Death of a Bore hm-21

by M C Beaton

  What a liar, thought Hamish. Any bookshop lucky enough to get J.K. Rowling was not going to clutter up the premises with a minor author.

  “Do you think it’s easier to write for children?” asked Mrs. Wellington.

  “Very much so,” said John.

  Angela stood up, her thin face flushed with annoyance. “I think that is very misleading,” she said. “A lot of people are misguided enough to think that writing a children’s book is easy, but the author needs to have a talent for that genre.”

  “Perhaps I said that,” conceded John, “because I personally would find it easy despite my own unfortunate childhood. Why, I remember one dark Christmas…”

  And he was off again down memory lane. A bored highland audience does not stamp out or make any noise. It just melts away. Hamish decided to join them.

  He was just heading back to the police station when he saw the Strathbane Television van approaching along the waterfront. He stood out in the middle of the road and held up his hand.

  Jessma Gardener was in the front seat. She rolled down the window. “If you’re on your way to the writing class, you’re too late,” said Hamish. “It’s finished.”

  “Oh, good,” said Jessma. “I couldn’t bear the thought of it But the lights are still on in the village hall.”

  “Cleaning up,” lied Hamish, who well knew that some of the audience were still there. “Why does Strathbane News want to cover a village writing class?”

  “There’s a new drama executive who handles the soap. John’s written a script for it. The exec says it’s brilliant, so we’re asked to cover anything John Heppel wants us to. Still, thank goodness for an early evening.”

  She waved to him. The van did a U-turn and headed back out of the village.

  “I’ve been very petty,” Hamish told his dog when he entered the police station. “I should have let the wee man have his bit of glory, and him all made up for it. But I don’t like him and that’s a fact. It’s not because he’s a bore. It’s something else. I feel he means trouble.”

  “Do you usually talk to your dog?” asked a voice behind him.

  Hamish blushed and turned round.

  Freda Garrety stood there, smiling. Hamish had left the kitchen door open.

  “Can I help you?” he asked stiffly.

  “I wanted to talk to you about John Heppel.”

  “All right. Shut the door and sit down. Tea or something stronger?”

  “I wouldn’t mind a dram.”

  Hamish took down a nearly full whisky bottle from the cupboard and two glasses.

  “That’s a very odd-looking dog,” she said. “I’ve never seen a dog with such blue eyes.”

  “Water?” asked Hamish, ignoring her remark because he was cross with her for finding him talking to Lugs.

  “Just a little.”

  Hamish filled a jug with water and put it along with the whisky and glasses on the table. He poured two measures.

  Freda added a little water to her glass. “He presented a copy of his book to the school library. Because he’d won a literary prize and all that, I didn’t think of checking it. Then I found one child after another was asking to borrow it. So I took it home and read it. It’s full of swearwords and explicit sex. Now, I know they get a lot of stuff on television and on the Internet these days, but I do try to keep them children as long as possible. I mean, I don’t want to contribute to fouling up their minds.”

  Hamish shared her worry. Despite all the encroachments of the modern world, there was still a certain innocence about the village children which had been taken away from their counterparts in the cities.

  Again he had a feeling that John Heppel was a cancer eating into local society.

  Freda spoke again. “A lot of the parents are furious, but then there are others who are seduced by the idea that they, too, could write a book. They say John’s book is literature and there are a lot of nasty things in Shakespeare.”

  “I think we’re worrying ower-much,” said Hamish slowly. “He’s so self-obsessed, so conceited, and so boring that people will stop attending his classes. This will hurt his vanity. I think he moved here to be a big fish in a small pool. Once the locals have got over the romance of writing, they’ll ignore him and he won’t be able to bear that. What made you decide to come here?”

  “I was working in a comprehensive in Lanarkshire. The kids’ parents were mostly on the dole. It was a miserable existence. Some of the boys were violent. One day one of them held a knife to my throat in the playground. He was overpowered by two of the masters. The school tried to suspend him, but the bleeding hearts at the education authority decided he had to stay. I saw the job up here advertised. I love it. I love the children.”

  “It’s a lonely life for a young woman.”

  “Oh, on my weekends off I go clubbing in Inverness.”

  Hafflish suddenly felt ancient. How old was she? Hard to tell with her neat harlequin features.

  “I have never been clubbing,” he said.

  “You can come with me one weekend, if you like.”

  “That would be grand,” said Hamish. “I like new experiences. More whisky?”

  “No, I’ve got exam papers to correct. Let’s just hope John Heppel fades away.”

  ♦

  Despite the boredom of Heppel’s initial class, most who had attended were determined to write.

  Archie Maclean, banished from home as usual by his house-proud wife, was sitting on the waterfront wall, busy scribbling in a large notebook.

  Hamish called at the manse to see if the normally sensible Mrs. Wellington had given up the idea of writing, only to find her seated at her kitchen table in front of an old Remington typewriter, bashing away energetically at the keys.

  “What is it, Hamish?” she asked crossly. He had walked in by the open door, the weather being still unseasonably warm.

  “I’m disappointed in you,” said Hamish. “You don’t really think that scunner can do anything to help?”

  “I’ve always wanted to write. I’m starting with something easy. I am going to prostitute myself by writing one of those little romances.”

  Hamish sighed. “I once spoke to a writer who said you can’t write down, and if you don’t enjoy reading romances, then you can’t write them.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” said Mrs. Wellington triumphantly. “I am getting along just fine.”

  Then she ignored him and began to rattle the keys busily.

  Hamish left, wondering whether he was being a killjoy. Surely it was better for the villagers to exercise their minds during the long winter months than sit every evening looking at television.

  He walked out and down from the manse. A Strathbane Electrics van was parked on the waterfront, and two men seemed to be busy delivering computers.

  He shook his head. “It’ll all end in tears.”

  “Talking to yourself, Hamish? That’s a bad sign.”

  Hamish turned round. Angela Brodie was standing there, smiling up at him, her wispy hair blowing about her face.

  “I’ve still got a nagging worry about Heppel.”

  “He’s an awful bore,” said Angela. “But it’s all turned out a bit of fun. It’s a long time since Lochdubh’s been so excited about anything.”

  “But a lot of people left the class before he had finished.”

  “It’s because he said he would look at their work. Once they all got home, they began to dream about bestseller lists.”

  “I think a lot of them’ll be getting nervous breakdowns before they grasp how to operate a computer.”

  “Ah, that’s where you’re wrong. I heard Jessie Currie saying that Hamish Macbeth had a computer at the police station, so he could help them.”

  Hamish stared at her in alarm. “I’d best be off on my beat.”

  He hurried back to the police station, collected Lugs, and got into the Land Rover.

  The mountains were shrouded in mist as he drove up into the moors and fo
othills. The narrow one-track road shone black in front of him. Then as he reached the crest of the hill above Lochdubh, the mist began to roll up the mountains. He stopped the car and watched. This, he reflected, was one of the reasons he loved this part of the world so much. It was like watching a curtain rise at the theatre. Up and up went the mist, a stiff wind sprang up, and then the sky above the mountains cleared to pale blue, the sun shone out, and the wet road in front of him turned to gold.

  He got out of the car and lifted Lugs down. The dog scampered off into the heather. Hamish stood with his hands on his hips, surveying the scene. He turned round and looked back down to Lochdubh. On the other side of the loch, in front of the dark green of the fir plantation, a perfect rainbow curved down into the still black waters of the loch. As he watched, the rainbow faded and the loch changed to deep blue.

  He gave a sigh of satisfaction. He could feel all his troubles about John Heppel rolling up and away from him like the mist.

  He was sure his fears about the man bringing something bad into the area were wrong.

  And that feeling lasted until something prompted him to attend the next writing class.

  ∨ Death of a Bore ∧

  3

  At last it grew, and grew, and bore and bore,

  Till at length It grew a gallows

  —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 Cnot
han 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 think any of us will have the courage to write again.”

  Jessie and Nessie Currie pushed forward. “We’d written an awfy nice story, “From Our Kitchen Window,” and he just sneered at us,” said Nessie, “after I’d read only a few words. Then there’s the money we spent on a computer.”

  “On a computer,” echoed the Greek chorus that was her sister.

  “And I think we should be getting our money back.”

  There was a cry of approval.

  “Here comes the wee man,” shouted a voice from the back of the crowd.

  John Heppel drove up. I wonder how he knew the television people were here, thought Hamish. Or does he smell out publicity the way a wasp can smell jam?

  “Mr. Heppel,” said Jessma. “It seems your writing class wants their money back.”

  John did not have make-up on, but he had browned his face with fake tan.

  He took up a position in front of the camera. He cleared his throat. “One must be cruel to be kind,” he said pompously. “The shelves of bookshops are already overcrowded with books which should never have been published.”

  “Like yours, you dirty wee man,” shouted Alistair Taggart. “I’ll get you if it’s the last thing I do.”

  John spread his chubby hands in a placatory gesture. “You are all suffering from wounded ego. You…”