was seven. With young Bob in tow, his mother had gone through at least ten cheap addresses and almost as many men. He'd failed all his exams and left school at sixteen. The only thing he'd ever passed was a driving test. He'd never read anything by Shakespeare or Dickens. Didn't look at the arts programmes on TV. Didn't drink wine or borrow books from the library. The books in the house belonged to Sue, or her mother Maggie, who'd died of leukaemia three years ago. Three years, one month and two days.
Rhymes helped him fill the times when everything went quiet.
'They'll be know-alls,' he said that evening.
Sue looked up from her homework. 'Excuse me?'
'That writers' circle. Teachers and such. I'd be way out of my depth.'
'I thought you'd put it out of your head.'
'I have. I was telling you why.'
'Oh sure.' Sue looked down again. It wasn't the homework that made her smile.
He didn't mention the circle for two weeks, but that was par for the course. He always began with 'no way' and got more positive by stages. In his fertile imagination he was facing every hazard, the pointy-heads with university degrees who could quote Shakespeare, the old ducks in twinsets who could spell anything, the crossword solvers and the English teachers. He could picture himself reading out his rhymes, stuttering and sweating and losing his place and swearing and seeing the shocked faces around the table. Mayhem was going on in his head. When he'd faced every horror he could imagine, he would decide that, after all, it couldn't be
'Do you think they allow smoking?'
'Probably,' Sue said.
'I can't see it.'
'I expect they have a coffee break.'
'Maybe. What do they do at these meetings, do you reckon? Write stuff?'
She flicked her hair back. 'Why ask me?'
'And read it to each other?'
'Go along and find out.'
'You're joking.'
The following Tuesday at six forty-five he parked in front of the New Park Centre and watched who went in. New Park was also a cinema and they were showing a sexy French film, so it was difficult to tell who was part of the writers' circle, except that some of them came with bags and briefcases. Why would you need a briefcase for a sex flick? He hadn't brought a briefcase. If he went in at all he was damn sure he wouldn't be reading out his rhymes.
A youngish guy with a rucksack crossed the car park and went in. Long hair, earring, sweatshirt and jeans. Looks human, Bob thought. Not a schoolteacher or a professor. Give it a go, mate. He opened the car door and got out. If I don't like the look of the punters, he told himself, I can say I'm in the wrong room, looking for the film.
Inside, he strolled past the queue at the box office and went towards a door on the left, the only way to go if you weren't there for the film. A blonde in her forties was ahead. She glanced back to check that he wasn't anyone she knew. Deep-set blue eyes and the hint of a smile. Then she stopped, turned round and said, 'Are you a writer?'
Bob cleared his throat. 'Me?'
'It's the writers' circle in here.'
She didn't sound highbrow, and she was pretty in a way that younger women can't be, with creases that promised to be laughter lines asking to be exercised.
'Thought I might look in,' he said. 'See what you get up to.'
'Nothing we can get arrested for, more's the pity, but you're welcome to check. I'm Thomasine O'Loughlin, by the way.'
Fancy handle, he thought, but she seemed like a real person. He followed her into the meeting room where a long table and chairs were set up and nobody was seated yet. Two groups were in conversation. A man in a bow tie was holding forth in a carrying voice.
'No better, no better at all.'
Sounds like a line from Shakespeare, Bob thought. Should I look as if I've heard it before?
'He doesn't know,' the voice went on, as if reading his mind.'I tell you, he doesn't have a clue.'
If this is how they treat visitors, Bob thought, I'm off.
'He put me on some new stuff that sends me to sleep in the afternoons. I'll be back to see him in a day or two — if I can stay awake long enough to make another appointment.'
Smiles all round, even from Bob.
Thomasine was beckoning. 'Come and meet the chair.'
'Why? Is it special?'
'Chairman.'
'Ah.'
The chair wasn't the man with the medical problem. He was in the group at the far end. Catching Thomasine's eye, he stepped forward, a fiftyish guy in a sweater and cords who looked as if he would be more comfortable in a suit. His hair was thick and dark, too dark to be natural. The eyebrows probably were the genuine thing. They popped up. 'A new member?'
Bob tightened inside. The accent was top drawer. 'Just visiting.'
'A friend of yours, Tommy?'
Thomasine laughed. 'That's quick. We met outside the door.'
'Maurice McDade,' the chair said, gripping Bob's hand. 'Do you write?'
'Only a beginner.' Bob gave his name.
'We're all beginners in a sense,' Maurice McDade said. His speech came in bursts with overlong pauses, making him sound excited when the words came. 'The circle only came into being last year. You'd think a town this size would have had one for ages. Nobody took the first step.'
Thomasine said, 'Maurice set it up with the help of two others, Naomi and Dagmar.'
Names so posh that Bob checked where the exit was.
'We're still small,' Maurice said. 'Eleven if they all come. Like a cricket team. How did you hear about us? A recommendation?'
'The website.'
'Splendid. Miss Snow designed that. She'll be so encouraged. We'd better make a start.' He clapped his hands. 'Calling all writers. High time we put our feet under the table.'
Bob watched them find seats. Six women and five men, or six if he included himself. Average age, mid-fifties. One bow tie, five pairs of specs, a hearing aid and a wig. But also a blonde of about twenty who might have strayed in expecting to see the film.
'Before we begin, I'll introduce our visitor, Bob Naylor,' Maurice said. 'He's only taking a look at us this week. If we play our cards right, we could be up to twelve soon.'
Bob summoned a grin. He was to the left of a woman in her forties, hair streaked with silver, who had to be the secretary, already writing down the chairman's remarks. On his other side was the young guy with the earring.
Maurice spoke again. 'For Bob's benefit, I'll repeat my mantra, familiar to most of you by now. This isn't a talk-shop. We're here because we are creative people and we're not afraid to read out what we produce. This way, we are all — what are we?'
A couple of them spoke together. 'Published writers.'
'Exactly, for what is publication but making publicly known? Writing is about communication, so we're not afraid to have our efforts discussed by the others. Any writer should welcome the input of his peers.'
Sounds a pompous prat, but he's doing his best, Bob thought. Give him a chance.
The minutes of the last meeting were handed round by Miss Snow, the grey-haired secretary. Maurice asked if there were any matters arising and Bob thought of a rhyme.
Who fancies Miss Snow?
