—Thomas Kyd
Hamish had not planned to visit the writing class on the following Wednesday, but Angela and Dr. Brodie said if he would come along they would take him for dinner to the Italian restaurant afterwards. Dr. Brodie said Angela had written a very good story, and he wanted to see how she got on.
The village hall was as full as it had been the week before. Hands clutched manuscripts. Faces were flushed with excitement.
As usual, John made a late entrance. He began, “There was another part of my life which influenced my writing. It all began…”
“No!” shouted Mrs. Wellington, formidable in tweed and a large felt hat with a pheasant’s feather thrust through it. “You said you would look at our work. There’s a lot of us here. Let’s get started.”
“Oh, very well,” said John sulkily. “Who’s first?”
There was silence, everyone suddenly being struck with shyness.
“I’ll start,” said Mrs. Wellington. She lumbered up to the stage on her stout brogues. “I have started writing one of those little romances. Beneath my intelligence, but it’s a beginning. I’ve done one chapter.”
John’s mobile phone rang. Hamish noticed that once more he was made up. He heard John saying, “But you promised!” Then he lowered his voice and snarled something before ringing off.
Strathbane Television is not coming, thought Hamish. And he’s in a right fury about it.
“Read out some of your work,” John ordered.
Mrs. Wellington shifted her large feet uncomfortably. “I would rather you read some of it yourself.”
To her dismay, he began to read out loud. “It was a dreich day in the glen when Claribell McWhirter went out to feed the hens. Her long red hair blew about her white shoulders…”
“Was she naked?” sneered John.
“Of course not.”
“Then how does the reader know she has white shoulders?”
“She’s wearing one of those…one of those Gypsy blouses, off the shoulder.”
“You should have said so. Now to her name. Claribell is the name of a cow, my dear woman. Hardly romantic.”
“I can change that.”
He flicked through the pages. “If I were you, I would buy some romances and get some idea of what to write. This is rubbish. Next?”
Mrs. Wellington, her face flaming with fury, grabbed her manuscript and clumped off the stage.
A thin youth walked up to the stage. Hamish recognised Angus Petrie, a forestry worker. “It’s science fiction,” said Angus proudly. “I’ve only got the first few pages, but it’ll give you an idea.”
“Read!” ordered John.
Angus went as red as his hair and pimples, but he gamely cleared his throat and began: “The five suns were setting over the planet Zog when Burt Lightheart walked back to his cave followed by his trusty gorg, Siegfried.”
“What’s a gorg?” interrupted John.
“It’s a hairy creature which lives on the planet, rather like a pig.”
“Might have been a good idea to tell us that. And why the hell would he call this gorg Siegfried? Fans of Wagner up there, are they? Oh, go on, go on.”
“His wife, Zelda, had prepared him a succulent supper of ferret’s flesh.”
“What’s a forret?”
“It’s a ferret what’s had it,” shouted someone, and was immediately shushed.
“It’s a big hairy thing, rather like a mastodon,” said Angus.
“But we don’t know that because you haven’t told us.”
“Gie the lad a chance,” shouted Archie.
“I’m not reading any more,” said Angus stiffly, and walked off the stage.
And so it went on, with one would-be writer after another being crushed. The Currie sisters were particularly incensed at being told their offering read like an immature school essay. Alistair Taggart was told his story was incomprehensible because he had written it in Gaelic, and he was only allowed to read a few sentences. He looked for a moment as if he was going to strike John.
And then it was Angela Brodie’s turn. Her husband had insisted. She began to read in a quavering voice, and then her voice grew more confident as she read on. It was a short story about a newcomer trying to come to terms with life in the far north of Scotland. The hall was completely silent, everyone becoming wrapped up in the story.
John sat biting his knuckles. He’s desperately trying to find something to criticise, thought Hamish.
When Angela finished, there was a burst of applause. “Shows promise,” said John sourly. “But you’ve got a long way to go before you can consider yourself a writer.”
Archie Maclean leapt to his feet. “No,” he shouted, “thon was grand, and you’re the one that’s got one lang way tae go afore you can consider yourself a writer.”
There were cries of agreement.
“The class is over,” said John. “I will see what progress you have made next week.”
He strode from the stage, hitched his coat down from a peg, swung it round his shoulders, and left with an angry banging of the door.
Hamish looked around the hall at the furious faces, at the disappointed faces, and at the hurt faces. Being highland himself, he knew that a good lot of them would be plotting revenge.
He left the hall and returned to the police station and got into the Land Rover. It was time to have a serious talk with John Heppel.
¦
The night was clear and starry, the air was more seasonably cold. He drove up the rutted track to John’s croft house crouching under the thick branches of a large oak tree. Apart from the forestry plantations, there were very few trees in Sutherland because of the ferocious gales. To ward off fairies, there were rowan trees growing outside cottage doors, but this great oak tree was unusual.
Hamish knocked on the door. When John answered it, he stared up at Hamish and scowled. “What now?”
“It iss about your behaviour this evening,” said Hamish. John did not know Hamish well enough to be alarmed at the sudden sibilance of the policeman’s accent – a sign that Hamish was seriously upset. “How dare you humiliate folks so badly? Who the hell do you think you are, you with your rotten manners? I want you to write letters of apology to the members of your class and return their money. How much was the fee? Ten pounds? You are a fraud. You were supposed to be teaching them how to write, not demoralising them.”
“I am a literary writer,” spluttered John. “I have my standards. I – ”
“I should ha’ never let that business about the graffiti go,” said Hamish. “In fact, I’m taking the matter to Strathbane. They take racial insults very seriously these days. I’ll have you out of Cnothan if it’s the last thing I do. Now, are you going to write these letters?”
“Bugger off.”
“Well, you asked for it.”
Hamish turned on his heel. As he walked to the Land Rover, he heard the door bang angrily behind him.
He was worried. He knew Lochdubh would never forgive John. In fact, he was so worried he forgot he had promised to have dinner with Angela and her husband.
¦
The next day he was about to go out on his beat, late as usual, when he saw the Strathbane Television van parked on the waterfront and Jessma Gardener interviewing Mrs. Wellington, who was surrounded by members of the writing class.
Hamish walked forward to listen.
“John Heppel is a fraud and a charlatan,” boomed Mrs. Wellington while the soundman struggled frantically to mute her voice. “He deliberately set out to shame all of us, one by one. A lot of us showed promise, but I don’t
