by Debbie Young
Julia perked up at the thought of another teacher in their midst. “What subject?” she asked hopefully.
Her shoulders slumped when I said, “English as a Foreign Language”, a common reaction from core subject teachers who tend to think of EFL teachers as also-rans. “But I’m very keen on history,” I added, hoping not to have put her off me entirely. I needed to gather some allies in this group, in which clearly all was not sweetness and light. (Damn it, another 10p.)
“So what do you write?” asked Dinah, who always seemed to cut to the chase. (This meeting was becoming expensive.)
“I’ve written all sorts of things over the years, mainly short stories and plays, but what I’d really like to write is a novel.” I didn’t dare confess to abandoning five half-novels over the last four years, though I’d never ditched the manuscripts. Nor did I reveal Damian’s rejection of my offer to write free plays to suit his cast. I tried to push that memory to the back of my mind, clinging on to thoughts of Auntie May for comfort and confidence.
“I’m thinking of writing a tribute to my aunt to provide a personal insight into the character behind the famous travelogues. It could be the preface to an anthology of her best essays.”
I was pleased with myself for coming up with that idea on the spur of the moment, even if it did mean another notional 10p.
“You mean a collection,” said Dinah curtly. “An anthology means a set of works by multiple authors. A collection is by just one.”
She didn’t say I was stupid, but she made me feel it.
I drained my glass of wine. “So, can I interest anyone in another drink?” I needed one even if nobody else did. Everyone looked enthusiastic, and Bella wrote a list of their preferences and relieved me of a twenty pound note to place the order.
“That sounds a fascinating project,” said Karen kindly, patting my hand. “What a lovely tribute to your aunt. I wish I’d had a famous writer as a relative.”
“It wouldn’t help you get on if you did, though,” said Dinah. “Only talent will do that.” Poor Karen looked hurt. Dinah seemed intent on quashing any pleasure that might be gained from the evening with her carefully sharpened barbs. Talk about the pen being mightier than the sword, Dinah was positively deadly.
I attempted to divert the conversation to give Karen time to recover. “So tell me, Dinah, how do these meetings usually work?”
“We gather to share moral support, practical advice and best practice.”
Nul points for me, as far as I was concerned.
“Sometimes we bring our whips to share.”
“Whips?” I gasped, wondering whether I’d inadvertently hooked up with the wrong group.
Everyone else laughed before Julia clarified, “Work In Progress. W. I. P.”
“And sometimes we share writing craft advice books or blog posts that we’ve found helpful,” put in Jacky. “Or tips on how to self-publish, or how to submit your work to agents and publishers. Though only Karen has been properly published so far.”
I swivelled round to Karen, impressed likely.
“Well, if you count women’s magazines,” she said with an apologetic smile.
Bella returned with my round of drinks, and all the group members raised their glasses to welcome me officially. I thought that was nice of them.
“So, why are you interested in joining our group?” asked Dinah. I hadn’t expected the evening to turn into an interview. “What can you bring to the table?”
Smirking, Bella tapped the Readathon collection box, and Dinah, scowling, dropped in 10p.
“For a start, I’ve just taken a job at Hector’s House, so I’m your inroad to the book business.” I cringed at my awkward phrasing. “In fact, on Hector’s behalf, I’d like to invite you to hold your meetings there. A bookish environment might be more conducive to your art.”
Billy, helpful for once, emitted a loud belch at the bar as if to illustrate the unsuitability of our current surroundings.
“Also, as the new Assistant Entries Secretary for the Show Committee, I wanted to invite you to enter a float for the Village Show this year. We thought it might help you promote your work and your – our – organisation, raising awareness of the writers within the village.”
I sensed a release of tension around the table. You see, I come in peace, I thought. Then Dinah piped up.
“A float? That’s all very well, but where are we supposed to find the actual float? And a vehicle to pull us? It’s not as easy as you make it sound, you know.”
“Sorted.” I was glad to have the upper hand at last. “I’ve already got the promise of a farm trailer for you, so it’ll just be a case of decorating it. And I’m sure I can persuade Hector to tow it with his Land Rover.”
Julia, looking thoughtful, was a bit behind in the conversation. “Yes, Hector’s House would be much more appropriate. But of an evening? Do you think you could persuade him to open after hours for us? Some of us have day jobs, even though we aspire eventually to give them up and write full time.”
I sat back, on comfortable ground now. “Oh, but I’m a key holder.” I offset my improvised white lie with an important truth. “And I know how to work the coffee machine. I’m sure Hector would be fine with that.”
They all nodded approval.
“So you’re a writer in residence at Hector’s House?” queried Karen, looking impressed. Before I could disillusion her, Bella took the conversation in a new direction.
“But what shall we do for the float? What theme should we take?”
“How about our writing heroes?” suggested Jacky. “It might be a bit obvious, but it would certainly be fun. Bags I Charles Dickens!”
“That gives you less than eight weeks to grow a beard. But I’m sure you could do it if you put your mind to it.”
Jacky ignored Dinah.
“Ooh, Barbara Cartland for me!” said Karen. “I’ve got lots of pink things.”
“Just come as you are,” murmured Dinah.
For the rest of the evening, we planned who we’d be and what we’d wear. Each member quickly nominated a favourite author. Even Dinah started to enter into the spirit of it. Anxious to impress, I claimed Virginia Woolf. When I left, I realised that I was already an accepted member of the group. That felt good.
Only later, lying in bed, did I realise I’d missed a trick: I should have gone as my great aunt. At least then, I’d have felt safer. Auntie May had so many friends in the village – surely no-one would hurt her?
Or had they already done so?
13 The Leading Man
“What surprised me most was that there wasn’t a single man among them,” I told Hector next morning, as I dried the cups and saucers after the morning rush.
Hector looked up from his computer keyboard. “You mean there wasn’t a man who was unmarried, or there wasn’t a man at all?”
“The latter. I mean, you’d think statistically speaking, somewhere in a village of this size, there’d be a man interested in writing a book, wouldn’t you?”
I continued wiping the tearoom tables with a dishcloth. Hector shrugged.
“Maybe not at this time of year. All too busy nurturing their dahlias.”
“Is that a euphemism?” At least I made him laugh.
“For the Village Show. Sprucing up their gardens, ready to submit some winning entries.”
“But now they can win something by writing, thanks to the new May Sayers Nature Writing Cup.”
Hector got up from his stool and came out from behind the counter to stroll around the shop, stretching his long, lean legs. He’d been sitting much longer than was healthy.
“We’ll see. It takes a while to get new ideas off the ground round here, but they catch on in the end. So, are you now an official member of their merry throng, or was that a one-off visit? Did they leave you inspired? Did you rattle off a sonnet in their praise as soon as you got home?”
I wondered whether he was making a gentle dig at my literary aspirations.
Hector brightened. “Really? Well done, Sophie. Good work.”
“Provided you agree to pull their float on Show Day,” I added quickly, before I lost my nerve. “You’ll need to supply me with a key to the shop so I can open up for them after hours. Unless of course you want to join the Wendlebury Writers too? You could be our token man.”
He stopped where he stood by the self-help section and fixed me with a suspicious look.
“Oh, come on, it’ll be worth your while. They’re bound to buy books if they’re meeting here regularly. And stationery. Not to mention the tea and cake.”
He spent a moment rearranging the gardening books that lay flat, face up, on the table at the centre of the room.
“If it’s single men you’re after, try the parish magazine.”
I frowned. Had he not listened to what I’d been saying?
“You’ll find the opportunity for a night out at a different club or organisation every day of the week. Chess club, history association, drama club. There may not be any single men at the drama club just now, but that doesn’t seem to stop Rex from playing the field.” He leaned into the window to pick up a book that had somehow fallen forward off its display stand. “So there’s never any shortage of drama.”
“Really? What goes on there, then?”
“I’d class it as opera rather than drama. Soap opera, that is. Closest thing the village has got to a wife-swapping club. The numbers are a bit uneven – only a couple of men against a horde of women, and both of them are spoken for. Ian’s married and Rex lives with the lovely Dido.”
“Aren’t there any single men who might want to go along? Sounds like exactly the right club for any men who are looking for girlfriends.”
“That would be fine if there were any. But the only single men living in this village are still at school, or too old to be of romantic interest to anyone, like Billy. Classic Cotswold village problem. The youngsters can’t afford to live here after they leave school. They go off to university and don’t come back. As I did myself, at least for a while.”
The doorbell jangled, and Joshua crossed the threshold and raised his tweed cap to me. “Present company excepted,” added Hector, and I had to suppress a giggle.
I returned to my station at the tearoom counter and gave Joshua a dutiful welcome. His disproportionately appreciative smile made me realise how much of his day he must spend alone.
“Good morning, my dear. And Hector.” Joshua nodded to acknowledge my boss, now back behind the shop counter putting on some Mozart. “Just thought I’d take a stroll up here to put my young friend’s waitressing skills to the test.”
Hector sat back and looked at him with a friendly expression. “Yes, thanks, Joshua. She’s the dabbest hand with a dishcloth that a bookseller could wish for.”
I wondered whether they were in league together.
Joshua was clearly one of the customers who only came here for the company, not even glancing at the bookshelves. He gave a small smile.
“I’m glad to see Sophie making herself at home here in Wendlebury. She’s joined the Wendlebury Writers now too.” Goodness knows who had told him that. Probably Carol at the Village Shop. Or he’d had me followed.
“After a fashion,” said Hector. “Though not without roping me in to tow their Show float.”
“Quite right too,” said Joshua. “You pull your weight, young man. Though the assembled throng will require more than your weight, I’ll wager.”
Joshua and Hector both chortled.
“We’ve just been talking about whether I should join the Wendlebury Players.” I didn’t understand why they exchanged glances. “So what sort of plays do they do?”
“Anything with a large cast of women at the moment,” said Hector. “Either that or the women play men’s parts. A bit like doing Shakespeare in a single-sex high school, only without the looks or talent.”
Joshua tutted. “Now, now, Hector, they’re not as bad as all that.”
“But you saw their Sound of Music? Linda Absolom really was too old to play Maria, and as for Rex shrinking the family to three outsized teenaged girls, aged forty plus, that stretched our willing suspension of disbelief beyond breaking point. But at least everyone in the audience knew the words so they could sing along when the cast forgot them, whether or not Rex wanted them to. I have to admit, though, Joshua, their shows haven’t been the same since you left the group.”
Joshua tottered over to the tearoom area. “A black coffee please, my dear.” He lowered himself onto one of the chairs, resting both hands on his walking stick in front of him to keep his balance. I dropped a capsule into the coffee machine, pressed the water button, and set the full cup on the table in front of him.
“My drama days are over now, Hector. Let the youngsters take their turn.” He splashed enough milk from the Joy Adamson’s Born Free jug to turn the coffee opaque. “And I certainly couldn’t cope with the ladies who are members there now. I don’t hold with the games Rex plays. Once you’ve found one good woman, why go elsewhere, even if she does stop up in the City during the week?”
“Dido, you mean? Yes, I’ve never understood what she sees in him – a successful businesswoman like that settling for a failed conjuror.” Hector shrugged. “But who knows? Maybe she’s got a fancy man up in London for weekdays, and Rex is her comic relief for weekends. Or maybe when he learned his conjuring skills, he picked up a bit of hypnosis too, and he’s now got her in a permanent trance of obedience. He clicks his fingers and she does what he likes.”
I hadn’t yet met Dido, but I would certainly keep a lookout for her now. What kind of woman could she be? Both men looked thoughtful for a moment, lost in their separate reveries of what it might be like to have hypnotic powers.
Then I had a brainwave. Maybe Hector was right: I was a woman of ideas.
“It sounds like what they need is a play written specially to suit their membership. One with lots of women in it. I could have a go at that. I used to write scripts for my boyfriend’s drama company.” I worried for a moment that I was over-reaching myself. “Or at least, I could ask my new friends at the Wendlebury Writers to collaborate.”
“I’d be impressed if you managed that. There’s no love lost between the Wendlebury Writers and Rex, not after that fiasco last year when he fired three of them from the cast half way through the production of Daisy Pulls It Off. Dinah, Jacky and Karen, wasn’t it?”
“Why would he do that?” I asked, astonished that they’d still wanted to audition for his next play after such humiliation.
“Refused his advances, I suspect,” said Hector. “Or maybe because they’re Dido’s friends and he didn’t want them telling tales on his antics. Not that he cares. There always seem to be women ready to rush into the void, where Rex is concerned. Or so he thinks. I’m not sure the women he chases after see it that way. If I were a woman, he’d strike me as slimy. And his constant habit of showing off his conjuring tricks would really pall after the first date.”
“Depends what sort of tricks they are,” I said. “He’d never have an excuse for not giving his date flowers.”
“Still, it’s about time he put all that behind him. It’s got to be twenty years since he last worked as a professional magician. He’s just a drama teacher now.”
I’d never heard Hector talk so uncharitably about anyone and wondered what cause he had for such personal bitterness. Surely he hadn’t made a romantic bid for Rex himself, the inevitable rejection leaving him with a grudge?
“I’d like to meet this Rex,” I said thoughtfully. “Only to see what he’s like. He sounds extraordinary.”
“Don’t let yourself be taken in by him.” Joshua sounded genuinely concerned.
“Don’t worry about that. I’m immune. My last boyfriend, Damian, was an actor.”
Hec
tor raised his eyebrows. “Ex-boyfriend?”
I nodded. “’Fraid so. I left him behind in Frankfurt to grow up. He didn’t want to settle down, and I got fed up waiting for him to get his act together, so to speak.”
Hector returned to his computer and started tapping away at the keyboard. “Been together long?” I got the impression he wasn’t really listening to my answer.
“Too long. Too long for someone who wasn’t prepared to make a commitment, that is. God knows where he is now – off on tour again somewhere, I expect. He runs a travelling English language theatre company which targets expats’ hot spots in Europe. That’s all very well when you’re fresh out of uni, but hardly a lifelong career prospect.”
I chose my words carefully so as to seem less gullible than I now felt. “I thought it was going to be fun to start with. We thought we’d come up with the Big Idea, the perfect alternative to what Damian called the Golden Handcuffs of the Milk Round – you know, when big businesses come to universities to offer undergraduates fantastic corporate jobs. The sort that have you married and mortgaged in minutes, sentencing you to a life of nine-till-five slog to pay it off before you retire.”
I made myself a cappuccino to steel my nerves.
“Instead, I was tied down for only a few weeks to an intensive English language teaching course, which Damian said would be my passport to freedom. He said I’d be able to work anywhere he took his travelling theatre company. He set it up and recruited a few other drama graduates to join him, but their VW camper van had his stage name on it: Damian Drammaticas. His real surname is Jones. They planned to tour Europe, performing with modern minimalist staging, to save money, to expat audiences and foreigners keen on improving their English.”
Joshua nodded approval. I might have known that as a fellow actor he would take Damian’s side.
“Our businesses would cross-fertilise. I was to spread word of their performances to my clientele and pay to advertise my services in their programme.”