The Westwich Writers Club. 16

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.'

The Westwich Writers Club. 15

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.'

The Westwich Writers Club. 14

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.

The Westwich Writers Club. 13

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.

The Westwich Writers Club. 12

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.

The Westwich Writers Club.11

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.'

The Westwich Writers Club.10

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.