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 Spring had just about sprung, there were green buds on most of the trees and the snowdrops on the roundabouts had been replaced by tulips and daffodils.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.

The Westwich Writers Club. 9

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...'

The Westwich Writers Club. 8

'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.'

The Westwich Writers Club. 7

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.

The Westwich Writers Club. 6

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.