16

2010-06-01T19:44:00.006+01:00

It was ten thirty by the time Stephen got home. He parked his car in his usual spot at the front of the building and let himself in with his passkey. As he opened the door to his flat he heard a voice from behind.

'You keep stranger hours than me, Stephen.'

Stephen turned, a big smile across his face.

'I've been to a special meeting of my writers club, for some reason they want me on the committee.'

'It's nice to be wanted,' said Charlie. 'You're very much wanted here too, my laptop has lost the plot, could you have a look at it please? I wouldn't bother you at this time of night usually, but there's a report on it that I need tomorrow, I'll be for the high jump if I don't hand it in on time.'

'No worries, I'll take a look at it now.'

Stephen followed Charlie into her flat and through to the kitchen. The laptop was sat on the dining table, on the screen was an error message informing him that the operating system could not start.

'It happened a couple of hours ago,' said Charlie. 'I had just saved my report when the bloody thing restarted and came up with this message.'

'The easiest and quickest thing would be to start up in safe mode and see if we can restore it,' said Stephen. 'It could be a registry problem but they can take hours to sort.'

'It's all Greek to me,' said Charlie. 'I just type on it. If you want to start it up safely in restore mode, or whatever it's called, then go ahead. I'll just sit here and look grateful.'

Stephen restarted the computer, pressed a key and chose an option from the start up list.

'We can get into safe mode, so that's encouraging. Do you have a memory stick? I'll see if I can copy your report to it, that way, even if I can't get the machine going tonight, we'll have recovered your document at least. What's the name of the file?'

Fifteen minutes later Stephen had restored the computer settings and the operating system was running normally.

'Save your files as you create them for a week or so, just in case it happens again,' he advised. 'I've done a quick fix and it may be all it needs, but if the same problem occurs, then you might have to bring it in to the shop.'

'Charlie placed a glass of wine in front of him and kissed him on the cheek.'

'My knight in shining armour rides to the rescue once again. Seriously though, thanks for this, I'd have been in real trouble if I turned up at the meeting without it.'

'Glad to help, Charlie.'

'Speaking of knights and armour, how's the book coming along?'

'Not too bad, I've more or less got the plot worked out now, have you thought any more about joining me at the writers club?'

'I'm not sure It's my thing really, Stephen, and I've got you across the landing if I need a second opinion on anything.'

'Never trust friends and relatives when it comes to writing,' Stephen said. 'They will just tell you how wonderful it is. It's far better to get an unbiased opinion.'

'I'll think about it,' said Charlie. 'From what you told me, I wouldn't get much of an objective opinion from this club of yours either.'

'That's what the meeting was about tonight, plans are afoot to change things.'

'Well, let me know when they've changed and I'll reconsider, until then it's your responsibility to tell me how wonderful my work is.'

Stephen finished his wine and got to his feet.

'Better get back, I need to go over the monthly figures, I've a meeting with the accountant tomorrow.'

'I'm up at the crack of dawn myself,' said Charlie, 'and I'm not too good at getting up early, I like my bed too much.'

She walked Stephen to the door and watched him walk across the landing.

'Thanks again, Sir Galahad. I owe you, big time.'

'You don't owe me anything, Charlie. You never know, I might need your nursing skills one of these days.'

'Let's hope not,' said Charlie, seriously. 'Good night, Stephen.'

The meeting with the accountant was over by eleven thirty and Stephen arrived back at the shop just before twelve.

'Morning, Boss,' called Carole. 'I take it we're still solvent then.'

'We're doing well,' said Stephen. 'There might even be a staff bonus payment this year.'

Carole rubbed her hands together. 'Lovely, I'll start looking at cruises.'

'Make it a very short one,' laughed Stephen. 'I doubt the bonus would stretch to a full Caribbean adventure.'

'France and back on the ferry? Ah well, it's better than nothing.'

Carole followed Stephen through to his office and placed a pile of cheques on his desk.

'These need to be in the post today, if you could sign them before lunch I'll catch the afternoon post.'

'I think it's high time we allowed you to sign company cheques, Carole. I'll sort it with the bank next time I go in.'

'It would make it a little easier for me, especially if you are going to be out of the office as much as you are.'

'Skiving?'

'I didn't mean...'

'I know,' laughed, Stephen. 'We have Mark to cover for me in the workshop nowadays, so I don't feel quite as bad about not being here as I did when we relied on Ben.'

'Speaking of Ben, He came into the office this morning, less than two minutes after you drove off. If I were the suspicious type, I'd say he was sat outside, waiting for you to leave. He's following a new career path by all accounts.'

'Yes I've heard all about it,' said Stephen. 'He's selling second hand computer parts at car boot sales.'

'He's handed in his formal notice. He says can you pay anything you owe him by cash, he's having problems with his bank.'

'Does he have wages outstanding?'

'Two days...a day and a half really.'

'Send him a cheque,' said Stephen. 'We don't owe him any favours.'

When Carole had gone, Stephen made a few phone calls, then signed the cheques on his desk. He was about to walk through to the workshop when he remembered the note that Harriet had passed to him at the meeting. He pulled it from his wallet and dialled the number she had jotted down. A soft, female voice answered.

'Hello.'

'Hello, this is Stephen King from Cat Computers. I was asked to get in touch regarding a laptop computer.'

'That's right, thanks for getting back so quickly.'

'No problem, what is it you're looking for exactly?'

'I'm not really sure, we could do with your advice to be honest. Could I make an appointment to see you?'

'Certainly, when would you like to call in?'

'Would this afternoon be all right? We'd like to get moving on it.'

'This afternoon would be fine, how does two o'clock sound?'

'Perfect. I'll see you then.'

At two o'clock precisely, the door bell rang and an olive skinned, dark haired woman, wearing a lemon dress and a khaki jacket, came into the shop.

'Phew, whispered Carole, it's your lucky day, Boss.'

The woman walked to the counter and smiled a perfect smile at Carole.

'I've come to see Mr King, my name's, Janice.'

'He's expecting you, follow me please.'

Carole led Janice to the rear of the premises, Stephen was waiting by his office door.

'Janice..err?' said Carole.

'Mancini,' said Janice. 'It's an odd mixture isn't it?'

'I've heard of odder,' said Stephen.

Janice smiled, showing off her perfect teeth.

'My father is from Italy, my mother was from Birmingham.'

'It's a perfect mix,' said Stephen.

Janice smiled again and Carole left to go back to the desk.

'Perfect mix,' she chuckled. 'You've fallen under her spell already, Boss.'

Stephen pulled out a chair for Janice, then hurried round the desk to his own seat. Janice crossed her legs slowly, Stephens pulse began to race. He sat down with a bump.

'Sorry, Janet, err Janice,' he stuttered. 'You were interested in a acquiring a laptop for Deirdre. I believe?'

'That's right, we'll need a few other bits and pieces too.'

'She leant forward and lowered her voice as if sharing a secret.

'I sent a few of Deirdre's exercise books off to a publisher, they were very interested, but they said they can only accept them in typewritten, or digital form. So I want a laptop, a mouse, and anything else you can think of that will help me get Deirdre's work onto a computer.'

'I seem to remember someone telling me she'd had a similar offer a few years ago, but she didn't want to get involved with computers.'

'I talked her round,' said Janice. She brushed the hair away from her forehead and turned her soft, green eyes to Stephen. 'It wasn't easy, she really didn't like the idea.'

Stephen gazed dreamily into Janice's face, then realised she had finished speaking.

'Right, you'll need some eyes... I mean a scanner, or an all in one printer, they usually come with some OCR software that will translate the page into word processor format. They aren't all that clever with handwritten pages though.'

'She wrote it in block print, if you know what I mean, it's handwritten but not joined up writing. I borrowed a friend's scanner one evening and tried a few pages. I only found a couple of errors in the scan.'

'In that case a decent quality, all in one printer would probably do the job, you could scan it directly to into a word processing document on the laptop with that. It does seem a big job though.'

Janice nodded and crossed her legs again. Stephen found himself craning his neck to see over the desk.

'I'm only going to do one book to start with. It would cover two or three exercise books at most. I'll send that off and see what they have to say before I do any more.'

'It might be a good idea to buy an external hard disk to back up the work, you wouldn't want to transfer it all to the laptop only to have the hard disk fail on you.'

'Are they that unreliable? I had one for a few years and didn't have too many problems with it.'

'It's not that they are unreliable,' said Stephen. 'But anything electronic can fail, I always advise customers that if their data is important, then it's worth having a second copy, just in case. Laptops can be dropped or stolen, I've seen them covered in coffee, wine, even bleach. The drives can fail though, nothing is perfect.'

'I'll take your advice, Stephen,' said Janice. 'Have you read any of Deirdre's stories? they are wonderful, she really makes you feel that you are part of it all. She is quite brilliant.'

'I've heard her read from them a couple of times at the manuscript nights,' Stephen replied. 'She seemed to hold the listeners under a spell when she was on her feet. They all look forward to the next chapter.'

Janice beamed with pride.

'I remember when I picked up the first volume, I was entranced, I couldn't put it down. I told her that the work deserved to be published and she agreed with me. I also told her that she should be writing on a computer. That bit was more difficult to get her to agree to.'

'So she's going to use the computer for writing, not just to transfer the books?'

'She is,' said Janice, proudly. 'I'm going to teach her.'

'That's very good of you. I was going to sort out a few courses for her, a lot of schools put them on free for pensioners.'

'I'll look after that side of things, I have plenty of time,' said Janice.

Stephen jotted down some figures and passed the sheet to Janice. Their fingertips brushed together as she took the paper from him, Stephen's hand tingled as though a pulse of electricity had passed through it.

'Here's what I recommend. The laptop has a lot of memory, a good size had disk and four processors to do all the number crunching. The external drive will take any amount of data you can throw at it and the printer will scan, photocopy, print photographs...and documents. I'll throw in a mouse and a memory stick, so you can transfer a few documents to another computer whenever you want to.'

'This looks ideal,' said Janice. 'A little cheaper than I imagined too.'

'I've given you a bit of discount, as Deirdre is a writers club member.'

'That's very kind of you, but there's no need...'

'I did the same for another club member a few days ago, all members get the same discount, not just the pretty ones.'

Janice smiled her wonderful smile and Stephen thought about throwing in a few more freebies.

'When can I pick it up?'

'I have everything in stock, so I'll get them tested this afternoon...They could be ready for you tomorrow.'

Janice smiled and got to her feet.

'Wonderful, what time do you want me?'

'Stephen closed his eyes and tried to block out the thoughts that were flying through his mind. Janice offered her hand, Stephen took it and thought about raising it to his lips, instead he shook it softly and looked into her eyes.

'No need to pick it up, leave your address and I'll deliver it myself. Do you have an hour or two free tomorrow afternoon?'

'I'm in all day. Deirdre will be out in the afternoon though, she's a prison visitor. If you can come early, I may have time to get a few pages done before she gets home; that will be exciting for her.'

'How does one o'clock sound?' asked Stephen.

'Perfect, I'll make you some lunch if you like?'

Stephen reluctantly opened the office door and led Janice through to the showroom. Carole waved goodbye as she walked past. Stephen thought about offering to walk her to her car, but wasn't sure if she'd driven over, or caught the bus. In the end he watched her cross the road from the shop doorway, thinking of a thousand things he wished he had asked her.

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The Westwich Writers Club. 15

2010-05-28T17:06:00.005+01:00

Ted and Jacky helped to shoehorn Margot into the back of Stephen's car. The other club members stood around offering advice, some of it, comic, some of it, (mainly from the student element,) very sound.

'How are you going to get her out, at the other end?' asked Ted.

'I've phoned ahead, Margot's husband, Gordon, will be waiting for me at the front gate, he's done this before, once or twice.'

'It's very kind of you, Stephen,' said Harriet. 'I'd have never managed her on my own.'

Georgina's mini pulled up at the entrance to the car park and Jacky trotted across to climb in. As he opened the passenger door he shouted across to Stephen to remind him to call.

'Ring anytime next week, Stephen. I'll be in most afternoons and evenings. I'd like some computer advice too.'

As he closed the door, Georgina said something to him and he made a winding gesture, she dropped the driver's side window and Jacky leant across her to shout.

'Any day except Wednesday, I stand corrected.'

Georgina waved as she pulled slowly away.

'Be careful with this one, she's a married woman,' she teased.

Stephen rolled his eyes and climbed into the car. He took a quick look at Margot, sprawled over the back seat, and turned the volume down on the hi-fi. He selected a Mozart album on his MP3 player and plugged the jack into the hi-fi panel. Soft piano music filtered through the speakers.

He pulled out of the car park to whistles and catcalls from the younger element of the group.

'Don't let him take another souvenir,' advised Marvin.

'Radley Woods is the best spot for dogging,' called Josh.

Stephen drove through the town wondering what he'd let himself in for. He had joined the club to improve his writing skills not to get involved in internal politics. He realised that a lot was expected of him from some quarters. He didn't mind the responsibility, he was used to that, running his own business, but he thought there would be more than a few questions asked if he didn't side with the younger element of the club. He decided not to worry about it until he knew more about his future role.

Margot woke up as they pulled up at the traffic lights on the far side of town. She hummed along to the music for a while, then pulled herself into a sitting position, checked for her bag, then stuck her head between the front seats to see who was driving.

'Oh, it's you Stephen, sorry about the inconvenience, I allowed myself to lose a little self control back there.'

'It's not a problem, Margot.'

Margot closed her eyes and grimaced as a hazy picture of the night's events came back to her.

'How bad was it?' she asked

'Not good,' said Stephen. 'You were out of it back there.'

Margot nodded, closed her eyes again and rubbed her forehead.

'I'm sorry, it's that dust tomb I live in. I know I need help.'

'Have a word with your doctor, Margot. I'm sure he can help you.'

'Not likely. He's Gordon's best friend. It would all come out at the golf club or some other place. They can keep secrets, but not from each other. They do a bloody good job of keeping them from me though. I only found out he was going to the Open golf championship when he called me from St Andrews.'

'I don't know why you put up with it, Margot. You said you threatened to divorce him once, couldn't you try it again?'

'I think he'd agree to it this time, then what would I do? He knows I drink a bit too much, but he doesn't know how bad it is. If he found out I think he'd be the one asking for a divorce.'

Stephen pulled off the main road onto the single track that led to Margot's house and turned his headlights to full beam.

'He's the one responsible for your drinking habit, Margot, but if he doesn't know how bad it is, you have no chance of getting him to look at things from your point of view. On the phone he said that he'd had to help you out of cars once or twice before, so he must have some idea.'

'Party nights,' said Margot. 'Even then it's only happened twice. Once when we had the Christmas party at the Institute, and once when I went on a girls night out with some friends from the golf club, we all got potted that night; It's amazing how similar our lives are.'

Stephen pulled up outside Margot's front gate. A light came on immediately and Gordon walked slowly across the gravel drive to greet them. Stephen got out of the car and hurried round to the passenger side to open the door for Margot. She slid her legs out, grabbed Stephen's arm and pulled herself to her feet.

'Hello there,' called Gordon, cheerfully. 'I was expecting to have to lift you out, old girl.'

'She's fine,' said Stephen. 'I think one of the student's at the club must have spiked her drink. She's over it now though. Good as new.'

Gordon held out his hand and Stephen shook it firmly.

'Thanks for looking after her, old boy, I couldn't drive over, I've had one or two myself.'

As if to prove the point, Gordon staggered, leant on the car for support, then straightened himself up.

'It's not a problem,' said Stephen. 'As I said, she recovered on the way home.'

Margot kissed Stephen on the cheek, took her husband's proffered arm and together they made their unsteady way back to the house.

'I want to shoot that moose, Gordon,' she said.

'Tomorrow,' said Gordon. 'You'd miss it if you tried tonight.'

He slapped Margot on the backside as she stepped through the front door.

'Come on old girl, let's get a nightcap.'

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The Westwich Writers Club. 14

2010-05-27T19:53:00.004+01:00

During the drinks break Stephen chatted to a few of the members while Harriet, Ted and Margot discussed the agenda for the second half of the meeting. Margot made frequent trips to the bar to, 'settle her nerves.'

The anger level among the members had lowered from seething, to simmering. Stephen chatted about his writing and work and a few people asked him for a business card. He was listening to a young man's recollection of a university, anti-management demonstration, when Jacky Collins passed him a bottle of lager and nodded towards an empty corner of the room.

'Got a minute?'

'Just about,' said Stephen. 'The revolutionaries seem to be in more of a negotiating mood.'

Jacky laughed as he placed his beer on a table.

'You did well up there, Stephen, very well. It could have turned nasty.'

'They're writers, Jacky, I doubt they'd have resorted to violence.'

'The older lot have, once or twice.'

Stephen shook his head in disbelief as the thought of Mick and Mary fighting with their fellow members flashed into his mind.

'It was a while ago, before Margot's time on the committee. But Harriet was there, so was Ted.'

'What happened? Come on Jacky, spill the beans.'

The older man took a pull from his beer, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and dried it on his denim jacket.

'It was all to do with a competition,' he began. 'The club used to enter the annual, regional, writers group competition. We used put our best writers up against the writers from the other clubs in the area. Middlewich always seemed to win, but Narrowich and Appleton gave them a good run for their money, most years. We consistently came in last, I don't think we ever rose above seventh in all the years we entered, and there were only eight clubs in the competition.'

'Used to enter? We don't bother now then?'

'Not since the trouble,' said Jacky.

'I'm intrigued. Were you a member at the time?' asked Stephen.

'No, It was before my time. Hilda was running the club then, Margot was just a normal member; she's the one who told me about it all.' Jacky sipped his beer and thought for a moment. 'She was a very good writer, was Margot, she didn't drink quite as much back then.'

'So, what happened.'

'Well...'

Jacky was interrupted as Ted announced that the meeting was about to resume. Margot swayed a little as she made her way past the bar. She took a quick look at her watch, steadied herself, rested an arm on the counter and winked at the barman.

'One for the road, Margot?'

Before she could answer, Ted and Harriet took hold of an elbow each and guided her away from the bar. Margot struggled to break free initially, but after Ted whispered into her ear, she allowed herself to be led from the room.

'I'll finish the story on another occasion,' said Jacky. 'It's time to resume hostilities.'

'I'll look forward to hearing it,' said Stephen. He placed his empty bottle on the bar as they walked past. 'Don't leave it too long though, I'm desperate to know what happened.'

'Come over to my place sometime,' said Jacky. 'I'll give you the grisly details over a glass of Scotch.'

He fished a crumpled business card from his pocket and handed it to Stephen. Stephen smoothed the card between his fingers, scanned the address and put it in his wallet.

'Just say when, Jacky, I love grisly details.'

Margot rose unsteadily to her feet, placed both hands on the table and squinted as she tried to focus on the agenda. Eventually she risked taking away one supporting hand, picked up the paper and studied it closely.

'Aha, here we are.' Margot dropped the paper and returned the second steadying hand to the table.

'Nominashuns.'

The membership began to whisper among themselves. Tracy with the lip ring, pointed at Margot.

'She's pissed.'

'She is not pished,' replied an outraged Margot. 'She is in full command of her... her faculties.'

'Get on with it then,' called Josh.

'Nominum...Nomina...tions, said Margot, triumphantly. She waved a hand at her accuser. 'See, sober as a, thingy? Judge, that's it, judge.'

'I'd be careful going home if I were you,' said Tracy. 'Drunk and no knickers, that's a lethal combination.'

'I am wearing knickers,' cried Margot. She began to lift her skirt. 'I'll show you if you like.'

'Spare me,' said Tracy. 'I'll take your word for it.'

Before Margot could respond, Ted sprang to her side and helped her into her seat. He had a whispered conversation with Harriet, than picked up the agenda and read from the sheet.

'Nominations for additional committee members,' he read.

'Thas what I said,' spluttered Margot as she struggled to get to her feet.

Ted placed a restraining hand on her shoulder and continued.

'The Westwich Writers Club has decided to add two new, full voting, members to the committee. We feel that the older members have enough representation, so the two positions have been created exclusively for the newer members of the club. In a moment, Harriet will hand out the voting forms, but first we need to know who you would like to nominate for the positions.'

'I'll have a bash,' said Josh.

'Me too,' said Belinda Dray.

'I want in,' said Tracy, the redhead.

'Would I be able to stop all the bloody poetry competitions?' asked Marvin.

Ted held up his hands and called for quiet.

'Please, please, we have to do this properly. Would any member who wants to be considered, stand up now.'

Ten members got to their feet.

'Right,' said Ted. 'If you would let us know who you are, Harriet will pass out the voting slips and we can get on with this. Could you come to the front, one at a time and call out your name.'

Josh strolled to the front, followed by Tracy Reed and Marvin, when all ten had identified themselves, Ted addressed the meeting again.

'Anyone else, before nominations close?'

Jacky Collins got to his feet, cleared his throat and pointed at Stephen.

'I nominate, Stephen King.'

'Seconded,' called Georgina.

'Good call,' said a woman at the front. 'He gets my vote.'

'Mine too, that was a good speech he made earlier.'

Stephen shook his head as he got to his feet.

'The speech I made earlier wasn't a leadership bid, I just wanted to get a point or two across.'

'You got them across really well too,' said the woman. 'You have to stand.'

'Thank you for the vote of confidence,' said Stephen with a smile. 'But I'm sure the people who have already volunteered will do a good job representing you.'

'You're not getting out of it that easily,' said Jacky. 'You started all this, you'll have to finish it now.'

Stephen held up both hands in defeat, walked to the front and turned to face the group.

'Stephen King, I would like to add my name to the list of nominees. May I also wish all the candidates the best of luck, I'm sure whoever is selected will do their best for the club.'

'I'll drink to that,' said Josh.

Margot's head nodded twice before it fell to her chest.

'Make mine a large one,' she mumbled, sleepily.

The voting forms were collected in a waste paper bin and Ted and Harriet emptied it out onto the end table. The slips were unfolded, counted and placed in a row. When they had finished Ted called for two volunteers who had not put themselves forward for the committee, to verify the count. Harriet jotted down the totals on her notepad. When they had double checked the voting slips, the volunteer counters went back to their seats and Ted took the pad from Harriet.

'A full list of candidates and votes received, can be emailed to anyone who requires it, please get in touch with Harriet. For now I'll just announce the winners. The two nominees with the most votes are...Tracy Reed and Stephen King.'

The membership stood as one to applaud Stephen and Tracy as they walked to the front of the room. Margot, startled by the sudden noise, leant backwards in her chair and tipped over with a crash. Harriet rushed to help as Margot lay on her back waving her legs in the air like an upturned beetle. Tracy leaned over the table and winked at Margot as she got unsteadily to her feet.

'Ok, Margot,' she whispered, 'I believe you now.'

Margot slumped in the chair with her head in her hands and began to cry. Harriet put an arm around her shoulder and made sympathetic noises; Stephen reached into his pocket and passed his handkerchief. Margot blew her nose and looked up to thank him. The look of gratitude turned to horror as she realised she wiping her eyes with Dot's knickers.

Georgina looked at Stephen admiringly.

'Like to keep a souvenir do you?' she whispered.

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The Westwich Writers Club. 13

2010-05-03T00:56:00.015+01:00

Stephen returned to room one to find that Ted and Harriet had finished setting out the chairs. Half a dozen members stood in a group chatting quietly as they waited for the meeting to start. Stephen walked across to join them but was called over by Harriet.

'I have a message for you from Deirdre.' She fumbled in her bag and bought out a folded piece of paper. 'This is her number, could you give her a call?'

Stephen took the note, scanned it quickly and put it in his top pocket.

'Of course I can. Any idea what it's about?'

'I think she is considering climbing into bed with the Devil,' said Harriet.

Stephen looked at her quizzically.

'I believe that she has finally decided to get a computer.'

'Blimey,' said Stephen. 'That's a turn up for the books. It's a little late for The Quilt, though, isn't that all written by hand?'

'It is,' said Harriet. 'It fills seventy four exercise books.'

'Maybe she's finished it and wants to start something new,' said Stephen.

'Perhaps,' agreed Harriet. 'She's over seventy, so her next project won't be quite the epic her last one was.'

'Forty years is a heck of a long time to spend on one project,' agreed Stephen. 'She'll need to get herself on an IT course, there are one or two that are free for pensioners. I'll ring her from work in the morning.'

'I think Janice will help her with the computer, she's young enough to understand them.'

Harriet pulled a stack of forms from a box and placed them in a neat pile on the row of tables in front of her.

'Voting forms,' she whispered.

'What are we voting for?'

Harriet winked.

'You'll see soon enough, I don't want to steal Margot's thunder.'

Harriet looked up as another group of people entered the room.

'This is a very good turn out,' she said. 'Almost as many as we get for the regular meetings.'

Stephen studied the group but couldn't see anyone he recognised. Then Jackie Collins entered, followed by the mini driver. He waved to Stephen then took a seat on the back row, the woman sat down next to him.

Stephen left Harriet to get on with her preparations and walked to the back of the room. He offered his hand to Jacky who stood up to shake it.

'Hello again,' said Jacky. 'Exciting times, eh?'

'It's only an ideas meeting,' laughed Stephen. 'Nothing may come of it.'

Jacky pursed his lips and shook his head.

'The revolution has begun, believe, Stephen, believe.'

He turned to the woman in the next seat.

'Georgina, this is Stephen King, Stephen, Georgina Manson.'

'We spoke earlier,' said Georgina, quietly. ' Mr King had his hands full at the time.'

Stephen coughed and sat down. Georgina smiled to herself and looked to the front.

Harriet checked her watch and whispered something to Ted.

'She'll be back in the bloody bar,' replied Ted, louder than the meant to. 'I'll go and find her.'

As Ted got to his feet the door burst open and Margot breezed into the room like a Diva taking to the stage. Ted sat down again and winked at Harriet.

'Hello, people, sorry I'm a little late, we had a bit of a problem but it's all sorted now.'

She shot a glance at Stephen and mouthed something. Stephen shook his head, unable to understand. Margot mouthed the words again, but Stephen still couldn't work out the meaning.

'She's lost her knickers,' said Georgina, helpfully.

Twenty five pairs of eyes focussed on Margot.

'We know why you're late now then.' said a voice.

'Not me,' Margot spluttered. 'Dot...the art class model.'

Stephen shrugged his shoulders and held out both hands.

Margot strolled to the front, placed her clipboard on the table, nodded to Ted and Harriet, then sat down heavily. Ted got to his feet and faced the membership.

'Before we begin, could we all to stand while we remember, absent friends.'

Half the members stood immediately, others took their time getting to their feet. Ted closed his eyes and clasped his hands.

'Absent friends,' he said.

'Absent friends,' mumbled the crowd.

Ted stood in thought for a few moments then cleared his throat.

'I now call this advisory meeting to order and ask the club secretary to address the membership.'

A young woman on the front row clapped as Ted sat down. Margot got to her feet, swayed slightly and put both hands on the table to steady herself.

'Fellow members,' she began. 'It has come to the attention of the committee that a section of the membership feel that they have been excluded from the decision making processes of the club. In order to rectify this situation, the committee decided to send out an email questionnaire asking for the thoughts of the newer members of the group. We have had time to study the responses and this meeting has been called to answer some of the points raised and to put a plan forward for the future.'

Margot picked up a sheet of paper and squinted at it.

'I have a few announcements to make, but first we'd like to give you the chance to air your views. What would you like to see change?'

'You can get rid of that absent friends, nonsense before every meeting for a start,' said a voice from the second row.

The members mumbled in agreement.

'And make it first come first served in the car park,' said another.

'Less in the way of bloody poetry competitions,' said a third voice.

Margot held up her hand for silence.

'Could you please raise a hand if you want to speak, then identify yourself to the group. The meeting will degenerate into chaos if everyone just shouts out arbitrarily.'

A tall man wearing a t-shirt and jeans got to his feet.

'My name is Josh Steading and I agree with the member who called out a moment ago. Why should we have to stand to think about absent friends, when we have absolutely no idea who these friends are, or why they are absent? They could be down the pub or at the bingo for all we know.'

'It's called respect,' said Ted. 'The people we are remembering have passed on.'

'But we never met them, so how can we remember them?'

'The same way we remember the war dead,' replied Ted. 'You never met them but they deserve your respect.'

'Indeed they do,' replied Josh. 'But they died fighting for their country. They weren't just members of a local writing community. I fully respect your right to remember them, but you shouldn't expect people who have no idea who they are, to honour them in the same way.'

Ted got to his feet to a argue the point but Margot interrupted him.

'Absent friends, is a custom that has been practiced in the club for as long as any of us can remember. It's a tradition.'

'It's ludicrous,' said Josh.

'Get rid,' said a woman in the front row.

'Moving on,' said Margot. 'Who else has something they'd like to bring up?'

'Let's have a vote on it,' called Josh. 'All those in favour of dumping absent friends.'

Josh threw up his hand, twenty five more followed his example.

'See, the revolution has begun,' whispered Jacky.

Stephen felt uncomfortable, it was one thing modernising the club, it was another thing entirely to wipe away all of its traditions.

A red haired girl with a ring through her top lip got to her feet.

'Tracy Reed. I'd like to talk about manuscript reading nights,' she began. 'Why is it that only a select group of members ever get to read?'

'That's one of the things we have already agreed to look into,' said Margot. 'We understand that the way readers are selected at the moment, might be seen by some, as the committee practicing a modicum of favouritism.'

'More like bloody nepotism.' said Tracy. 'That old bird who writes about her knitting gets to read every week, then the Darby and Joans line up behind her. No one else gets a chance.'

'Knitting?... Oh, Deirdre, it isn't knitting, but...'

'I turned up for eight bloody sessions on the trot and didn't make it onto the list,' she complained. 'Meanwhile, Old Spinning Jenny takes us from the great depression to the start of the second world war. I used to go home and have nightmares about suffocating under a giant quilt after a meeting.'

A dark haired woman in a long knitted dress stood up.

'I'm Belinda Dray. I agree, I gave up after five meetings, I got sick of hearing that old bloke whine on about India.'

Ted choked and reached for the water jug.

Four more members got to their feet and began to talk at once. Margot held up both hands and asked for calm.

'As I said... AS I SAID, manuscript reading nights are to undergo a transformation. We have plans to make the process more democratic and we're going to hold an extra reading night and have the competition nights, bi-monthly, instead of monthly.'

'That will mean less competitions,' moaned Tracy.

'Not necessarily,' argued Margot. 'There will be the same number of competitions, we'll just have the presentations every two months.'

'Less bloody poetry comps,' shouted a voice.

'Hear hear,' said another.

'Has anyone other than the old guard, ever won a competion?' asked Belinda.

'Not to my knowledge,' said Josh. 'Some of the winning entries are atrocious. Who judges them?'

A shaven haired man in the front row stood up.

'Marvin... Marvin Gresty. I move that the members appoint a new judging committee. All in favour?'

Twenty five hands were raised.

'We could vote in a whole new committee while we're at it,' said Marvin.

Heads nodded in agreement. A dozen conversations started at once.

Steven turned to Jacky with a look of horror on his face.

'This is going too far, Jacky.'

'It's democracy in action my friend.'

Margot was having trouble making herself heard over the commotion.

'Members, MEMBERS.'

Ted got to his feet and tried to quieten the crowd but was shouted down. Everyone was on their feet arguing about who should be on the new committee. He turned to Margot and shook his head in defeat. Margot slammed her clipboard down on the table as hard as she could but got no reaction. Harriet began to cry.

'This is horrible.'

'I think we may have to abandon the meeting,' said Ted.

'What was that?' asked Margot.

'I said...'

Ted stopped mid sentence as Stephen's voice rose above the clamour.

'STOP THIS...STOP THIS NOW!'

The angry voices were hushed.

'What kind of way is this to decide anything? You claim to want a democratic organisation, then you shout down everyone who has a differing view to your own.'

Stephen walked to the front of the room. The members watched him intently.

'I joined this club because it is, A, local, B, established, and C, according to its publicity leaflets, a community of writers of all ages and abilities. I have since found all of this to be true. The problem lies not in the club's membership, but in how power is distributed.'

Stephen held out his hand towards Margot, Harriet and Ted.

'These good people, among others, have had the unenviable task of keeping a local club with a dwindling membership, alive. They have managed to keep it going through some very difficult times. They should be applauded for that, not castigated. The main problem seems to be, that the power to make change is held in too limited a circle, therefore the committee has ceased to be representative of its membership. People have become angry and frustrated because their voice isn't being heard. This matter is finally being addressed, but we, as the younger half of the membership, shouldn't expect all our demands to be met, nor should we expect any changes we do make, to be pushed though immediately. We should remember that more than half of our members are not represented here tonight and their individual opinions carry just as much weight as ours. This dispute should not be allowed to turn into an, us against them, young versus old, civil war. I know for a fact that there are some older members who want change every bit as much as we do. Others will be happy to go along with the majority view; there is no need for animosity.

There are bound to be people, on both sides, who feel that change has gone too far, or not far enough. If that is the case then we will have got the balance just about right. I am for change, but I am against throwing the baby out with the bathwater. This club has been in existence for over one hundred years, it has had many a famous novelist in its ranks over that time and I'm sure, given the right circumstances there will be more to come. We should always be looking for ways to improve the club, but we should respect some of the traditions too. We should be looking for evolution, not revolution.'

Stephen turned to Margot.

'Madam secretary, the floor is yours.'

Stephen returned to his seat with applause ringing in his ears. Jacky patted him on the back as he sat down.

'That told 'em.'

Georgina looked at Stephen through watery eyes.

'That was wonderful,' she whispered.

Previous Next

The Westwich Writers Club. 12

2010-04-19T20:02:00.016+01:00

At seven fifteen, Stephen pulled into one of the two available spaces in the car park at the rear of the writers club. He was just about to enter the building when he heard a toot from behind. He turned to find Ted Hughes leaning out of his car window.

'Can you move it please, that's my spot.'

'Sorry,' said Stephen. 'I wasn't aware the places were pre-booked.'

'They aren't,' replied Ted. 'It's etiquette, I've been parking in that spot since Hilda died.'

Stephen thought about telling Ted where to stick his etiquette, but decided against it. There was no point in getting on the wrong side of a committee member before the meeting had even started.

Stephen backed out and allowed Ted to park, then pulled into the last remaining spot. As he got out of the car he found Ted standing alongside.

'That's Harriet's spot,' he said.

'Are all the places booked by committee members?'

'No, Valerie has one, mainly because her partner is disabled, but if she doesn't come, her sub takes the spot.'

'Her sub?'

'Substitute. I think Sheila is the substitute this month.'

'You actually keep a waiting list for a car parking space?'

'Oh yes, you have to plan it, otherwise there would be chaos. There are only six spaces.'

I'm surprised you don't have reserved parking, name plates on the wall.'

'We did think about that,' said Ted. 'But it was impractical really, as other clubs use the centre too.'

'Stephen shook his head and opened his car door.'

'Thanks for being reasonable about this,' said Ted.

'It's not a problem,' said Stephen. 'I'll park up on the hill.'

Parking spaces on the street were at a premium. Stephen had to drive two hundred yards before he found a spot. As he pulled into the space he heard an angry toot from the street. He looked across to see a woman, in a mini, indicating to turn right. She was still there when he closed the car door and pressed his key fob to lock it. Stephen decided he had had enough of parking confrontations for one evening and walked back down the hill towards the institute. Half way down he heard a voice.

'Hey.'

Stephen looked towards the sound and saw the mini ease its way down the hill. Its window was down and an irate woman of about twenty five leaned out to shout at him.

'Hey, you.'

Stephen stopped.

'Me?'

'I don't know who taught you to drive, but they obviously didn't bother to teach you road manners.'

'I'm sorry?'

'Stealing my parking spot. I saw it first.'

Stephen shook his head and continued to walk. The mini followed at walking pace.

'It's no good being sorry. It was my space.'

Stephen stopped and faced his accuser.

'The parking spot was on my side of the road and I was quite within my rights to take advantage of it,' he said firmly. 'You would have had to pull across the carriageway to gain access to the space, therefore I was breaking no rule, written or otherwise. Now, I suggest you turn around and take one of the other spaces that are available a little further along the road.'

The woman's face reddened, her voice was almost a whisper.

'Okay, I'll do that.'

Stephen was still seething as he turned into the institute car park and let himself into the building. He took the stairs two at a time, walked down the passage and opened the door to the club room.

Stephen froze as his eyes fixed on a naked, elderly woman, sprawled out on a small white towel on the floor.

'Are you Ricardo?' she asked.

'No, I'm...'

'He's late,' croaked the old woman. 'I've been here for ages, I'm getting cold and my hip has locked up.'

Stephen nodded sympathetically.

'Be a love and see if he's in the bar will you?'

'Yes, I'll, err...just have a look.'

Stephen hurried downstairs to the bar, he spotted Margot and Harriet sitting with Ted at a table at the far end. There were twenty or so other people dotted around the room.

'Over here, Stephen,' called Margot. 'If you're coming via the bar, mine's a G and T.'

Stephen hurried across the room.

'Is there someone called, Ricardo here?' he asked.

'No idea,' said Margot. 'Ask behind the bar, they might know.'

Stephen waved to get the attention of the barman.

'Do you know someone called, Ricardo?'

'Yes, he's an adult education instructor, teaches art and photography.'

'Is he here tonight?'

'Yes, he'll be in room ten, I think he's taking an art class.'

'Aha, that would explain it,' said Stephen.

'Explain it?' queried the barman.

'There is, what I assume to be, an elderly female model, upstairs in room one,' said Stephen. 'She's getting a bit cold.'

'Cold?'

'She's naked.'

'Oh God. Is she called, Reanie?'

'I don't know who she is, I do know she's lying there naked in the middle of the floor.'

'They thought she was late and left a note to say that they've been moved to a different classroom tonight, but she never came in to pick it up. No wonder she's cold, they started the class at six.'

'Can you get him?' asked Stephen. 'Poor old Reanie looks like she's frozen to the spot.'

'There aren't any internal phones in the classrooms,' said the barman. 'I can't really leave the bar unattended. Could you nip up and let him know?'

Stephen climbed the stairs and returned to the classroom. The woman was still lying on the floor where he had left her.

'You're in the wrong room, Reanie,' he said. 'They've moved to room ten tonight.'

'I'm not Reanie, I'm Dot. Reanie couldn't make it, so she asked me to stand in, or lie in, as it were.'

'I see, well, they're down at room ten.'

'I've never done anything like this before,' tittered Dot. 'I feel quite wanton.'

'Yes, well, err...'

'I'll get thirty pounds for this, you know? It's not bad money when you're on a pension.'

'No I'm sure it isn't. Look, would you like me to show you to room ten?'

'I would,' said Dot. 'But I'm stuck, I told you, my hip's locked.'

'Didn't Reanie tell you to find the art teacher before taking your clothes off?'

'No, she said I was to get here first and get into position, it's less embarrassing that way; you don't have to move about in front of the class.'

'Where did you put your clothes? I'll get them for you.'

'They're in that cupboard at the end of the room, that's where I found this towel. I won't be able to get dressed though, my hip's locked, I can't move.'

Stephen retrieved Dot's clothes, passed them to her, then turned and faced the door.

'You'll never make an artist,' she cackled.

'I'm a writer,' said Stephen. 'I'm hopeless at drawing.'

'Reanie reckons most of the art class are too. She showed me a drawing that one of them had done of her, it looked more like a hippo than Reanie, mind you, she is a big woman.'

Stephen sneaked a glance to the side, Dot was still lying in the same position.

'You're going to have to pick me up, young man, I did tell you I can't move.'

Stephen groaned inwardly.

'Ok, wrap the towel around as much of you as it will cover and grab your clothes. I'll carry you down to room ten.'

Dot grabbed both sides of the towel and pulled them over her hips.

'Doesn't cover much does it?' she laughed.

Stephen crouched, placed one hand under Dot's knees, the other round her waist and lifted her into the air. Dot threw her arms round his neck dramatically.

'Reminds me of my wedding day,' she cackled. 'Victor carried me to bed that night, you remind me of him a bit.'

'Come on then, Dot,' laughed Stephen. 'Let's get you to bed...'

Stephen's stopped dead as the door swung open and the woman he had just had the altercation with in the street stepped into the room.

'You don't waste much time,' she said.

Dot's knickers fell to the floor. The woman knelt, picked them up and offered them to the old woman.

'Don't go without these, it's chilly out there.'

Stephen turned a deep shade of purple. He opened his mouth to speak but nothing would come.

'It's not the way it looks,' he said eventually.

'It never is,' said the woman with a twinkle in her eye. 'Do you only go for the older type or do the rest of us stand a chance too?'

Stephen was saved from further embarrassment when Harriet and Margot burst into the room. They were followed by a tall, olive skinned man, that Stephen assumed to be Ricardo.

'You're not Reanie,' he said.

'Reanie had something on,' said Dot. 'Unlike me.'

'I left a message in the bar about the change of venue,' said Ricardo. 'You were supposed to come to room ten.'

'I didn't get it,' said Dot. 'All I got was cramp.'

Margot asked Harriet to find Ted and make a start on getting the chairs out for the meeting, then she turned her attention to Stephen.

'Carry her to the ladies toilets,' she ordered. 'Let's get her decent before the rest of the group arrive.'

'Will I still be paid?' asked Dot.

'We'll sort something out,' Ricardo promised.

Stephen carried Dot through to the ladies toilets and laid her gently on the floor. Dot looked dreamily into Stephen's eyes and placed her hand on his arm.

'How was it for you?' she croaked.

Stephen blew her a kiss and headed for the door.

'I hope your hip unlocks soon, Dot.'

'It clicked into place back there,' the old woman cackled. 'I just didn't want to miss the chance of having a pair of strong arms round me again. Is that Italian fellow still around? I've always fancied Italians.'

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The Westwich Writers Club.11

2010-04-18T18:55:00.018+01:00

Stephen had a pub lunch before making his way back to the shop. He arrived at 2:00pm to hear riotous laughter emanating from the workshop.

'It's been like that all morning,' said Carole with a shake of her head. 'Mel and Mark have really hit it off.'

'As long as the work's getting done.'

Stephen walked into the workshop, the laughter ceased immediately.

'Afternoon, Boss,' said Mel as she wiped her eyes.

'Sounds like I've missed a good joke,' said Stephen.

'Not really,' said Mel. 'Mark was just telling me about the time he lost his shorts at the swimming pool.'

Stephen grinned.

'It's happened to most men at some stage in their lives. The baggier the shorts the easier they come off when you hit the water.'

'Mark's came off half way between the diving board and the pool.' Mel began to laugh again. 'He hit the water as he was trying to pull them up.'

'Now that is different,' admitted Stephen. He picked up the completed job sheets and switched on the kettle.
'Wow, I'm impressed. Three PCs built in a morning, that's good going, Mark.'

'There's no software on them and they haven't been tested yet. I'll do that this afternoon.'

'I'm still impressed. How are the repairs going, Mel?'

'One done today so far. I'm doing the hard disk replacement now.'

'Productivity is up, the staff are happy; I think I deserve a pay rise myself,' said Stephen.

'Get in the queue,' said Mel. 'I'm next in line.'

Paul stuck his head round the workshop door.

'Can you spare a minute, Stephen?'

'My staff are working so well, I can spare two.'

Stephen picked up his coffee cup, followed Paul into the office and sat down at his desk.

'Ben,' said Paul.

'Ah, our sponsored, waif and stray. Has anyone heard from him yet?'

'Not quite. I did see him at a car boot sale on Sunday though.'

'Car boot, Ben? Doesn't sound like his thing, what was he looking for?'

'He was selling; software and computer parts.'

Stephen frowned and leaned forward.

'He didn't spot me, he was busy in the back of a van, so I was able to get a glimpse at what he was selling. It was all second hand by the looks of it, at least nothing was in packaging. The software was all copied stuff. He'll be in trouble if the police ever check it out.'

'Ah, so none of it was from here, I was beginning to worry then. What are we going to do about him?'

'Final warning?' suggested Paul.

'Yes, I think so, I'll get Carole to type it out and post it to him, make it formal.'

'It's a shame,' said Paul. 'When he puts his mind to it he's a very good technician and we could use his talents at the moment.'

'Mark is getting more done in his lunch break than Ben managed in an afternoon,' said Stephen. 'I'd like you to take him out to Blackstocks on Thursday, see how capable he is. If we end up trading Ben in for him, I think we'll get a good deal.'

Stephen signed off some invoices and asked Carole to write to Ben.

'It's his last, last chance, Carole, I really don't know what he's playing at.'

'I'll make sure there's no confusion. I'll spell it out in plain and simple terms.'

Stephen made his way back to the store room, picked out the parts he needed to put together a new computer and carried them back to the workshop. Mel and Mark were discussing the latest chart music.

'Can we have some tunes on, Boss?' asked Mel.

'Yes, providing it's 1970's rock. Stick the Rolling Stones on.'

'We were thinking more along the lines of Lady Gaga,' said Mel.

'Lady who?'

'Come on, Boss, you're not that old. You know who she is.'

'I haven't the faintest idea,' said Stephen, seriously. 'Madam who?'

'Gaga and it's Lady, not Madam.'

'I think I'd go gaga if I had to listen to it,' laughed Stephen. 'You can put some classical on if you like?'

'I think we'll pass,' sulked Mel. 'You really ought to get with it, Boss. You'll get old before your time.'

Stephen bent his back and hobbled to his bench.

'I'm old before my time,' he croaked.

'I had a bit of a listen to my mum's record collection over the weekend,' said Mark. 'It's not as bad as I thought it would be. Deep Purple are pretty cool actually.'

'Stop sucking up to the boss,' demanded Mel.

'Your mum has very good taste,' said Stephen. 'You'll have to tell her to pop in one day. I'd like to meet her.'

Mark looked at the floor and said nothing.

'I'd like you to go out with Paul on Thursday, Mark. He'll take you over to Blackstocks and show you what's involved.'

'That's so unfair,' said Mel. 'How come I never get to go out?'

'Because we need to know what Mark can do, Mel. We need to check out his attributes.'

Mel crossed her long legs and leaned back in her chair.

'It's still not fair, I've got attributes too.'

'Yes, we've seen them,' Stephen pointed to her legs. 'They are very nice too.'

'I could report you for sexual harassment,' sniffed Mel. 'But I'm still waiting to be harassed.'

The afternoon passed quickly, Mark loaded software onto the new computers while Stephen built another. Mel finished her job and set the test software running. Paul returned at 5:00pm with a message from the manager at Blackstocks.

'They want a couple of the new machines this week if we can manage it. If they're ready, Mark and I can network them into the system on Thursday.'

'Two of them are ready now,' said Mark. I'll have another loaded and tested by lunchtime tomorrow. I'm really looking forward to setting them up.'

Stephen locked up the shop on the stroke of 5:30. He called to Mark as he set the alarm.

'Want a lift home, Mark?'

'No, it's ok thanks, Mel's buying me a drink at the Dragon. There's a live band on, fancy joining us?'

'No he doesn't,' hissed Mel. 'He's far too busy, aren't you, Boss?'

'Actually I am. I'm going to have a quick run through the park, then I have a meeting to attend at the Writers Club.'

Stephen climbed into his car, fired up the ignition and hit the switch to open the window, Queen blared out from the speakers.

'Ugh,' said Mel. 'What a racket.'

Stephen put the car into gear and reversed onto the road.

'Radio Gaga,' he called to Mel. ' Beats the lady, any day of the week.'

Back at his flat, Stephen changed into shorts and a t-shirt, went through a quick warm-up routine, then jogged his way through the estate to the gates of the country park.

The park was vast, covering some 200 acres with over six miles of footpaths. It had been built on land previously owned by the Ministry of Defence. Some of the older residents believed that explosives, buried on the site after the war, had never been removed.

The park was divided into 'trails' and each one was designated a colour. The paths were marked by a series of coloured posts, the red trail was the longest at just over four miles. Stephen checked his watch and decided that because time was an issue, the yellow trail of just under two miles would suffice.

The park was usually busy no matter what the weather. Runners, cyclists and dog walkers all used the facility and at times the narrow footpaths could get quite congested.

Stephen ran through the flat grasslands at the entrance to the park, turned right and made his way through a wooded area before reaching a slight incline. Twice he had to evade yapping, off lead, dogs by veering away from the path into the longer grass. At the top of the incline the park opened up.. The view was spectacular, on a good day the rolling hills of Middlewich, some ten miles away were clearly visible.

Stephen checked his watch and lengthened his stride as he descended the slope and ran alongside a small brook that cut through the meadow. After two hundred yards he negotiated a narrow plank bridge and began to climb a steep hill that marked the half way mark on the trail. At the top, open to the elements, was an gnarled old oak with a wooden bench underneath. Two figures were sat on the seat, one of them waved to him as he approached.

'Hello, Stephen, this is a pleasant surprise.'

'Hello, Mary, hello Mick,' panted Stephen. 'It's a beautiful day isn't it?'

'Are you stalking us?' asked Mick.

Stephen stopped and bent forward slightly as he gulped air into his lungs.

'That hill doesn't get any easier.'

'We struggle to walk up it these days,' said Mary. 'We tend to come up the other side, it's a longer walk but less steep.'

'Do you come up here a lot then? I haven't bumped into you before.'

'That's because you didn't know us before,' said Mary. 'We're up here most days, aren't we Mick?'

Mick grunted in agreement.

'We've been coming up here for three or four years now,' he admitted.

'It's a lovely view,' said Mary. 'You can see for miles from up here. It's a nice place to sit and think.'

'Not much cover if the rain comes, though,' said Stephen. 'The weather can turn so quickly up here, the park should have its own weather forecast.'

'I worked here for a while in the sixties,' said Mick. 'The weather was better back then.'

'You're always moaning, Mick,' chided Mary. She turned to Stephen. 'Do you do this a lot then, running?'

'Not as much as I should, I like to keep fit.'

'You don't look very fit to me,' said Mick. 'You looked buggered as you came over the top there.'

Mary looked Stephen up and down, her eyes narrowed.

'He looks very fit to me.'

'Oh, stop flirting, Mary,' said Mick.

Mary winked at Stephen and turned to Mick.

'Age should not make one unappreciative, Mick. I may not be in the first flush of youth but I know a nice, firm backside when I see one.'

Mick was horrified.

Stephen laughed.

'This backside had better get a move on or it will be late for the writers club meeting tonight.'

'Ah, yes, there's a special committee meeting isn't there; to allow the younger element to air their views?'

'Apparently so, I was invited this morning by all accounts, I haven't read the email invitation yet.'

'The club's all right as it is,' said Mick. 'There's no point in making changes for changes sake.'

'We are a little staid, Mick,' said Mary. 'A little too set in our ways. There's a whole new generation of writers coming through, they deserve a say in how things are done, it's there club too.'

'I can see it now,' moaned Mick. 'Text talk novels, wonderful.'

'Oh shush,' said Mary. 'It's time to move on. Good luck with the meeting, Stephen. I've already forwarded my views to the committee.'

Stephen ran on the spot to get his muscles loosened up.

'See you next time, I'll make sure I run this way in future.'

'Don't put yourself out,' muttered Mick.

Previous Next

The Westwich Writers Club.10

2010-03-19T19:08:00.010Z

At ten thirty on Tuesday morning, Stephen punched Margot's postcode into his Sat-Nav and allowed 'Betty' to guide him through the well heeled, suburbs of Westwich. Spring had just about sprung, there were green buds on most of the trees and the snowdrops on the roundabouts had been replaced by tulips and daffodils.

Stephen wound down his window and turned up the volume as the Eagles sang about their night at the Hotel California. At the Sat-Nav's command Stephen turned off the main road onto a narrow country lane, half a mile later he came to a huge, red brick, Victorian farm house and was advised that he had reached his destination. He pulled up at the side of an open, five barred gate, turned off the engine, grabbed the small bag containing his computer toolkit and crunched his way up the gravel drive, still humming along to the Eagles.

Margot answered the door with a hearty greeting and ushered Stephen into an antique laden lounge. The walls were covered in a faded, green, flocked paper. Against one wall stood a huge Welsh dresser with shelves full of old plates. On a walnut sideboard sat an array of china figurines; one entire wall was covered in thin glass shelves supporting hundreds of porcelain birds.

In the corner was a low table, festooned with Toby jugs. Above, a moth eaten, one eyed, elk's head surveyed the area. Music from the Magic Flute, wafted around the room. Margot wafted with it.

'Have you started your novel yet?' she asked.

Stephen looked confused.

'Started it? I read from it at the last manuscript meeting.'

'That was the end wasn't it? I was wondering if you'd made a start, of the start. If you see what I mean.'

'Ah, yes, I see. I have as a matter of fact, it's coming along nicely now.'

Margot picked up a bottle of wine and waved it in front of his face.

'Glass of plonk?' she asked.

'Not for me thanks, Margot, I'm driving, but feel free to have one yourself.'

'Okay then, if you inshist,' she slurred.

Margot pointed to a flower patterned sofa.

'Park your bottom,' she said.

Stephen sat on the edge of the sofa, clasped his hands and looked around.

'This is a very unusual room, Margot.'

'Like a bloody antique shop, isn't it?' she said.

'Well, it's...'

'They could film six months worth of the bloody Antiques Roadshow in here and still have enough undiscovered treasures for David Dickinson to make a new series of Bargain Hunt.'

Stephen laughed.

'It's not really my thing, but hats off to you, there's quite a collection here.'

'You should see the rest of the house,' Margot spat. 'The whole place is stuck in a bloody time warp. I half expect Queen Victoria to join us for breakfast in the mornings.'

'Or Doctor Who,' laughed Stephen.

'I hate, it,' hissed Margot. 'I'm sick to death of having to live in this house of dust. You can't move anything without being covered in the stuff. No wonder my lungs play up.'

Margot coughed extravagantly, then drained her wine glass.

'See? I'll be dead, stuffed, and nailed up on the wall with that bloody Elk soon.'

'Your husband is a collector, I take it.'

'Hoarder, ' said Margot. 'He won't throw anything out, he's been saying he's going to get another eye for that bloody elk for ten years now. God knows how it managed to lose one; no one touches the bloody thing, not even to dust it. The bugger knows its got to me too, it's always staring at me, like it's my fault.'

Margot refilled her glass and sat beside Stephen on the sofa. She pushed out her ample bosom, crossed her legs and patted him on the thigh.

'Bet you haven't got a moose on your wall.'

Stephen laughed nervously and edged towards the end of the sofa.

'I thought it was an elk?'

'Elk, moose,, caribou, whatever bloody species it is, it belongs out there.' Margot nodded towards the window. 'It shouldn't be stuck on a wall staring at me like It's my fault it lost one of its bloody eyes.'

Stephen agreed.

'I've never understood why people have them in their houses. Museums are a different matter, but I could never have something like that on my wall.'

'You're not bloody weird, that's why. He was on about getting our sodding dog stuffed when it died a few years ago. I wasn't having that; I buried it in the rose bed while he was out. He still doesn't know. He convinced himself that it must have been in a coma and when it woke up it got confused and wandered off.'

Stephen put his hand to his mouth to stifle the laugh that was building up.

'That dog hated him, and that bloody elk. It used to freak him out too. He used to howl at it sometimes.'

'Why do you come in here, if you hate it so much, Margot.'

'Because there's nowhere else to hide. The rest of the house is full of mouldy old foxes, otters and bloody owls, there's even a stuffed pike in the bathroom. The birds stare at you more than the elk does. The kitchen is the only place that hasn't got a carcass in it, but there's an awful draught that gets under the back door and I flatly refuse to spend all my time in there.'

Stephen nodded sympathetically.

'Why don't you just chuck them out, Margot? If they're getting to you, put them in the shed or something.'

'He won't have it, they came with the house. He inherited them so he insists they are part of the fabric of the building. He'd sooner me go than them, so I spend my time in here with my music and the computer. At least there's only one eye to watch me when I'm in this room. I turn my back on it, but I know it's still staring at me.'

'Talking of computers. You said you have something you want me to look at?'

'Ah yes, that's the reason you're here isn't it?'

Margot replenished her glass and lowered her voice.

'Is there a way to find out which websites people have been visiting on the Internet?'

Stephen nodded.

'Unless they've been using specific software to hide their tracks then, yes, it's a very simple procedure.'

Margot knelt down and pulled out a large screened laptop from under the coffee table.

'Can you have a look at this? I want to know what he's been up to.'

Stephen was unsure.

'I don't know, Margot, it's none of my business really, it's a private matter.'

'What if he's been on kiddie porn sites or something?'

'That would be a matter for the police. Do you think he has?'

'No, I'll be honest, that's not his thing.'

Stephen stood up and pulled the strap of his bag over his shoulder.

'Sorry, Margot, I...'

'Please,' Margot begged. 'As a friend, just this once. I won't let anyone know, I promise.'

Stephen sat down and opened the lid of the laptop.

'You'll have me thrown out of the profession.'

Margot rested her hand gently on his shoulder.

'I do appreciate this, more than I can tell you.'

Stephen checked the Internet browser history, then the cached pages in the temporary folder.

'Nothing too bad here, Margot. Certainly nothing to worry about.'

'Tell me, please.'

'Well, they all seem to be websites that pay homage to large breasted ladies...'

'I knew it,' wailed Margot.

'Just sites like, Massive Mammaries and Big Boob fest...'

'THE BASTARD!' yelled Margot.

Stephen looked up from the screen and patted her hand reassuringly.

'There's a lot worse than that out there, believe me. You should see some of the stuff people have on their machines.'

Margot was incensed.

'He promised me,' she hissed.

'Caught him out before have you? Ah well, some men do fantasise about them.'

'He's obsessed,' she spat.

Margot placed her glass on the table and turned towards Stephen, then to his horror, she tore open her blouse and pushed her chest towards him.

'I even had these done for him.' she wailed.

'Oh no, please, Margot.'

'You don't like them either.' she cried.

'I do, they're lovely breasts, Margot, it's not...'

'You're just saying that,' she wailed.

'No, I mean it, they really are lovely.'

Margot scooped her breasts from her bra and juggled them in her hands.

'They don't move, ' she complained. 'Not properly. They don't droop, they don't wobble. They sit there like two bloody basketballs. Have a feel?' she offered.

Stephen inched his way to the back of the sofa, he tried to look away but Margot's monster breasts held his eyes.

'I used to have lovely little breasts, gorgeous, pert, breasts, like the models on the catwalks. I looked after them too, they never sagged or drooped, but they weren't enough for him.'

'Margot, put them away please, they're lovely but...'

'I burnt all his magazines, years ago. I found them out in the shed. I threatened to divorce him but he talked me out of it. Then I thought, if I have mine done it would keep him happy and he wouldn't need to look at those...those...deformed whores.'

Margot threw herself at Stephen pushing his head into her breasts. Stephen tried to push her away but she gripped his shoulders and held her ground.

'You don't like them at all do you? ' she cried. 'I don't blame you either, they're horrible.'

'MMmmmf, please, Margot, I can't breathe.'

Stephen dug his heels into the carpet and pushed backwards with all this strength. The sofa toppled over throwing Margot onto the floor behind him. He clambered to his feet, grabbed his bag and walked quickly to the door.

'Sorry, Margot, you're a very attractive woman but I'm not looking for a relationship at the moment.'

Margot wiped her mascara stained eyes and scooped her breasts back into her bra.

'Could you just give me a hand with the sofa before you go?'

Stephen waited until she had fastened her blouse, then walked back and helped Margot lift the sofa upright. As they pushed it across the floor he noticed something glimmer on the carpet. He bent down, picked up a glass ball, handed it to Margot and pointed to the elk.

'He's had his eye on this for a while I'd say.'

Margot put the glass eye in her pocket and dabbed at her face with a hankerchief.

'Whatever must you think of me?'

'Don't worry, Margot, I won't say a word about any of this.'

'You're a good man, Stephen. I shouldn't let it get to me but I can't help it. I need counselling really.'

'You're letting it eat you up, Margot, like the house. Maybe you need a break from it.'

Margot, placed her hand on Stephen's arm and lowered her voice conspiratorially.

'I have a plan,' she confided. 'If all else fails.'

She led Stephen to the door and watched him walk back to his car. As he was about to drive off she waved to him and hurried over the gravel to the gate.

'Forgot to mention, you'll have an email waiting when you get back. There's a committee meeting tomorrow night at the Writers Club. we want to toss a few ideas about and see what comes out. We've invited some of the younger members who don't often come to meetings so they can air their views. Can you make it?'

Stephen nodded.

'I think so, what time does it start?'

'Seven.'

'I might be a little late but I'd love to come, thanks for the invite.'

Margot leaned into the car and kissed him on the cheek.

'Thank you for not being too offended. I'd better go and clean my face up before he gets back.'

'Is he at work?'

'He's at an auction,' she moaned. 'Buying more bloody junk.'

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The Westwich Writers Club. 9

2010-03-18T16:53:00.011Z

By Saturday morning, Stephen had decided he was going to need another pair of hands to help get the new computers built. He thought about contacting the job centre but then remembered Mark. He pulled out his mobile and dialled the stored number.

'Mark? It's Stephen King, the man you rescued the other night. I wonder if you could help me out again? I may have some work for you if you're interested. It would only be a temporary position, but it would give you something to add to your CV.'

He smiled as heard Mark's reply.

'I sort of hoped you'd say that. Look, I know it's short notice and I know it's Saturday, but do you think you could come into town this morning for a chat? I'll show you what we need help with and you can see the set up we have here...You can? Great stuff, I'm here until one. Cat Computers, on Bradfield Road...'

Mark arrived on the stroke of midday and stood by the counter while Carole went to find Stephen.

'That young man is here, Stephen,' she called. ' Hands off, Mel, I saw him first.'

Mel leapt from her stool and sauntered into the shop. Mark was reading a promotional poster on the wall.

'Hello, I'm Mel,' she offered.

Mark turned to face her, a smile on his lips.

'Mark,' he said.

Mel looked him up and down, then smiled back.

'Nice suit. If you're out to impress, it's working.'

'There are times when you have to make the effort,' he agreed.

'Is there a woman in your life?' she asked.

Mark shook his head and laughed.

'At the moment, just my mother.'

Mel pursed her lips and thought for a moment.

'Well, that's the interview over,' she said. 'When can you start?'

Stephen walked into the shop and offered his hand to Mark.

'Hi, Mark, sorry about that, I was on the phone in the back, glad you could make it. I see Mel's been looking after you.'

'I couldn't be in better hands,' smiled Mark.

Mel opened her mouth to reply but Stephen cut in.

'I think we'll leave it at that thanks, Mel.'

He led Mark into the workshop, then turned back and stuck his head round the door.

'Ok guys, you can get off now. I'll lock up.'

Carole retrieved her coat but Mel returned to her seat at the bench.

'I can hang around a bit, it's no trouble, Boss.'

'Thanks Mel, but I want to show Mark around and we have personal things to discuss. I'll pay you until one.'

Mel pouted as she pulled her jacket from the back of her chair.

'Hire him,' she advised.

Stephen walked them to the front door and opened it to let them out. He winked at Carole and put on a concerned face.

'I feel rejected now Mel, I thought I was the object of your desire.'

'Sorry, Boss. It was a close run thing, but you lost out.'

'Just my luck,' he grinned.

Mel thought for a moment, then came to a decision.

'On reflection, I could give you a second chance. I suppose you could fight for my favours.'

'I'm no good at jousting, Mel.' Stephen laughed. 'I can't seem to stay in the saddle.'

'I made the right choice then,' said Mel thoughtfully. 'Can't have you falling off, can we?'

Stephen feigned shock.

'You're incorrigible, Mel.'

Mel looked puzzled.

'I'm in what?'

Stephen laughed as he closed the door.

'See you on Monday, ladies, have a good weekend, or what's left of it.'

The phone rang as Stephen got back to the workshop.

'Cat Computers... Hello Margot, how did you...? Ah, from Mick, What can I do for you?'

Stephen jotted down her address and phone number on his pad.

'I can nip round in the week, how about Tuesday? Elevenish? No, it's no bother.'

He turned to Mark who was reading the test results on Stephen's screen.

'Sorry about that.'

'That's okay. Looks like this PC has a faulty graphics card.'

'Does it? I haven't had time to look at the results yet.'

'Video memory fault, I'd say. What were the symptoms?'

Stephen read from the customer job sheet.

'Intermittent lock ups, getting more frequent. Freezes at times when the mouse is moved across the desktop.'

'Case solved,' said Mark.'

'I tend to agree with your analysis. Do you want to fit a new card while we chat?'

Stephen picked up a new graphics card from the stockroom and handed it to Mark. He made coffee while the younger man installed the device into the computer. They sipped their drinks as Mark loaded on the software driver.

'I would imagine we would need you for at least two months, what with the building, installation and integration of the new computers. Paul will do the networking but he'll need a hand with that. Ben is very capable, but we have watch him all the time or he'll be online, playing games and chatting to his mates.'

'I did network administration as part of my IT diploma,' said Mark. 'I'm really keen to do more of that.'

'There may be something along those lines in the not so distant future,' said Stephen. 'I don't want to get your hopes up though. We have been asked to price for a networking contract but if we don't get it, there won't be a job to offer.'

Mark nodded.

'I understand. I'm available if you need anyone though.'

Mark clicked the mouse to close the video memory, stress-test program, printed off the results and scanned them quickly.

'Job done,' he said.

Stephen checked the results.

'I can run to £7.50 an hour, plus overtime rates?'

'Really? I was only expecting minimum wage.' Mark offered his hand and Stephen shook it. 'Thanks for the chance.'

'I'm delighted to have you on board,' he smiled. 'As for minimum wage. No one gets that here, not even Ben, though you'd think we paid him peanuts to hear him talk.'

'You keep saying we. Do you have a partner?'

'Force of habit, we're all in it together, so I see it as a joint enterprise.'

'Why Cat Computers? Are you a cat lover?'

'No, I'm not really a cat person; my ex girlfriend chose the name. I'm dog lover, but would you buy a PC from somewhere called, Dog Computers?'

Mark laughed and shook his head.

'In a word, no.'

Mark got up from his stool and looked slowly around.

'It seems my luck is finally changing. I'll be celebrating in the Wagon and Horses tonight if you fancy a jar.'

'Can't tonight, sorry, ' said Stephen. 'I'll be doing a bit of work on my novel; I'm just starting to get somewhere with it.'

'You're a writer? I guessed we had something in common when we first met.'

'You write too?'

'I scribble,' said Mark. 'I jot down my thoughts, nothing serious.'

'I'd like to read some of them, ' said Stephen.

Mark grimaced and shook his head.

'It's not for human consumption, I read it out to my dog, she listens and doesn't criticise.'

Stephen laughed along.

'I used to be like that, but I figured that if I wanted to be a successful writer, my work needed an audience, it's the only way to find out if you're improving. I joined an online writers site to get some feedback, now I'm a bit more confident I've joined a writers club, you should give it a go.'

'You need money to belong to clubs and I haven't had any to waste on things like that.'

'Sorry,' said Stephen, quickly. 'I didn't' t mean to...'

'No need to apologise, it's the way of the world; you either have money, or you don't.'

Stephen led Mark to the front of the shop, opened the door and shook his hand.

'I'll see you on Monday then, Mark. Welcome to Cat Computers.'

Mark grinned, faced the street and punched the air.

I'M IN WORK!.' he shouted.

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The Westwich Writers Club. 8

2010-03-03T08:45:00.013Z

'Croissant and a coffee to take away?'

Sharon poured the coffee without waiting for a reply and bagged up the pastry. Stephen tried to look glum.

'Am I so predictable? One of these days I'll order something different just to confuse you.'

'Women like a bit of predictability in a man, it usually means they're dependable too. That can never be a bad thing.'

'I thought you girls like the excitement of unpredictability in men? The bad boys always seem to do better with women than the dependable types.'

Sharon thought for a moment.

'Hmm, you're right. Mind you, I don't think you'd be quite as predictable as you are in your breakfast habits. I reckon you'd be a bit of a challenge, Stephen. That's something else we women like.'

Sharon took the proffered banknote and handed back the change.

So, in essence, you want a strong, reliable character with a smattering of unpredictability, pride with a hint of sensitivity, stability with a reckless streak and a challenge thrown in for good measure?'

'You've nailed it. You seem to be that rarest of creatures, a man that actually understands women. When are you taking me out?'

'I'm as puzzled as the next man,' laughed Stephen. 'Anyway, you'll most likely have changed your mind about the requirements by tomorrow. That's why we men are always getting it wrong; you girls keep moving the goalposts.'

'Let's have a test run,' urged Sharon. 'I'll let you know what bits you're getting right as we go along.'

Stephen headed for the door chuckling to himself.

'Your husband would have a fit if he could hear you.'

'He wouldn't care if you and I had sex on our front room carpet, providing we didn't block his view of the football.'

'I'm sure he'd be furious if he found us together,' laughed Stephen. 'He'd probably want to teach us both a lesson. See you on Monday.'

Sharon watched as Stephen walked by the plate glass window.

'I'll risk it if you will,' she muttered.

Stephen pushed the key into the lock and pushed the door handle down with his elbow while his other arm cradled his briefcase and breakfast. Once inside he tapped the code into the burglar alarm, retrieved his key from the door and switched on the shop lights. At the back of the room he opened the door to the workshop, flicked the switch and set his briefcase down on the bench. He had just taken his first sip of coffee when the shop entry chime sounded.

'Morning,' he called.

Carole stuck her head round the door and feigned surprise.

'You're early, did you fall out of bed?'

'I was hardly in it last night,' he replied.

'Spare me the sordid details,' she laughed. 'I'm far too innocent for stuff like that.'

'Nothing sordid to report, Ma'am, I was working on my computer.'

'Don't you see enough of them in the day?'

'More than enough, my computer has needed an upgrade for months, I've got the bits at home but I can't seem to summon the will to fit them. They'll be out of date by the time I get round to it. I've got far more interesting things to do with my time.'

The door chime rang again.

'Morning boss,' called Paul and Mel together.

Stephen looked at his watch.

'This is some kind of record,' he said. 'Or it will be if Ben manages to get here before ten past.'

'He's not coming in,' said Mel. 'I saw him in the pub last night, he was hammered.'

'Taking his Granny's death badly, eh?'

'Not so you'd notice, he was with a crowd of lads from the estate, he was buying the beer too, she must have left him some money.'

'She must have, he's always saying I don't pay him enough to live on. He'd better be back in on Monday or I'll be paying him a visit to see what he's playing at.'

Carole made her way through to the shop and turned on her PC. She opened the day’s mail while she waited for the operating system to load.

'Bills, bills and more bills,' she called.

'We'd better get these new PCs built smartish then,' said Stephen.' Or we'll all be on the dole by the end of the month.'

'Five cheques in, and Smalley's Solicitors have finally paid their bill.'

'Hurrah, we're saved,' shouted Paul. 'You won't have to go onto the streets after all, Mel.'

'Bugger,' she said, 'I was looking forward to that.'

Stephen opened up the stock room and called Mel and Paul to join him.

'How do you want to go about this? There are fifteen workstations to build and test, plus the five new machines on individual orders. It doesn't look like we can count on Ben, so It's down to us.'

'Is now a good time to ask for a rise?' asked Mel.

'Ladies first then, Mel. We have twenty PCs to build and we have six repairs, one upgrade and two don't know until we get the lids off. Which do you fancy having a go at?'

'I really don't mind, boss, I'll take what I'm given.'

'Correct answer,' laughed Stephen. 'Can you do the upgrade today? If you do get time you can start on one of the repairs. I'll get onto the don't knows, then I'll hit the repair list. Paul, looks like the new ones are down to you.'

'I'm at Robbem and Scarpers this afternoon, they've got problems with backups and as they're a legal firm they think they should get priority.'

'Smalleys? ' Stephen laughed. 'Seeing as they've finally settled their bill I suppose we had better sort them out.'

Stephen walked through to the shop and leant on the counter.

'Can you conjure up Ben's number for me please, Carole? We are in need of his services.'

Carole looked up the record on her database and jotted down Ben's numbers.

'One mobile, one landline. I'd try the mobile; he never answers the other one.'

Stephen picked up the phone on Carole's desk, then on impulse decided to use his mobile instead. He had never used it to ring Ben before, so he wouldn't recognise his number on the screen when it rang.

'Ben? Good, it’s Stephen, yes that's right, Stephen, your boss? The man who gives you money for doing very little.'

‘You’re at Death's door are you? Well I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to walk through it, we have a lot of work on here and we're extremely short handed.'

Stephen drummed his fingers on the counter as he listened to Ben's reply.

'You got what? Swine Flu? Were they serving Tami-Flu cocktails at the Wagon and Horses last night?'

'No boss is right, they weren't. Look, Ben, I'm not going to mess around with you any more. I expect you back at work on Monday morning at 8 am sharp. We've got twenty new PCs to build and only ten days to build them in.'

Stephen hung up and slid his phone into his pocket. He turned to Carole with a shrug.

'Remind me why I ever employed him?'

'Because he's a wizard with computers?'

'Wizard he may be, but he's about to cast his final spell. He's on his last, last chance, Carole. If he doesn't turn up on Monday I'll be casting the you're fired, spell.'

Stephen returned to the workshop and placed a computer on the work bench. He flicked through the job sheet and took the lid off the machine.

'Can anyone work tomorrow?'

'Sorry boss,' said Paul. 'I'm playing football; we've in the semis.'

'I can keep you company,' said Mel, softly.

Stephen cursed under his breath; he really didn't want to be alone with Mel.

'I'll be here until twelve as usual,' called Carole. 'I can stay until two though if you need me.'

Stephen grinned.' Thanks, Carole; I knew I could rely on you.'

Five minutes later Carole called through.

‘I have a Mr Whitaker from the Westwich Herald on the line. He wants to have a chat about administering their network; the people who normally do it have gone to the wall. He also said that at least half a dozen of his machines are well past their use by date and will need replacing, ASAP. Blackstocks recommended us apparently.'

'The Herald? Blimey, if we can get in there we're made. They must have dozens of machines in that place, it's huge. I'll take it in the office, Carole.'

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The Westwich Writers Club. 7

2010-02-28T16:55:00.008Z

At ten o'clock, Stephen got up from his word processor and made coffee. The program had been open for forty minutes but the new page was still blank. He had already made a forced start by saving the page with the title, Sir Montague's Squire, Chapter One, but that hadn't been enough to tempt the first faltering words of the novel from his fingertips.

Stephen swore in frustration, it had all seemed so clear in the car. Now the time had come to get it written up, he couldn't think of a way to begin. He had never believed in writer's block but now he was almost convinced of it.

He made more coffee and stared at the screen. Thirty minutes later he made a sandwich, watched an episode of Blackadder, sorted the recycle bin for collection the next day, then settled down in front of the computer again.

He consulted Sol Stein and his namesake Stephen King, for their thoughts on opening chapters, but found no solution. Eventually he decided to do a little background work to see if that could inspire him.

Stephen opened his notebook and jotted down a few of the ideas he had thought about when driving home. He decided that the last chapter could remain pretty much the same, the new twist in the plot would come from the introduction of a completely new character.

He scribbled down a few character traits and a brief description, then built a short history of the new man's life. It was not something he had done before, he normally liked to 'go with the flow' and let situations arise rather than plan them meticulously. He'd had many an argument with his creative writer tutor over the issue. 'Planning is the key,' she used to nag. He decided he had nothing to lose by giving it a shot.

Stephen began to make a list of background information. He had just written out the list of main characters when he heard a gentle tap on his door. When he opened it, he found Charlie on the landing holding a mug in front of her.

'Hi, Stephen, sorry about the time. I saw your light was on. I don't suppose you could let me have a drop of milk could you? I've been on the afternoon shift and by the time I got to the shop they had sold out.'

'It's always a cup of sugar on the estate,' laughed Stephen.

'Yuk,' said Charlie. 'Chocolate is the only sweet stuff this girl would borrow and I'd want it in a wrapper, not a mug.'

'I could run to a chocolate digestive.'

Charlie made the sign of the cross.

'Get thee behind me, Satan. Don't you dare tempt me, I lost weight on safari, I intend to keep it off.'

'You looked fine before you went,' grinned Stephen. 'Is now a good time to try it on?'

'You missed your chance last night, Buster,' said Charlie. 'I'm shattered. It's my first day back at work. I should have organised it so I had the rest of the week off.'

'You've just had a month off,' laughed Stephen. 'If you aren't unwound by now you never will be.'

'It's hard work on safari I'll have you know. Anyway, we were two nurses down on my team today so we had to cover for them.'

Stephen fetched a carton of milk from the fridge.

'There you go, what are you having, Horlicks?'

'I won't need Horlicks tonight; I could sleep on a clothesline. Thanks for this; I'll repay you twice over... Ooh, that reminds me, I've got something for you.'

Charlie skipped across the landing and came back with a large photographic print.

'This is to say thanks for dinner last night.'

Stephen studied the photograph.

'A lioness with her kill. What a fabulous shot. Thanks Charlie, I'll get a frame for this.'

'You're very welcome.'

Charlie held a hand to her mouth and yawned.

'Right, bed for me, see you over the weekend. I'm staying at mum's tomorrow night.'

Charlie stretched to kiss his cheek but Stephen put his arms around her waist and pulled her to him. His lips brushed against hers, then he kissed her again, this time more urgently.

Charlie put her hands on his chest, then slipped them around his back.

'That's more like it, you're getting the message at last.'

'I thought you were tired,' whispered Stephen.

'I am, dog tired, so don't go trying to take advantage, Mister.'

'I wouldn't dream of it.'

'That's a shame,' said Charlie, wistfully. 'I dream of it quite often.'

She opened the door, stepped onto the landing, then turned and blew him a kiss.

'Goodnight, Sir Galahad. See you over the weekend.'

Stephen returned to the screen and willed his fingers to type, but nothing appeared on the page. He scratched his head and decided to try another tack.

'Just write anything,' he told himself. 'It doesn't have to make sense, just get something on the page.'

In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth. The earth was without form and void, and darkness was over the face of the deep...

'Where the hell did that come from?' he laughed.

Stephen closed his eyes, within moments the picture of Charlie's lioness standing over its prey came to him.

'Got it,' he cried. He began to type, slowly at first, but the speed built up as the idea took shape.

The white wolf stood in the snow covered clearing and howled at the winter moon. Beneath his feet lay dinner, its spilled blood still warm. The pack circled the Alpha male, eyeing the meal, their turn would come, but only after the leader had eaten. One of the younger pups darted forward impatiently but was put in its place with an ill tempered snarl.

The white wolf dug its teeth into the carcass, ripping through its strange fur. There wasn't much meat on the creature, but enough to keep them alive for another few days. The winter had been savage and pack numbers had dwindled. Farmers had taken their sheep and cattle into pens and were guarding them through the night hours.

The carcass was a good find, they hadn't had to use up precious energy chasing it down. The wolf's powerful jaws snapped through ribs like they were rotten twigs, his teeth found the heart of the creature and gripped it firmly. He pulled hard and dragged the still warm organ from its host and held the dripping trophy aloft. After a few seconds he took his prize aside, lay on the snow and began to eat. At this signal, the rest of the pack fell onto the carcass, one pulled away part of an arm while another feasted on genitalia. Within an hour there was nothing but a pile of gnawed bones and a few tattered rags.

Below, on the plain, four men cleaned their bloody swords in the snow, wrapped their cloaks around themselves and headed towards Durberry Castle to claim their reward.

When he next looked up it was three o'clock. Stephen was tired, but elated. He now had the first two thousand words of his novel. He saved the document, turned off the lights and went to bed with a smile on his face.

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The Westwich Writers Club. 6

2010-02-20T12:17:00.012Z

At the end of Redvale Lane Stephen pulled onto the grass verge, picked up Mick's job sheet and entered the address details into his sat-nav.

'After three hundred yards, turn left,' he was advised.

A few minutes later he pulled up in front of a short row of terraced houses. Mick's was right in the centre at number four. Stephen flipped the latch on the wrought Iron gate and stepped up to the red painted front door. There was a choice of a bell push or a brass knocker. He chose the bell push, there was no reply so he beat a rat-a-tat-tat with the door knocker.

A woman's head popped out of the upstairs window at number three.

'What are you after?'

'I'm looking for Mr Morrison,' said Stephen. 'I've got a delivery for him.'

'He's not in.'

Stephen looked at his watch.

'I suppose I am a bit late.'

'It wouldn't matter what time you turned up, he's never in these days,' advised the woman.

'Any idea when he'll be back?'

'Could be any time, I've seen him sneak back in after midnight. Is it a parcel? I can take it in if you like. I'll make sure he gets it.'

'No, it's not a parcel, I'm returning his computer. I need to set it up for him and show him a couple of new programs.'

'Computers,' she spat. 'At his age?'

'There's no age limit on using them,' said Stephen. 'Most people have one these days.'

'And we all know what people get up to on them too, that Intynet is full of sex.'

The woman looked up and down the street then came to a decision.

'Hang on a minute, I'll come down.'

Stephen moved to her front gate.

There was the sound of bolts being drawn and keys being turned. A few seconds later she stepped out of her doorway patting her steel grey hair into place. She bustled down the path towards him before coming to an abrupt halt just short of the gate.

'Who did you say you were?'

I didn't, but I'm Stephen King. I run a computer repair shop in town.'

'You ought to be writing books with a name like that,' she observed.

'It has been mentioned,' said Stephen.

'Got any ID? You could be anyone.'

Stephen handed her a business card. She held it close to her face, then squinted at it from a distance.

'Left my glasses on the coffee table,' she confided.

She put the card in the pocket of her cardigan.

'I'll read it later.'

'Any idea where Mick will be?'

'It's Mick now is it? It was Mr Morrison a minute ago.'

'I know him from the Westwich Writers Club as well as being a customer, Mrs...?'

'Wilde, Mavis.'

'Do you have a son called Oscar?' Stephen joked.

'Oscar's my cat.'

Stephen tried not to laugh.

'And Mick?'

'He'll be at his floozies house, opposite the Post Office.'

Stephen thought for a moment.

'Mary?'

'That's her, the brazen whore. You want to watch her, she's trouble.'

'She seemed very nice when I met her.'

'You would think that, you're a man. She's a Jezebel,' she hissed.

'I got the impression that Mary and Mick were just good friends.'

'She tries to make out that's all it is, but I know the truth, she's bewitched him. I had hopes there myself until that bitch came along.'

Stephen backed away from the gate and walked to his car.

'I know where Mary lives, I dropped her off the other night.'

'That's disgusting, she's old enough to be your grandmother.'

'Thanks for your help Mrs Wilde. I'll see if Mick's with Mary.'

'He'll be there,' she said sadly. 'He's never any bloody where else.'

Stephen walked through the rose bushes in Mary's front garden and rang an old fashioned bell push. Within thirty seconds the door was opened.

'Hello, Stephen,' said Mary. 'This is a surprise.'

'Is Mick here? Mrs Wilde said he might be.'

'I bet that's not all she said either.'

'No, she did offer some local gossip.'

'It's not gossip, it's her overactive imagination. Mick's here, as are one or two other faces you might recognise.'

Mary led Stephen into her lounge and clapped to get attention.

'Look who's here, folks.'

There was a mumble of recognition, then Mick's voice boomed out.

'What the hell is he doing here?'

Stephen looked around the room, there were half a dozen writers club members and a few faces he didn't know.

'He's a gate crasher,' accused Mick.

'Now, now, Mick,' said Mary,' Stephen is very welcome, it's you he's come to see anyway.'

'I've bought your computer back, Mick, as good as new.'

'Just leave it here, I'll carry it back up myself.'

'I've put a few new programs on for you, to manage any future infections. I'll need to spend a couple of minutes showing you how to update and use them.'

'I'll manage,' said Mick. 'I'll ring that nice young woman on your counter if I get stuck, she seemed to know what she was doing.'

'If you're sure, Mick,' said Stephen. 'The invoice is taped to the side of the case.'

Stephen turned to leave but was stopped by Mary.

'Let me introduce you to a few people,' she said. 'They're all writers.'

She led him across to a dark haired woman of around sixty. The woman pushed her glasses down her nose and looked over them.

'Marion, this is Stephen, he's new to the club, he has so many exciting ideas.'

Stephen held out his hand, Marion ignored it and planted a wet kiss on his cheek.

'Pleased to meet you, it's about time someone pulled our little club kicking and screaming into the 20th century.'

'21st,' laughed Stephen.

'Oh, you're going to bring us right up to date are you, that's good, being dragged out of the 19th would have been a start.'

Marion turned to her elderly companion.

'This young man is going to give us a makeover.'

'What's he taking over?'

'No Gwen, MAKE OVER, He's going to bring the writers club up to date.'

'Oooh, good, ' trilled Gwen. 'Is he a decorator? I need my stairs doing.'

Mary handed Stephen a glass of cordial.

'There's someone here I want you to meet, Stephen,' she confided. 'He proposed similar ideas to yours a couple of years back, but the opposition was always so fierce that he gave up. He doesn't come to meetings very often now, which is a shame, because he's a very good writer.'

Mary led him to the back of the room where a short, balding man was pouring himself a refill from the wine bottle.

'Jack, this is Stephen, the subject of all the gossip you've been hearing. Stephen, this is Jack Collins.'

'Call me Jacky,' said a Geordie voice. 'Mary is always too formal.'

Stephen shook the proffered hand.

'Nice to meet you, I hear you've been accused of plotting against the hierarchy too.'

'Silly old buggers,' said Jacky. 'They know change has to come but don't want it on their watch.'

'I think they're coming round,' said Stephen. 'Slowly.'

'So I hear, it seems you've got them rattled and that's quite an achievement. In fact I'm so impressed I might even drag my sorry hide to a few more meetings. I'll be right alongside you if we really are going to grasp the nettle this time.'

'I think we need to put a little more weed killer down before we get that far,' laughed Stephen. 'But I'll be glad of a friendly face in the trenches.'

Mary took Stephen's arm and led him towards the kitchen door.

'Come with me,' she whispered. Mary looked back and beckoned Mick and Jacky to follow.

'What's up?' asked Mick, as he pushed his way between Mary and Stephen.

'Spies,' whispered Mary, 'shhh.'

Mary led them through the kitchen into the conservatory. She put a finger to her lips and crept over to the door leading to the back garden. She took a key from a hook and quietly unlocked the door, then beckoned them to follow. The three men tip-toed after her as she stepped onto the patio. She waited a few seconds then pressed a switch and the whole garden was bathed in light.

'Come on out, Mavis.'

There was a rustle in the Rhododendrons and Mavis Wilde crawled out onto the lawn. She wore green leggings, a brown jumper and a black knitted balaclava, her face was smeared with soot.

'You're quite welcome to come in Mavis, there's no need to spy on me.'

Mavis glared at Mary.

'Three of 'em,' she trilled. 'That has to be a record, even for you.'

Mary shook her head, her voice softened.

'Come in Mavis, there are other guests inside.'

'Can't handle 'em all on your own eh?' spat Mavis. 'Try old Gwen from number seventy, I reckon she'd be happy to help you out.'

'Gwen's already here, Mavis, as is Marion Phelps and Elsie, with the blue rinse.'

'An ORGY!' gasped Mavis. 'In our village.'

Mary walked to the switch and turned off the lights.

'Come along you three, my bed awaits.'

Stephen followed Jacky and Mick back into the house. Before she locked the door Mary turned back to Mavis.

'Last chance?' she called.

'Whore,' came the reply.

Stephen carried Mick's PC into Mary's kitchen and sat it on the table. Mick inspected it for damage.

'Looks to be okay,' he muttered.

'I'm sure it's as good as new, Mick,' said Mary.

'I hope it's better than that,' moaned Mick, 'I had so many problems with it, I could hardly use it for the first two months.'

'We guarantee our work, Mick,' said Stephen, reassuringly.

'I should think you do,' Mick replied. 'You charge enough.'

Stephen stuck his head round the door to the lounge and said goodnight to his fellow guests.

'It was a pleasure meeting you,' said Marion.

'Can you give me an estimate on my stairs before you go?' asked Gwen.

Jacky shook Stephen's hand again.

'I know where to come when I'm ready buy a new computer,' he said. 'Are you at the next meeting?'

'I wouldn't miss it for the world,' said Stephen. 'The revolution has begun.'

'Hold it there a moment,' called Elsie, with the blue rinse. She held up a digital camera and took a snap.

'Stephen King and Jacky Collins, together in Redvale,' she laughed. 'I could sell this picture to the papers.'

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The Westwich Writers Club. 5

2010-02-16T23:49:00.014Z

It took Stephen the rest of the afternoon to remove the various worms and Trojans that had infiltrated Mick's computer defences. He ran five spyware scans a full virus sweep and rebooted the machine several times before he was confident that the machine was infection free.

At five thirty Carole popped her head round the door of the workshop.

'I'm off now boss, I need to call in at the supermarket on the way home. See you tomorrow.'

'Give me a minute, Carole,' called Paul, 'I'll drop you off, I'm going that way.'

'Night boss,' they called together as they left the shop.

Stephen began the final tests on Mick's PC.

'No home to go to Mel?'

'I've nothing on tonight, so I'm not in a hurry.'

Stephen heard her slide from her seat, a few seconds later he felt her breast press against his elbow. She slid a hand around his waist and stretched to look over his shoulder.

'Anything I can do?' she whispered.

Stephen straightened and edged away to the side.

'No thanks, Mel, I'm almost done now. I just have to deliver the bloody thing.'

'Need any company? I'll come with you if you like.'

'Thanks for the offer Mel, but I don't' want to put you to any trouble.'

Mel pushed her body against him, placed a hand on his hip and looked up into his face.

'It's no trouble.'

Stephen tried to back off again but found himself pressed tight up against the wall. He lifted his hands in a defensive posture, then thinking that she might get the wrong idea, stuck them in his pockets instead.

'Mel... I'

'Okay, boss, wrong time, wrong place, eh?'

'Mel, there isn't a r...'

Mel shushed him, stretched, and placed a soft kiss on his lips.'

'Another time then. Goodnight.'

She turned away, picked up her bag and performed a catwalk wiggle across the workshop, Stephen's eyes followed her every movement. When she reached the workshop door she looked over her shoulder and blew a kiss.

'See you tomorrow boss.'

Stephen wiped his brow with the back of his hand.

'That was a close one,' he said aloud.

At six thirty he loaded the repaired computer into the boot of his BMW, locked up the shop and joined the tail end of the rush hour traffic. He pushed a Deep Purple CD into the player and turned up the volume. As he drove along the ring road he began to think about a new plot twist for his novel. He decided it would take the story off at a tangent but it might make it stronger in the end.

As he drove through the council estate he spotted a small convenience store and pulled up at the side of the road. Stephen followed a well used path that had been worn into the grass bank and climbed the slight incline. The Mini Mart was the first in a small line of shops.

On the pavement outside, a group of hooded teenagers leaned against a wall talking in their own coded language. Stephen hurried into the store trying not to make eye contact.

Inside, he bought bread, milk and a large jar of coffee. The Asian assistant scanned and packed his purchases into a thin plastic bag. Stephen placed his phone and car keys on the counter while he tapped his pin into the card reader. He heard the shop bell chime as four teenagers entered the store and stood in a group by the magazine rack. Stephen slipped his wallet into his pocket, picked up his bag and squeezed past them.

Stephen felt six pairs of eyes follow him as he came out of the shop and began to make his way back to his car. He had only gone a few yards when he heard footsteps behind him. He picked up his pace but the sound of the footsteps became louder. When he got within five yards of the car he reached into his pocket to retrieve his keys, he cursed silently as he realised he had left them on the counter. He cursed again as he turned to retrace his steps and saw the crowd of youths walking slowly towards him.

The gang came to a halt about six feet away. The tallest of them made a hand signal and the rest spread out to form a semi circle, penning Stephen between themselves and his car. The tall youth stepped forward and ran his hand over the bonnet of the BMW.

'Nice car,' he said.

'Look,' said Stephen, ' I ju...'

A fair haired lad with an acne covered face held Stephen's keys in the air.

You won't get far without these.'

Sweat broke out on Stephen's brow. He willed himself to stay calm.

The youth held up a mobile phone.

'I think you'll find you left this behind too. It's a nice phone this, I wouldn't mind one myself.'

He pressed a button on the keypad.

'Oh dear, sim lock, I wonder what the code is? Are you going to share?'

The youth took another pace forward. Stephen clenched the handle of the plastic bag tightly, the milk carton and coffee jar were quite heavy. He decided to use it as a weapon if he had to.

The spotty youth looked Stephen up and down.

'That's a nice watch you have there, I quite fancy that.'

He put the phone in his pocket and held out his hand.

'I liked the look of that leather wallet too.'

'Leave it Jason.'

Stephen dragged his eyes away from his tormentor and saw a tall, fair haired youth approaching.

Jason spat on the pavement.

'We're only having a bit of fun, Mark.'

'I bet this guy doesn't find it funny ,' said Mark. 'Give him his stuff back.'

Jason glared at Mark and spat again.

'Give the gentleman his property back,' Mark repeated.

Jason tossed the keys, then the phone to Stephen. When he spoke again his voice was ice cold.

'You need to be more careful in future, you might not be so lucky next time.'

'Right, back off you lot,' said Mark.

The gang shuffled back a few feet muttering to themselves.

'Get in before they change their mind,' hissed Mark.

He walked round to the passenger side and jumped into the car. Stephen climbed into the driver's side and hit the central locking button.

'Thanks for that, I thought I was in real trouble there.'

'You were.'

Stephen pulled away as the gang of youths began to make their way back to the small row of shops.

'They're not as bad as they look, mostly. Jason's the one to watch, if you can get him to back down the rest will too.'

'I really appreciate your help. Look, can I buy you a beer? I could use one after that.'

'A beer would go down nicely, thanks. The Wagon and Horses is just around the corner.'

Mark looked around the car and whistled.

'Nice car,' he said. 'No wonder Jason fancied a ride.'

Stephen pulled up at the lights.

'Left here, then right and right,' said Mark, as he looked through Stephens CD collection.

'Left, right, right,' repeated Stephen.

'Your taste in cars is a lot better than your taste in music.'

'There's nothing wrong with that stuff,' laughed Stephen. 'It was always playing in our house when I was growing up. You'll find it's all classic 70's rock, apart from Snow Patrol.'

Mark rolled his eyes and shook his head.

'Old farts music. How old are you? Thirty?'

'Thirty two.'

'And you are listening to Pink Floyd and Deep Purple. That's sad, man.'

'It is sad,' laughed Stephen. 'I have got a bit of Oasis at home, any better?'

'Not really,' said Mark. 'Here we are, I'll have a bottle of Bud, thanks.'

There were a few early drinkers in the bar. The current high price of beer had forced even the most ardent drinker to ration his intake and a lot of pubs had to put on happy hour promotions to entice customers onto the premises. A broad shouldered man with greasy hair and an earring greeted them.

'What'll it be? We're virtually giving it away until seven thirty.'

'A pint of best and a bottle of Bud, please.'

The landlord placed the drinks on the bar.

'Just passing through or are you moving onto the estate?'

'Passing through,' said Stephen. 'You were recommended.' He nodded towards Mark.

'Thought so looking at the car. We don't get many of those around here.'

'So it seems,' replied Stephen. 'I can remember the estate being a far friendlier place than it is now.'

'There's good and bad.' said the barman. He pointed to Mark. 'You're with one of the good, he's a bright lad is Mark.'

Stephen nodded.

'He just saved my bacon back there. I thought I'd say thanks by buying him a drink.'

Mark returned to the bar and picked up his beer.

'Cheers.'

Stephen raised his glass.

'What do you do for a living?' he asked.

'Nothing. There's no work.'

'It's pretty bad isn't it? Ever thought of college?'

'Been there done that,' said Mark. 'I left with an IT diploma last summer and a fat lot of good it's done me.'

'Things will get better eventually,' said Stephen. 'It can't stay like this forever.'

'I can't compete with the graduates. They're taking everything, they even stack bloody shelves in supermarkets. My poxy diploma won't even get me a cleaning job if there's a grad lad on the shortlist.'

'You don't want a cleaner's job, you're better than that.'

'I want to work,' said Mark. I don't care what the job is. I can get a better one later.' He drained the bottle and placed it on the bar. 'It's the boredom that gets you. That's why Jason and his mates are doing what they're doing. If they had work they wouldn't need to hassle people passing through the estate.'

'You don't do it ,' said Stephen. 'There's no excuse really.'

'I choose not to. I like to think I'm a bit above that. They'll tell you that they have been forced to do it by a society that doesn't care about them. They'll tell you that the system made them what they are. Society gives them nothing, so they have to take what they need.'

The landlord rang a bell to announce the end of Happy Hour and the bar began to empty. Stephen ordered another Budweiser and handed the bottle to Mark.

'It's the wrong way to look at things, there are opportunities still. College has to be better then hanging round on street corners, stealing from your own kind.'

'Our own kind? You're not one of us.'

'Oh but I am,' said Stephen. 'I'm from Scarington, I'm pit bred.'

'I'd never have guessed,' said Mark. 'What do you do?'

'I run my own business. It's only a small enterprise but it makes a crust. My point is though, if the pit hadn't shut I'd probably be working there now.'

'Did you do uni?'

'Yes, but I had the same problem as you. There were just too many graduates and I couldn't find a job in my chosen field. So I ended up starting up on my own. It was a bit scary but I got a business loan and the rest as they say, is history.'

'The banks don't do loans these days, not even to businesses. One man bands have no chance.'

Stephen nodded.

'I didn't say it was easy.'

Mark drained his beer and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. Stephen looked at his watch and placed his glass on the bar.

'I'd better be going, I'm dropping something off for a customer. It's been a real pleasure to meet you Mark, thanks again for the help.'

'It was nothing, I'd do the same for anyone. Besides, I didn't want my little brother getting into any more trouble.'

'Your brother?'

'Jason.'

Stephen blew out his cheeks.

'Blimey.'

'I know. He's hard work, but I have to try to keep him out of trouble. Mum would be devastated if he ended up in gaol. She doesn't know the half of it and I'm not going to break her heart by telling her.'

Stephen held out his hand and Mark shook it.

'If you hear of anything, work wise, could you give me a ring? I don't care what it is.'

Stephen added Mark's number to his mobile and made his way out of the pub. Outside it was raining again. Stephen started the car and pulled out of the car park, Deep Purple thundered from the speakers.

'Old farts music,' he laughed.

Previous Next

The Westwich Writers Club. 4

2010-02-08T12:04:00.007Z

After dinner Charlotte bought her laptop over and went through her collection of digital photographs that she had taken on safari. Stephen was impressed with her detailed knowledge of the animals and places.

'You should write it all down Charlie, I'm sure it would find an audience.'

'Me, write? as in writing something other than an email. I can't see it somehow.'

'I read your emails, they were very descriptive, I think you've got a real talent there. It just needs polishing up a bit. While you were away, I joined the local writers group. They're a strange lot, mainly elderly, but they do have some younger members stashed away in a cupboard somewhere.. Why don't you join too? maybe together we could blow away some of the cobwebs and get it functioning again. What do you say?'

'Writing, hmm, I have to admit I've always fancied the idea. My old English teacher said I should be a journalist. It's certainly worth thinking about. What do they do at this group?'

'Not a lot as things stand, but they do have writing competitions every month and they have reading nights, so you can get an idea of what strangers think of your work. Family members and friends are always going to be polite about your writing and while that's encouraging it's not really going to help.'

Stephen put the last few pages of his novel on the table. Charlotte picked it up and read.

'This is great,' she said eventually, 'where's the rest of it?'

Stephen tapped his head.

'In here, I've more or less got it all worked out.'

'So you wrote the ending first?'

'Yes, I know, the writers group thought I was mad too. Or at least I think they did, I didn't get any reaction from them at all when I read it.'

Charlotte pursed her lips and thought for a moment.

'Thinking about it, it's quite logical. You should know where you're going to end up.'

'That's how I see it. Of course when I write the preceding chapters the story might take a major diversion and it may end up in a totally different place, but I just thought I'd give it a go.'

'If the writers club is so old and crumbly, is there any real point in me joining. They sound a mean old bunch.'

'I was told they are just scared of change, they know things will have to be done differently if the group is going to survive, but they just can't face up to that reality.'

'So what are you going to do, start a revolution?'

' It started tonight, I have one or two that I think I can persuade, it will take time, they won't just follow like sheep, nor should they, it is their group. But I think I've sown a few seeds. We'll see what happens over the next few weeks.'

Stephen produced the Westwich Writers Club publicity leaflet.

'Have a look at that, it has all the details of competition nights and manuscript meetings. They are going to be adding guest speakers soon too.'

Charlotte scanned the A5 sheet.

'I wouldn't be able to make all the meetings, I'm back to work at the hospital from Monday. But I could scrounge a lift with you now and then I suppose. The more I think about it the more I like the idea of writing about my safari.'

'You could turn it into a novel, Charlie.'

'Maybe, there are possibilities there, I suppose. I'll think about it and get back to you.'

Charlotte looked up at the kitchen wall clock.

'Goodness, it's after one, I'd better let you get to your bed.'

'I'm having a day off tomorrow, so don't worry about it.'

Charlotte picked up her laptop and Stephen showed her to the door. She kissed him on the cheek and walked out onto the landing.

'I've missed you, Stephen. I love our little get togethers.'

Stephen grinned.

'Me too Charlie, we'll have to do it again soon.'

Charlotte looked at him quizzically.

'How come you never try anything on with me? Most do, even my tour guide in Kenya. Aren't I your type or something?'

'Just because I don't do it, doesn't mean I don't think about it.' said Stephen. 'You don't know how close you've just been to a good, try it on.'

'Here's a tip,' whispered Charlotte. ' Next time you think about it, give it a go, you never know your luck.'

She turned and made her way back to her flat.

'I'll let you know about the writers club soon, I promise. Goodnight, Stephen.'

Stephen woke with the sun in his eyes and a ringing in his ears. He reached out and picked up the phone from the bedside table.

'Speak,' he croaked.

'Stephen? it's Carole. Did I wake you? I'm sorry.'

'Hi Carole, It seems I am having a lie in, but it wasn't planned, I had a bit of a late night. What can I do for you?'

'We're short staffed again, I know it's your day off, but...'

'Who hasn't turned in?'

'Ben.'

'Ben? I'm beginning to get a little fed up with him, what's his excuse this time?'

'Granny died last night.'

'Again? Didn't she die three or four months ago? he had a week off to get over it.'

'This is another Granny.'

'But he's never met his other Granny. He doesn't even know who his Dad is, does he? Didn't his mother bring him up on her own?'

'Yep.'

'Okay, I'll be there in an hour. Leave the virus infection and the new main board job for me. Give Mel the memory upgrade and the new OS installation. She's there I take it?'

'Yes, Mel's here, she never misses. We have to force her to take holidays. I think you have an admirer there.'

'Don't,' groaned Stephen. 'She's only seventeen. What would I do with a girl that young?'

'I'm not going to answer that,' laughed Carole.' But I'm sure she could.'

'I'm sure she could too, but I'm not going to ask. Hold the fort, I'll be there shortly.'

Stephen parked up in front of his computer repair shop, placed his parking permit in the windscreen and hurried into the sandwich bar nest door.

'Coffee and a croissant please, Sharon. If you've got any left.'

'You're late today, Stephen, what's up, wouldn't she let you out of bed? I know I wouldn't.'

Stephen laughed.

'I overslept that's all. I was on an African safari last night.'

'Yeah? well next time you go take me will you, I've always wanted to see a tiger.'

'There are no tigers in Africa, they do have lions and leopards though, I saw lots of them last night.'

'Tell you what? Forget the animals, just make sure it's hot and there's a beach.'

Stephen paid for his breakfast and walked round to the shop.

'Morning Carole, morning Kell.'

'Morning boss,' they called in unison.

Stephen walked through to his workbench in the back room, put down his paper bag and picked up a job sheet.

'Is Paul out on that networking job at Blackstock's?' he called.

'Yes, he said he'll be back this afternoon. They want another five workstations adding to their order.'

' Great stuff, that's fifteen now, Paul will be wanting a rise.'

Stephen turned to his trainee.

'How are you getting on with the memory upgrade, Mel?'

'I've finished it, I'm halfway through loading the new operating system on the Walker PC.'

'Well done. Do you think you'll have time to do the job Ben left yesterday evening?'

'No worries, he's already done one virus sweep, I'll do the spyware scan and check the system registry after lunch.'

Mel pushed her chair back from the bench and crossed her long legs. Her skirt rode up her thighs. She checked to see if Stephen had noticed but he had turned away.

'Test the Ram as well will you?' He called over his shoulder. 'Ben thinks every PC problem is caused by a virus, make sure the memory checks out.'

Stephen turned back to his bench, took a sip of his coffee and slid the side panel off the faulty computer. He gave the inside a blast with a compressed air spray, opened the box containing the replacement main board, then picked up a screwdriver and began to remove the old one.

'Anything new come in this morning?' he called to Carole.

We had a call from a Mr Morrison. He says his computer has Alzheimer's. He's bringing it in this afternoon.'

'Alzheimer's? laughed Stephen, that's a new one. I'm not sure I know how to fix that.'

Paul returned just before lunch and reported back to Stephen on the status of the Blackstock job.

'Five more PCs to add. Well done Paul, the parts for the original ten were delivered last night. Can you ring the supplier's and order up what we need for the other five?'

'No problem, Anything else we need while I'm at it?'

'There's a list on my desk but get them to add another dozen memory modules will you? We're going through it like nobody's business at the moment.'

Stephen checked the test results of the repaired computer and printed off a customer copy, then he replaced the lid and called through to Carole.

'Can you print an invoice and ring Mr Williamson please? Tell him he can pick his PC up whenever he's ready. If there's nothing else pressing, I'll get back to my day off.'

Stephen picked up his jacket from the office and switched off the power to his bench. He was about to walk through to the front of the shop when he heard a familiar voice.

'It's lost the plot. It keeps giving me messages about not having enough virtual memory. Some clever so and so told me it was down to something called a Trojan, but I don't think he knows what he's talking about.'

'That sounds like good advice,' said Carole. 'Trojans can cause havoc on a PC.'

Mick shook his head.

'Trojans,' he said, 'it's all Greek to me.'

Carole laughed politely and made out a job sheet. She looked up as Stephen walked in.

'Hello, Mick, come to get it sorted have you? '

Mick stared at Carole.

'Don't tell me you employ him?'

'I own the business, Mick, it's what I do when I'm not reading medieval murder stories.'

Mick ignored him and continued to talk to Carole.

'I want you to get one of your staff to fix this, I don't want him poking around inside my private stuff.'

Carole made soothing noises.

'Don't worry Mr Morrison, I'll get our head technician to sort it for you.'

'I suppose that will cost me more too, I'm only a pensioner you know.'

'Standard rates,' said Carole. 'We don't charge extra.'

'Give Mr Morrison our pensioner discount, Carole,' said Stephen. 'And another ten percent off for being a member of our local writers club.'

'I don't want any favours,' sniffed Mick. ' I always pay my way.'

'I'm sure you do, Mick, but the offer applies to any Writers Club member. I'll bring a poster along to the next meeting.'

'Short of work are you?' asked Mick suspiciously.

'Not at all, but I'm always looking to drum up more business.'

Mick turned back to Carole.

'When will this be ready? I have to carry it on two buses so I need to know in advance.'

'We can deliver it back to you, Mick,' offered Stephen. 'No extra charge.'

'Hmm, well, I suppose that's all right then. Make sure it's after one though, I'm always busy in the mornings.'

He walked to the door, then turned back.

'And look after that computer. It cost me a bloody fortune.'

After Mick had gone Stephen picked up the machine and carried it through to his bench.

'I thought you were going home,' said Mel.

'Priority job,' said Stephen. 'I want to drop this off on my way home tonight, just to see if I can get him to say thank you.'

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The Westwich Writers Club. 3

2010-02-07T15:02:00.010Z

Stephen walked out of the rear entrance and made his way across the tiny, puddle strewn car park to the street. The car park only had a dozen spaces and they had all been taken by writer's club members. Stephen wondered what time he would have to get there to claim one of the spaces. He suspected he would need to be there a good half hour before the meeting started.

The club was situated at the bottom of a narrow street on a steep hill. Close to town, the street was popular with drivers as it was one of the few places left without yellow lines and parking meters. Pedestrians splashed their way along the pavement eager to get to their destination and out of the gathering storm.

Stephen held his plastic document folder above his head and jogged up the hill to his car. By the time he reached it the rain had begun in earnest. A clap of thunder rattled the windows of the taller buildings, a few seconds later a crazy zig-zag of lightning lit up the night sky.

Stephen fired up the engine and switched on the headlights, the music of Snow Patrol roared out from the speakers. He began to sing along as he flicked the indicator and eased his way through narrow gap between the lines of parked cars.

Half way up the street he noticed two figures struggling with an umbrella. Stephen hit a button and the window was lowered.

'Can I give you a lift?' he called.

Mick glared from under the peak of his cap.

'No thanks, we're fine.'

'You may be fine, Mick, but I'm getting soaked,' said Mary. 'Thank you, young man.'

Mick opened the back door and waited for Mary to get into the car. To his annoyance she opened the front door and climbed in next to Stephen. She snapped on her seat belt as Mick grudgingly threw himself into the rear seat.

'Where to?' asked Stephen.

'Can you drop us by the station in town? Our bus leaves from there,' said Mary. 'Thank you so much for this,' she added.

'It's not a problem, where are you heading from there?'

'Redvale, do you know it?'

' I do, It's more or less on my way.'

Stephen took a right turn and eased his way along the High Street.

'Can you turn the bloody noise down, I can't hear a bloody thing back here,' called Mick.

Stephen touched the paddle on his steering wheel and Snow Patrol lowered the decibels.

'Thank God for that, what a racket,' said Mick. He rubbed his ears for effect.

'I like it,' said Mary, 'it has a nice beat. You'll have to remind me who it is before I get out, I might buy this.'

'You'll be deaf inside a week,' said Mick. 'What's wrong with Frank all of a sudden?'

Mary looked over her shoulder.

'There's nothing wrong with Sinatra, and there's nothing wrong with Slow Parole,' she argued. 'You have to move with the times, Mick, you're stuck in the fifties.'

'It's Snow Patrol, ' said Stephen. You can borrow the CD if you like.'

'Thank you, Stephen,' said Mary. 'I intend to grow old disgracefully and if heavy pop music helps me do that, then I'm all for it.'

'Good for you,' laughed Stephen.

The rain intensified. Stephen switched the wipers to full speed. Up ahead a bus had skidded into the back of a lorry. A policeman directed the traffic around the accident.

'That's going to take a while to clear,' said Stephen. I'll take you to Redvale, it isn't far out of my way.'

'That really is very kind,' said Mary. 'We're very grateful, aren't we Mick?'

Mick muttered something under his breath and wiped the window with the back of his hand.

Ten minutes later Stephen turned off the dual carriageway and drove through the council estate.

'Short cut.'

'Don't stop at the traffic lights for too long,' advised Mick. 'They'll have your wheels.'

'You've become a bit of a snob, Mick. I'm sure we're quite safe,' said Mary.

'I'm from round these parts, it's nothing to do with being a snob. I know what goes on here. You aren't safe after dark these days. It didn't used to be like that.'

' I bet there's still a lot of decent people living here,' said Stephen.

'What would you know about council estates, ' sneered Mick.

'I grew up on one,' said Stephen, 'over at Scarlington.'

'The pit estate? you're having me on.'

'My dad was a miner, so was my eldest brother. I'd probably have ended up down the mine if they hadn't shut it,' said Stephen.

'That was a sad day,' said Mary. 'I remember the miner's brass band playing as they pulled down the pit head.'

'My dad was in the colliery band,' said Stephen. 'We all went to listen that day. I've never seen so many grown men cry.'

By the time they reached Redvale the rain had eased to a steady drizzle. Mary guided Stephen through the village and directed him to a small bungalow across the road from the post office.

As he pulled up she leant across and kissed him on the cheek.

'You're an angel,' she said. 'It would have taken us hours to get home tonight.'

Mick opened the door for her and she climbed out.

'Can I drop you anywhere, Mick?' asked Stephen.

His question was answered by the sound of the door as it slammed shut.

Stephen parked his car on the road outside a small block of flats and let himself in the communal front door. He checked his post box, retrieved his mail, then climbed the single flight of stairs to his flat.

'Hello, stranger.'

Stephen looked across the landing to see Charlotte grinning at him from her front door. She wore a long bath robe and a turban made from a towel.

'Hi, Charlie,' he grinned. ' Nice to see you. How did you find Africa?'

'I just got off the plane and there it was.' said Charlotte.

'You know what I meant.' he laughed.

'It was big and hot.' I've got a million photo's and a thousand stories just waiting for some poor, unsuspecting neighbour.'

'Not sure about the million photo's but I'd certainly like to hear about your trip.'

'Safari,' said Charlotte, 'a trip is what you take when you go to the zoo.'

'Isn't it the same thing, just bigger?' Stephen teased.

Charlotte threw the wet towel at him.

'Are you busy now?' she asked.

'Not particularly, I was going to have an hour on my novel, but that can wait if you're bringing a bottle of chateau d'Afrique over.'

'You'll have to provide the wine, and a bit of food if you've got any, I've only been back an hour. I haven't had time to shop yet.'

'Not sure if my cooking is good enough for a seasoned traveller like you.'

'I'm so hungry I could eat anything, hot, cold, burnt to a crisp, raw...'

'You're likely to get all four at once with me,' he laughed. 'Give me twenty minutes and I'll see what I can rustle up.'

'It's a date,' she said.

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The Westwich Writers Club. 2

2010-01-24T21:30:00.012Z

In the meeting room Stephen returned to his seat on the back row. Mary was chaperoned to a chair nearer the front by the elderly man who had confronted him in the bar. He gave Stephen a warning look before he sat down.

Margot got to her feet and squinted at her list.

'Ted?' she queried.

'You really ought to go back to glasses, Margot,' said Ted, as he picked up his clipboard from the floor.

Margot blushed and sat down.

Ted marched to the podium, nodded to Harriet and addressed the membership.

'Ted Hughes, not the famous one,' he announced.

A gentle titter ran round the room.

'I was going to read a new poem, but as I don't have to share reading time with my grandson tonight, I've decided to read the latest chapter of my novel instead.'

Ted patted his pockets, looked back to his seat, then patted his pockets again before eventually finding his spectacles on a thin chain around his neck. He cleared his throat and read from the clipboard.

'The Jonah. Chapter 14. Unlucky for Some.'

The membership stopped fidgeting and concentrated on Ted.

'Captain Farthing strolled into the coffee bar from the dusty street and took a table by the window, he ordered tea from a native waitress. It was stinking hot. The waitress sniffed, gave him a queer look and turned the propeller fan above their heads up to full speed.

Captain Farthing added two large spoonfuls of sugar and milk from a jug on the tray and stirred his tea slowly. He sipped the tea idly and thought about Fiona. Would she turn up after their last meeting? He doubted it. He remembered how he had trapped her ball gown in the door of his car and her horrified face when she realised it had dragged through the mud.

He hoped she had forgiven him.

There was a tinkle and Fiona stood before him. 'Hello Farthy,' she said. Fiona sniffed from her delightful nose. She lifted first one foot then the other and checked her shoes.

Farthing groaned as he realised in horror that the smell must be emanating from his shoes. He checked them under the table. Sure enough it was him, somewhere out on the dirty, dusty street he had trodden in dog shit.

Fiona was sympathetic. 'You get all the bad luck, Farthy,' she said, 'you must be the unluckiest man in India...'

As the story progressed Stephen developed an almost uncontrollable urge to laugh. He bit his lip, then his cheek, but still the laughter welled up inside him. He decided he had to get out before he collapsed in a heap on the floor.

Stephen held his hand in front of his mouth and lurched towards the door. He yanked it open and ran for the toilet block. Within seconds he was bent over the sink laughing hysterically and praying that he couldn't be heard.

Five minutes later his riotous laughter had been reduced to a continuous, childish giggle. He had cramp in his stomach and his face was wet with tears. As he straightened up he heard a rap on the door and the sound of Margot's voice.

'Hello, are you alright in there?'

Stephen stared at the ceiling and willed the giggling to stop.

'Yes,' he spluttered, eventually. 'I'm fine thanks, I just felt a bit unwell there for a moment. Thought I was going to be sick. I think I may have caught a bug.'

'Well I hope you haven't given it to the rest of us, whatever it is,' said Margot.

He heard her footsteps fade as she went back to the members’ room.

Stephen ran cold water onto his hands and dabbed at his eyes. He checked himself in the mirror and tidied his hair, then, confident that he was no longer in danger of losing it, he left the toilets and headed back to the hall.

Stephen closed the door behind him quietly and tiptoed back to his seat. Ted had finished reading and had been replaced on the podium by a woman in her early sixties.

'I'm sorry, I'm a little nervous,' she said. 'I keep losing my place.'

'Faversham Hall,' called Ted helpfully. 'You were in the rose gardens, Sheila.'

'Oh yes, so I was,' said Shelia. She checked the bottom of the page then turned it over. 'I've done that bit, where's page two?'

Sheila shuffled through her papers but couldn't find the missing sheet.

'Sorry,' she said eventually. 'I was editing it before I came out, I must have forgotten to print it off. Maybe the word processor deleted it.'

'Never trust computers, ' said Deirdre. 'You're better off with pen and ink.'

There was a murmur of agreement from the membership.

'I once lost a whole book,' said Martin Stanley. 'I found it months later in the antivirus program folder. God knows how it got there.'

Deirdre nodded. 'You can't trust them.'

Mary's protector joined in.

'I've got to get an engineer to mine,' he announced. 'I can't do anything with it. I just keep getting a message about some program using up all my virtual memory, whatever that is.'

'It's like another language, Mick,' said Ted.

'Bloody thing says I'm infected,' moaned Mick.

Stephen got to his feet.

'You are infected, Mick, I think you've got a Trojan.'

'Who asked you?' shouted Mick. He pointed to his nose. ‘Keep this out.'

'Trojans! ' hissed Deirdre, ' and you wanted me to get one of those things.' She looked accusingly at Margot.

Harriet got to her feet and called for order.

'Ladies and Gentlemen, please...'

The members ignored her and continued their heated discussion on the merits of computers.

Margot stood beside Harriet and slammed her clipboard down on the desk.

'Members. PLEASE! Can we have a little decorum here?'

The members returned to their seats looking shamefaced.

'Thank you.' Margot checked her watch. 'It's a little early but I think we'll call it a night. I'll read through the suggestion box while Harriet gives out the details of the new competition.'

'Ooh,' cooed Deirdre,' a new comp, how exciting.'

'The quarterly competition is on the subject of bird song,' announced Harriet.

'Bird song,' whispered the members to each other.

Harriet raised her voice slightly and continued.

'One hundred words maximum including the title. All entries to be received by May the 31st.'

She waved a handful of paper.

'I'll put these by the door so you can pick one up as you leave. It also has details of the monthly competition, which this time requires you to get your poetic juices flowing. The subject is 'Old Friends,' no more than 24 lines please.'

'Not more bloody poetry,' called a voice.

'I'm hopeless at poems,' said another. 'Can't we do a short story about it instead?'

'Sorry,' said Harriet. 'Poems only.'

'Bugger,' said Mick. He looked fondly at Mary. 'I won't be taking you out to dinner on my winnings next month then.'

Harriet walked to the back of the room and placed the pile of papers on the table by the door. Margot finished reading the cards and stood up.

'Firstly, to whoever wrote this.' She glared at Ted. 'The answer is no, and I doubt you could manage it at your age anyway.’

The members nudged each other and tittered. Margot held up her hand for silence.

'Surprisingly there are one or two ideas that are worthy of consideration this week. Let's put them to a show of hands shall we?'

The members muttered agreement.

'Point one. Does the membership believe it would be a good idea to draw lots at the manuscript meeting so that every member gets a chance to read? The idea behind this is that once a member has read at a meeting, they would be automatically barred from reading at the next two meetings. Anyone in favour?'

Stephen began to raise his hand but stopped as twenty five members turned to glare at him.

That's a no, I take it,' said Margot.

'I knew he was trouble,' glowered Mick.

'Point two. Does the membership believe that members should be limited to a ten minute slot on manuscript reading night, so that the discussion on their work can result in more than just a warm round of applause?'

Stephen stuck out his jaw as the membership vented its collective spleen.

'It was just an idea,' he complained. 'There's very little point in reading anything if it isn't going to be commented on, and by comment I don't just mean saying that something is nice. Serious writers need to know if they are progressing. A group like this is the ideal platform for that, it's the only reason I joined.'

'You can always leave,' said Mick.

Mary got to her feet.

'The young man has a valid point. We used to give constructive criticism years ago. It's only since Hilda died that we've become a sort of back patting society. We used to have some great discussions on what we'd just heard. I think we should go back to that format. I think we could even take it further and bring in written critiques. We could hand them in anonymously at the next meeting and Margot could pass them on to whoever the critique was written for. That way we could say what we really felt about someone's work without feeling embarrassed about it. I wouldn't expect anything nasty to be passed on though.'

'We had a few rows when we did that before though,' said Deirdre. 'It wasn't all good natured.'

'We did, but we all had a good laugh about it over a drink afterwards,' replied Mary.

'That's true,' said Elsie with the blue rinse. 'We had a bit more about us back then. I think we stopped arguing out of respect for Hilda. But she's been gone five years now.'

'Right then,' said Margot. 'Shall we have a show of hands?'

To Stephen's amazement only Mick kept his hand down.

'I'm not voting for anything he thought up,' he declared.

Margot held up a third card.

'Does the group believe we should bring in a guest speaker occasionally? The idea is that we invite a published author, an agent, or even a publisher along to give us advice on getting our work into print.'

'Did he think this up too?' grumbled Mick.

'This is nothing to do with me,' said Stephen. 'It's a great idea though.'

Mary stood up again.

'This was my idea. We used to do it years ago and we had some very interesting nights. I think we've allowed ourselves to wallow in self pity since Hilda died. She used to organise us, we left everything to her, she was a fabulous club president, irreplaceable really.'

She looked across to Margot and Harriet.

'No offence intended, we got into this rut long before you were voted onto the committee. We used to have so much fun, anyone remember when we had the editor of the Herald in here?'

'That was hilarious,' called Ted. 'He was the main story in on the local TV news that night and he knew nothing about it. What was his topic, moral publishing?'

The crowd laughed as they remembered.

'He'd only been publishing lies about the Mayor, so that he could get his wife into the job,' chuckled Martin.

'Show of hands? asked Margot.

The vote was unanimous.

'Right,' she said. 'I'll start looking to see who we can bring in to speak. We'll have to reschedule everything of course. We'll put our proposals forward at the next members meeting. Meanwhile I know that the request was refused tonight, but I really would like everyone to think about this idea of drawing lots to read. If the group has decided to move on in other areas, then I think we should give this more consideration too.'

Steven held the door open again as she members shuffled through. As Mary passed she gave him a wink. Mick dug an elbow into his ribs as he barged past.

'Bloody interfering sod,' he hissed.

As Stephen was about to leave, Margot called him back into the room.

'Are you staying for a drink?'

'Not tonight thanks, Margot. I want to write a bit more of my novel when I get home. I'm up at six in the morning for work.'

'Thank you for your ideas, Stephen. I really think this is going to be a new start for us; we've needed a kick up the backside for years. The next meeting is in two weeks time. I hope you can make it.'

'I wouldn't miss it for the world,' said Stephen. 'I might even enter the competition.'

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The Westwich Writers Club. 1

2010-01-23T12:44:00.019Z

'Will stared down at the lifeless body of Sir Charles Montague and smiled thinly. It was over, his tormentor was dead. He pulled his sword from the neck of his victim, wiped it on the grass and sheathed it. He looked at the brightening sky, the sun said noon, time to make for Durberry Vale, Elizabeth, and the rest of his life.'

Stephen King looked up from his manuscript and surveyed the hall. The audience of mainly elderly members stared back at him. The silence was deafening. Then from the table behind him came a solitary clap.

Margot Sugden, the writers group secretary, rose to her feet.

'Thank you for that, Stephen, I'm sure we all found it very interesting. Not many members read the last chapter of their novel on their first manuscript reading but there's no rule that says you can't.'

She held up her list and squinted at it.

'Now, whose turn is it? Ah yes, Deirdre, do you have more from 'The Quilt? You do? Excellent!'

Stephen made his way to the row of empty chairs at the back of the room and sat down with a sigh.

A white haired woman turned to face him from the row in front.

'Awfully good.' she whispered. 'For a first timer.'

'Thank you,' said Stephen, 'I don't think it went down too well.'

'I think it needs work,' she replied, 'quite a bit actually and people tend to read novels from the first chapter here. But you're writing and getting an audience, that's what counts.'

She paused, popped a mint into her mouth, thought for a moment, then offered the packet to Stephen.

'You will find it will take a while to become accepted here. We're an ancient bunch with a very old fashioned mentality. We probably see you as a bit of a threat at the moment, but we'll get used to you…eventually.'

Stephen took a sweet from the end of the roll and smiled.

'I've only written the last five pages of this particular novel so far, 'I thought if I got the end done, I'd know where I was heading with the story, if you see what I mean.'

A warm round of applause greeted Deirdre as she took to the stage. Mary's voice dropped to a whisper as she was shushed by the members in front.

'You ought to be writing horror stories with a name like yours. I'm Mary Clark by the way.'

'My English teacher said the same thing at school. Nice to meet you, Mary.'

The old woman turned away as the hisses became more urgent. Deirdre was on her feet and people wanted to hear the latest chapter of her epic tale.

'Jemima Donnelly sat on the cold, damp wooden seat in the air raid shelter as the German bombs crashed around her, on her knee was the family quilt that had been passed down through the generations. Jemima worked by candlelight, she was good with a needle, her hand was steady even if her nerves were not...'

The group filed out for a drinks break at 8 pm. Stephen held the door open to allow Mary Clark through, half a dozen members took the opportunity to get to the bar first and pushed through with her. Stephen stood patiently and held the door as the entire membership left the room. He received one or two nods and a smile for his trouble.

He walked down the stair with Margot and Harriet, the club's 'chair'.

'Deirdre's Quilt piece was well received,' he said.

'Always is,' replied Margot. 'She's one of our stalwarts is Deirdre.'

'She read from it last meeting and the one before that I seem to remember, everyone seems to know the plot. She must have been writing it for quite a time.'

'Years, ' said Harriet. 'The Quilt was started in 1790 by an ancestor of the present heroine. She made the first square while waiting for the guillotine during the French Revolution. Deirdre's been working on the same story for forty years.'

'It must cover a few volumes by now then,' said Stephen.

'Reams,' agreed Harriet. She writes it all out in long hand you know. She doesn't use a word processor.'

Stephen opened the door to the bar and followed the women into the room. Margot retrieved a hanky from her bag and blew her nose noisily.

'We sent a letter to a publisher on her behalf once, but they wanted her to have it typed up before they would read it, so she didn't bother. It would cost her a fortune. It must run to a few thousand pages by now.'

The two women stood at the bar and fiddled with their bags. Stephen took the hint.

'Could I get you a drink, ladies?'

'G and T for me,' said Harriet. 'I'll be sat in the corner.'

'Just a half of lager, for me,' said Margot. 'I'm driving.'

Stephen carried the drinks over to the corner table and carefully placed them in front of the group leaders.

Harriet downed half of the gin in one go then nursed the glass close to her chest.
'Bliss,' she said. 'It's amazing how stressful these manuscript meetings can be.'

Margot sipped her lager and nodded in agreement.

'Competition judging is worse though.'

She got to her feet, glass in hand.

'The suggestions box is on the bar should anyone have any ideas about how to spice things up a bit and make these evenings even more enjoyable. There are postcards and pens on the tables and anonymity is assured. We'll read one or two ideas out at the end of the meeting.'

Half a dozen members reached for the pens. A few others whispered their ideas to each other.

Stephen turned to look for a chair and felt twenty five pairs of eyes boring into the back of his head. There were no chairs available so he turned back to the group, sat on the end of a table and sipped his orange juice.

'So, how long have you all been coming here?' he asked.

Twenty three conversations began at once, none of them requiring a reply from him.
Stephen drained his glass and walked to the bar. He put down his empty glass and stared into the mirror behind the optics. On impulse he picked up a couple of postcards, wrote on the back and dropped them into the box.

He was surprised to hear a voice behind him.

'Never mind them, they'll come round.'

Stephen turned to find Mary Clark looking up at him.

'They're not over friendly are they?'

Mary popped a mint into her mouth and began to suck.

'They are frightened of change, that's all it is. Things have been the same for so long that they know exactly what to expect at every meeting. They know where they fit into the pecking order. They all turn up to applaud the winners on competition night and they all get a chance to read their latest tome at the manuscript meetings. They feel secure; some of them have been members for over fifty years. Over time their writing has improved, sometimes not by much, but they know they'll always get a sympathetic hearing here.'

'I didn't,' laughed Stephen.

Mary patted his hand.

'Give it time. You're new and you didn't start your story from the beginning, they aren't used to that. Add in the fact that they were expecting a poem from Valerie Sharp but got your medieval murder mystery instead and you can see why they weren't quite as receptive as they might have been.'

Stephen frowned.

'I'm not that new, I've been to five meetings now, this is my third manuscript meeting. It's the first time I've managed to get on the reading list though.'
Mary's voice dropped to a whisper.

'Don't let on that I told you, but you only got on the list because Valerie rang in to say her partner has had a funny turn. If she had turned up you wouldn’t have read tonight. You were our substitute reader so to speak. I'm surprised you even got that spot to be honest; Martin Stanley normally brings something in for emergencies like this. He must have forgotten his folder tonight.'

Stephen looked over at the crowd in the corner; twenty five pairs of eyes stared back.

Mary popped another mint into her mouth and turned her back to the group.

'They work the reading list out weeks in advance. There is limited time you see. The older members like Deirdre, Ted and Valerie, get to read every time. Others like Ted's grandson get to read at least once every couple of months. You shouldn't have been down to read for a long while yet. I know it doesn't seem fair but we have to look after the established members, they are the lifeblood of the group, without them we'd have folded long ago. The good news is that now you're on the reading list, you stay on it. You'll get to read your stuff at regular intervals now.'

'I'm not sure I want to after tonight,’ laughed Stephen. He nodded towards the group. 'Are any of them published?'

'Oh yes, Ted's had many a letter in the Westwich Herald and Margot once had an article published in the Guardian.'

She put her hand to her mouth and looked around to make sure no one could hear.

'An article in the Guardian is the pinnacle apparently.'

'Anyone had a book published?' asked Stephen.

'Valerie had a couple of books of poetry published in the sixties. Ted insists he had a book published just after the war but no one can find a record of it. In the sixties and seventies we had half a dozen published authors on the books, but they either moved away or died. At one time we had over three hundred members, now we're down to about sixty. Some only turn up for competition results night or when it's their turn to read.'

She popped another mint into her mouth.

'I'm not addicted to these; I've just given up smoking.'

'Well done, I gave up a couple of years ago, it isn't easy.'

'It isn't when you've had the habit for fifty years. It's like a bereavement.'

Mary crunched her mint and took Stephen’s arm.

'Come on, they'll be going back up in a second.'

She looked up into his face.

'We do have some younger members, if you stick around you'll get to meet them. They always turn up on competition night; they've won quite a few too. Some of them are very good, even Ted has admitted as much. In private of course.'

Margot got to her feet and clapped.

'Okay people, let's get back to it.'

The members filtered out onto the stair well and began the slow climb back up to the meeting room. A few dropped postcards into the suggestion box. An elderly man grabbed Mary's arm as he passed and began to lead her out of the bar. He glared over his shoulder at Stephen.

'I know your game,' he hissed.

'My game?'

The man let go of Mary's arm and walked back to Stephen.

'If you think you can worm your way in by giving free drinks to the committee, you can think again. We don't like pushy types around here.'

Stephen laughed and shook his head.

'I'm not trying to worm my way into anything.'

'You've had a reading and you've only been here two minutes.'

'I was lucky, someone got ill.'

The man pointed to his right eye.

'Lucky or not, I'm going to be watching you, very carefully.'

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