Anyone fantasising?
What's that down below -
A matter arising?
Cut it out, Naylor, he told himself. This may be the place for one of your rhymes, but no way is it the time.
The man with the bow tie spoke from the other end. He'd found what he called a solecism in the minutes. Miss Snow glared at him.
'And what is that?'
'The misuse of a word.' There was a hint of central Europe in his accent.
'I know what a solecism is,' Miss Snow said. 'I'm asking where it is in the minutes.'
'The foot of page one. 'The circle was fulsome in its praise of Mr Blacker's talk.' Fulsome is a pejorative word meaning disgusting by excess. Your meaning, in effect, is that we lavished so much praise on Mr Blacker that it made him look foolish.'
Give me strength, Bob thought. How do I get out of here?
'I thought he lavished too much praise on us,' one bold woman said.'I had him down as a toadying sharpie, telling us we all had it in us to write a bestseller.'
Silence dropped like dead leaves in November.
Maurice said, 'Thank you, Naomi. You're never shy of giving an opinion.'
'Shouldn't the minutes say 'the late Mr Blacker'?' the man next to Naomi said.
'That is a point,' Maurice the chair said. He took an even longer pause this time. 'Did everyone hear the tragic news of Edgar Blacker?' Turning to Bob, he said, 'Mr Blacker was a publisher by profession, so we invited him to speak to us. He died in a fire at his cottage the next night.'
Thinking he'd better show respect, Bob shook his head and said, 'Dreadful.'
'You don't have to go overboard,' the outspoken woman called Naomi said. 'It's not as if he was one of us. Quite the reverse. He raised the hopes of certain people around this table, making it sound an easy matter to get published. It wasn't what you hear on writers' courses. It was irresponsible. They're beginners.'
'Except Maurice,' Miss Snow said. 'He's publishing Maurice's book.'
Miss Snow reddened. 'Oh. I hadn't thought. What a blow. I'm so sorry. You'll place it with some other publisher, I'm certain.'
'No question,' an overweight man said in a strong, deep voice. 'The cream always rises to the top.' A faint smile hovered around his lips, undermining the compliment.
'Anything else about the minutes?' the chairman said, not wanting to dwell on his personal misfortune. 'In that case, let's move on. Successes. Do we have any successes to report since the last meeting?'
A hand went up. 'A letter in
'Splendid! Well done, Jessie,' the chairman said, and there were murmurs of congratulation all round. 'Did they pay?'
'Twenty-five pounds.'Jessie, a compact, elderly woman in a purple twinset, modestly dipped her head.
'Are you going to read it out?'
'I'd rather not, if you don't mind. It's personal.'
Personal, in a magazine selling in thousands? Bob thought. These people are priceless.
'Yes,' Maurice said, with a raised finger, 'and it's the personal touch that gets the attention of an editor. Write from the heart, and you'll succeed. Any other successes?'
The man with the hairpiece said, 'My gardening column in the parish magazine, if you can call that a success.'
'Of course it's a success, Basil,' Miss Snow said. 'Everything in print is a success.'
'It's about runner beans this month.'
That was it for the successes. They went on to discuss the next item on the agenda: opportunities. Good psychology on someone's part. Leaflets about poetry competitions for cash prizes were handed round. Bob doubted if his rhyming would qualify.
'The report from the chair is next. I don't have much to report,' Maurice said. 'We've been thinking about the programme for the next six months. We can afford another speaker, I think.'
'Get someone better than Blacker, then. He was a conman,' the man with the sonorous voice said on a rising note. A Welshman, Bob decided.
Basil, the gardening expert, said, 'That isn't very kind. He's only just died.'
'Doesn't mean we have to praise up his talk. I agree with Naomi. It was crap. He spent most of the time talking up his tinpot publishing business and the rest of it telling some of us we could make a fortune.'
'He offered to come back.'
'For another fat fee.'
'Not at all. I'm sure he meant to come for nothing. He saw the potential here. Publishers need writers, you know. We're the creators.'
'The talent,' Jessie the success said.
Bob looked around at the assembled talent. To their credit some of them were grinning. Thomasine winked.
'I wouldn't mind hearing from a literary agent,' said a woman who had been silent up to now.
'Wouldn't we all?' Thomasine said.
'I meant as a speaker.'
'Dagmar, my dear, that's an excellent suggestion,' Maurice said. There was skill as well as tact in his handling of the meeting. 'But it isn't easy to get an agent to come along. We tried before.'
'Can't blame them,' Thomasine said. 'They know they'd leave here with a sackful of scripts. The Bournemouth circle had an editor from Mills and Boon.'
'Waste of time,' the Welshman said. 'How many of us write romance? Two, at a pinch.'
'What's your suggestion, then?'
'Me. I'd save the money and organise an outing.'
'Where to?'
'We could visit Kipling's place, Bateman's.'
'Been there.'
'Not with a bunch of writers, you haven't. We could use it as a topic, something to write about.'
'I'd rather like to visit the Jane Austen house at Chawton,' Miss Snow said.
'Each to his own, my dear. Personally, I've had it up to here with rich young men pursued by virgins on the make. If the rest of you want to go to Chawton, fine. 'Ship me somewhere east of Suez.''
'What?'
'A quote. I was quoting Kipling.'
'What about our youngest member?' Maurice the chair said. 'Do you have a preference, Sharon?'
'Wouldn't he love to know? Dirty old man,' the Welshman murmured.
The blonde shook her head. She had spent the entire time scribbling on a pad. Bob had assumed she was writing, but now she'd moved her arm he could see that all she'd produced was a page of doodles.
Maurice decided on a show of hands and the circle agreed that a visit to Bateman's would be arranged later in the year. If it was successful, he added with diplomacy, they might try the Jane Austen house the following year.
'So we come to the exciting part of the evening, our work in progress.' Maurice turned to Bob and almost brought on a seizure — but only to explain, 'We usually take it in turns to say where we are with our writing. If possible, we read something aloud and invite comments. Honest comment, no holds barred.'
'Cliche.'
'What?'
The man with the bow tie said, 'No holds barred. It's a cliche.'
With restraint, Maurice said, 'Would you care to suggest an alternative, Anton?'
'You said it already. 'Honest comment.''
'Thank you for that.' It was spoken in a tone that drained it of gratitude. 'Perhaps, Anton, you would like to
