by Liam Livings
Chapter 2
On a wet cold evening a month after that phone call, I drove the fifteen minutes to a village hall, following the directions Clara-Bell had e-mailed in response to mine about what criteria they required to join the group. Clara-Bell had explained there were no criteria, she liked to keep it very informal, as long as I had written something I could read out, and had my four pounds for room hire, she'd see me at the next meeting.
I felt the paper of what I'd written in my left trousers pocket, then ran to the front entrance of the hall. A couple of men about my age, late twenties, early thirties stood under the porch, smoking rolled up cigarettes. One nodded as I walked past. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a very well proportioned bum encased in black tracksuit bottoms.
I stood in the entrance hall, which had a notice board filled with scrappy bits of paper, tucked under the criss-cross metal. There was a couple of black doors to the left with signs they were the gents and ladies toilets. There was another door to the right, and one to the left. Neither had signs on them. I stood by the notice board, hoping for a clue about where the writers group would be. Amid for sale notices for a piano, a TV stand and a video recorder - really, who'd want that? I couldn't find anything about the writers group. I checked the paper I'd printed my story on, at the top I'd written Clara-Bell's instructions. Nothing about which room. Being right handed, I went to the right hand door.
Through the door I found a large room, about two thirds the size of the whole village hall, a high ceiling and dark green walls. In the middle of the room was a circle of chairs, some filled with men, some empty as more men milled around and made tea on a trestle table in the corner.
'Is this the writers group?' I made eye contact with a particularly fit looking yet weathered looking man in his late thirties, wearing a grey tracksuit.
'Na mate, that's next door.' He smiled, revealing a gap where his front teeth should have been and a glinty gold filling in the other side of his mouth.
'Sorry, my mistake.' I noticed a blackboard propped against the wall which read Cocaine Anonymous - Hope Faith Courage, and then a number of steps written underneath. I looked at the other men, and noticed a certain weathered, robust quality in all of them, accompanied by a fair dollop of tradesman judging by their fondness of sportswear, and a few football T shirts which revealed muscles on arms you don't get from sitting behind a desk all day. I backed out, savouring a last look at the men in this room, and hoping the right room would be filled with similar delights.
I strode across the hall, the notices on the board flapped, and walked through the door opposite. Around a table sat a group of middle aged women. A plate of bread pudding stood in the middle of the table, surrounded by mugs of steaming tea and instant coffee.
Bang goes that hope then.
They all shuffled round as I looked for a seat among them. A plump lady with long hair tied up in a bun shouted, 'You must be Simon. I'm Clara-Bell, make yourself comfortable. There's no standing on ceremony here. Do you want a tea?'
I nodded as I sat. Clara-Bell raised her eyebrows and another woman stood and started making me tea, clattering the mug and teaspoon over the noise of the kettle.
She handed me the drink and Clara-Bell asked us all to introduce ourselves, what we'd written, why we were here, 'Whatever you want to tell us about yourselves, darlings.'
The woman who'd made my tea started. She was called Olive, had worked as a school secretary her whole life, still worked at a local school. She'd never written anything before, but had always wanted to. She liked to write by hand, because typing felt like work, and she wanted to keep her writing separate from her work. She sat back, resting a lined notepad on her knee and read her hand written story about one of the dinner ladies she was friends with at the school being a witch and doing a part time course in witchery 'Is that a word, I don't know?' she smiled at the room then continued reading.
The next woman, around the table was called Shirley. She said she'd written lots of short stories for magazine publication, People's Digest, the Reader's Friend, that sort of thing. Her dad had recently died so now technically she was an orphan. She'd written a letter to her dad, which she read out. It brought tears to my eyes. It was so personal about her relationship with her dad, and how much she missed him, I couldn't believe how she'd got across so much feeling in such a short letter. Shirley's hands shook as she read. 'Dear Dad, I wish you could see what I've been up to. I miss talking to you about my week when we used to see each other at Sunday lunch. I know how much you enjoyed watching your grandkids grow up and I wish you could see them turning into adults. I will do my best to make sure they're brought up with the same values you brought me up with.'
Clara-Bell wiped her eyes and asked if I had anything to read out to the group.
'Can I go in a bit?' I looked at her.
She shrugged. 'Unless anyone's got any objections, I'll go next. I've just finished the first chapter of my next book, it's about a woman who loses all her money when her husband dies, leaving debts from his business. I know it's hardly original, but when you have a formula which the readers like, who am I to argue about that?' She pulled out reading glasses from her enormous green leather handbag which rested on the floor next to her, put them on and peered down at the paper she'd pulled from about her person - she could have just taken it from her bra, but I wasn't sure. 'Elaine stood in her enormous kitchen, staring at the powder blue Aga, unable to persuade it to work. If only Mrs D had waited another few weeks, she was sure the lawyer had said the estate would be unfrozen by then. Surely a small cheque to Mrs D could have been released, and it would have at least kept Elaine partly in the style she had become accustomed to. She thought back to the fortnight in the Maldives they'd spent that last Christmas, gloriously ignorant of what was to come. Elaine slumped in a kitchen chair and banged her hand on the scrubbed pine table. Bastard, Julian! Senseless waste it had been. How on earth had he kept his health and his debt from her.
She glanced at the black marble worktop, Julian's summer birthday present to her, and noticed her purse. A purse full of nothing. All her credit cards had gone the day after Julian's death. Her chequebook was as good as useless without the cards, and who took cheques nowadays anyway?
No, come on Elaine. This simply will not do. What would Julian have to say, if he could see her now, stewing in her own juices. She strode to the American fridge and helped herself to a cool glass of water and ice cubes from its dispenser. She dipped her fingers in the glass and gently ran them across her forehead. It was burning up. Maybe she had a fever?
She opened the fridge and, just as she'd expected, was faced with eight enormous shelves of nothing. Mrs D hadn't organised the weekly delivery from Harrods. All her usual foods weren't there. She walked to the pantry, noticing how untidy the garden had already become, since Mr D had stopped visiting daily with his wife, to tend to its every need.
Elaine grabbed a jar of plum tomatoes, she'd heard something about putting them on toast on a daytime TV show she'd accidentally caught the first two thirds of, that morning, while listening to the beastly solicitor on the phone, going through what it meant because Julian had died intestate, and that the whole estate had been in the company's name, not her own, as she'd expected.
But that wasn't for now. She brushed away the whole nasty phone call business and concentrated on food. Her stomach was awakening since she hadn't eaten since the night before when a pie of some description had been left in the front porch.
She dropped the tin of tomatoes and ran hungrily to the porch, hoping she hadn't imagined the pie. She hadn't. The dish was still there, but the pie was no more. Long since, the dogs had eaten it.
On the floor, the tin in her hands, she realised she didn't know how to open a tin without a ring pull, because the last time she'd done that had been before she married Julian, over forty years ago. Her thumb hovered over her mobile phone, at Mrs D's number, could she ask her ex-housekeeper where the tin opener was kept? Esp
ecially after the Aga conversation the day before.' Clara-Bell took her glasses off and they hung around her neck, like a functional necklace.
She sat, adjusted her bra strap and replaced the paper into her bra then looked at me. 'Ready, Simon?'
'I don't think I can really follow that. I think it's best if I sit it out this time. Maybe next time I'll read something.' I folded the paper and put it back in my pocket.
'Nonsense. I'll hear no such thing. You came her to meet other writers, and get feedback on your writing. And feedback you shall get if it's the last thing I do.' She stared at me over her reading glasses. 'Don't make me rummage in your pocket and fetch it. Because I will, you know. I was a school secretary for thirty years, I've had my hands in boys' pockets before you were born, so it's nothing I haven't done before.'
I took the paper from my pocket and unfolded it. I started to read. At first the paper shook, but once I immersed myself in my little fictional world, my hands steadied, and I continued reading until the end of the first chapter I'd finally squeezed out of myself late the night before. Mine was a story about a school teacher, who was looking for meaning in his life, among the thorns and swear words of his pupils.
I looked up from the paper and put it on the wobbly trestle table.
Clara-Bell pulled her glasses off and looked around the room. 'Anyone going to start? Come on, quick sticks. I'm happy to start, but as I said at the start, just because I'm chairing the group, doesn't mean it's all about me.' She looked around the room as everyone stared intently at the table, avoiding eye contact with her.
Olive smiled at me. 'Well I liked it. I thought it was fun. And you said you wrote it all last night, did you? Straight onto the computer was it, or did you hand write it first?'
'Straight onto my laptop.' I smiled back at her, relieved for the gentle start.
'Lovely. Maybe I should try that. What do you think, Clara-Bell? Do you think I should give it a try typing first, rather than using my notepad and pencils?'
'We can come onto that, Olive. I want to give young Simon some feedback. Anyone else?' Clara-Bell looked around the room again. 'It sounded very autobiographical. You're a teacher, are you not?'
I nodded.
'Hmmm. Thought so. And this searching for meaning in life, what's that about. Could you be more specific?'
'It's about him using his creativity, which he can't really do in teaching. He's looking for some other outlet for it, you see.'
'Hmmm. I see. I understand. But that wasn't on the page, not as you read it, you see? Sometimes we think we've written something, but when we read it, it's still in our heads, and hasn't made it from there to the page. It's a classic mistake. The Head teacher, I enjoyed him. Based on someone is he?'
I looked at the ceiling. 'Might be, yes. Is that allowed?'
'Yes, course it's allowed. But not too much like a real person. You don't want to be sued do you? It could do with a bit more life to it. A bit more vim and pizzazz injected into it. Fiction can't be just like real life, or we'd all be sat around drinking tea and chatting about the weather. It's got to be more interesting than that. See if you can think of something like that, for next time.' She put her glasses on, smiled with her eyes over the top of them, then resumed the group, going over the programme for the next few months, agreeing who was going to lead on which sessions.
I helped Olive wash up the mugs and plates, handing them to her to dry. She looked at me as she hung a mug on a wooden mug tree. 'Well, I thought it was fun, like I said. Don't take it to heart, love. She's only trying to be helpful, see.'
'I know.' I hung up the tea towel and walked to the door leading to the entrance hall with its flapping notices. I strode across the entrance hall taking a look at the door to the other room, the room filled with the sexy weather and drug worn men all covered in sportswear. I left the building. While under the smoking porch a hand with long red nails grabbed my arm.
It was Clara-Bell. 'I've not put you off coming again have I, my dear? You see, I don't sugar coat it. If someone's here for feedback, and I think they can handle it, good strong, honest feedback, then I give it to them. It's the only way anyone ever gets any better. That's why I set up the group, for people who are lost, and don't know where to start. Writers need other writers. Here.' She handed me a bit of paper with her home phone number on. 'I loved your voice.' She smiled.
Was she coming onto me? My voice, what was she on about? 'I don't think it's anything special. A bit high pitched maybe. Sometimes when I talk to people on the phone they think I'm a woman. They start addressing me as love, then I have to put on a deeper voice, and say my name's Simon.'
'Oh, dear boy. I don't mean that voice, I mean your written voice. The way you write, the words you choose.' She clasped her red taloned hand over mine, which had her bit of paper in it. 'Do come next month, won't you.'
I smiled at her then quickly walked to my car.
Chapter 3
Lucy and I were on playground duty: spending our lunch break walking around the grounds making sure the pupils didn't start playing British Bulldog, or other banned games. Walking up to large groups who seemed to be up to no good, and reminding them smoking wasn't allowed on school grounds.
Lucy had asked me how the group had gone last night.
'It went well. Lots to think about I suppose, like any new thing. I'm pleased I've finally got round to starting it, to actually going. Let's see where it leads.'
We were approaching a circle of Year Ten students. As we got near a few looked over their shoulders at us. The clapping stopped. I leant into the circle and saw two of them were playing a hand held computer game, no cigarettes, cards or anything else prohibited. 'As you were.' And we walked away.
'Imagine me going to a maths critique group. Meeting in a little village hall and discussing our favourite sort of maths. Someone would say they loved fractions, and another person would be very much committed to spreading the word about algebra. I, for one, do like a good Venn diagram.'
'And you'd argue about whether one plus one did in fact equal two, or whether that depended.' I smiled at her. 'Thanks.'
'What for?'
'For taking the piss out of me so much that I had no choice but to write something and go to the group.'
She nodded. 'I'm just trying to think, if there's a case when one plus one doesn't equal two.'
Chapter 4
The following Tuesday night, I forced my dinner down, my stomach tight and hard, resisting every mouthful. A bit of research into the Cocaine Anonymous group showed that, unlike my monthly writers group, it met there every week. I'd also found a huge number of other similar groups for various addictions, all meeting in village halls, churches, sports centres all over the area. I had debated about joining the sex addicts' anonymous group which met in Loughton's sports centre, only five minutes' walk from my place, but felt that was too close to home. Besides, I wanted another look at the weather worn fit sporty men I'd seen the week before.
During the intervening week, I'd grown a beard. I also wore my glasses instead of my contact lenses, and had dug out a tweedy flat cap at the back of my wardrobe - a brief attempt at being on trend, which I'd never had the guts to actually pull off. Over a few evenings after school I'd gone to the local sportswear shop to buy some suitable clothes to blend in with the others. I'd settled on a grey hoodie and a white T-shirt, with a pair of my old jeans I'd kept for decorating - not that I'd ever lifted a paintbrush in anger or decoration before.
My plan was to attend the Cocaine Anonymous group for the next three weeks, get some good story ideas, some good realistic material, which wasn't just about the pretty pedestrian life I was living at the moment, and use that to write a decent first chapter to show the writing group the next time they met. I'd agonised over whether it was right or not. I went from yes to no and back again three, four times daily. I convinced myself by the three weeks, it wasn't going to be a long term deception, three times, and I'd never see them again. Somehow, some way,
that made it less bad.
I knew I needed a story of my own, what had brought me to the group, what was my lowest point, what was my habit like. So, with the help from a Daniella Westbrook autobiography from a local charity shop, I had my story. I'd read it cover to cover in the staffroom over a few days, making notes about her descent into the habit, amounts, situations etc. Lucy had tipped the cover to face her and said, 'Bit high brow for you isn't it? What you reading that for?'
'She's a local girl, did you know? Grew up around here, in the Forest. Did you know that?'
'Can't say I've ever been too interested in her life, but if you say so. Any good is it?'
'It's hardly Wuthering Heights, but there's something about the story which is pulling me through to turn the next page, so that's something.' I looked up. 'It's got a good narrative arc. Clara-Bell said to read something we wouldn't normally choose, and we're going to talk about it at the next meeting, what we liked, what we didn't like.' I looked back to the book, relieved I'd thought of something to explain this very out of character behaviour.
'I suppose I'll be hearing quite a bit about this Clara-Bell woman, won't I?'
'Maybe.' I stroked my chin, which was, by then, half bearded.
'And for the record, I'm not enjoying this beard of yours. Where's this come from?' She rubbed my cheek.
'Everyone's got one. Even Blue Peter presenters have them now. Little eighteen year old hipsters, who can only just grow one have them now. So I thought I'd join the beard revolution.' I put my hand up in a mock salute. 'All right, comrade?'
She had shrugged and left me to my book, stroking my chin as she passed.
Now, with this information written on a bit of paper in my pocket, I approached the village hall, my heart beating, my hands sweating and my mouth dry. I got out of my car, wiped my sweaty hands on my tracksuit bottoms , and pulled out my back story bit of paper, re-reading it one last time to make sure it was committed to memory.
