The Circle

2

Bob Naylor never said much about his rhymes. The world he moved in didn't go in for rhyming, and on the one night in the pub he'd confessed to being 'a bit of a poet on the quiet' he'd had the reaction you get if you say you're a cross-dresser. No one ever spoke of it after that. You don't mess with a man as powerful as Bob. But he continued to play with words, enjoying the challenge of making them rhyme in ways that amused him. Rhyming was more fun than watching television or sitting in front of a computer. He could do it in bed, in the bathroom or while driving his Parcel Force van.

One Friday night when he was making faint moaning sounds, trying to nail a word he was sure must exist, his daughter Sue looked up from her computer and said, 'Dad, have you ever thought of joining a circle?'

'Come again?'

'A writers' circle. There's one here in Chichester. I've just found the website. Says they meet at the New Park Centre on Tuesday evenings.'

'Never heard of it'

'You have now. Come and look while it's on the screen.'

He got up and stood beside her just to show interest. It was a change from the chat rooms she spent most of her evenings visiting.

Welcome to the Chichester Writers' Circle

Whatever your interest in writing, you are guaranteed enrichment and support if you join our circle. We are creative people who enjoy words, working in poetry, fiction and non-fiction, and our interests range from fantasy to family history, from the theatre to the scene of the crime. We meet on the second Tuesday of each month at the New Park Centre and it's very friendly. Since joining the circle we have all become published writers, because what is publication if it is not making publicly known? Sample our work by clicking on all or any of the following. Then make a date in your diary. We are looking out for you.

• Extract from Passion Fruit, a romantic novel, by Desiree Eliot

• First chapter of The Sussex Witchcraft Trials, by Naomi Green

• Unsolved. A sample case. By Maurice McDade

• Two erotic poems by Thomasine O'Loughlin

• Madrigor: The Coming of the Warrior, by Zach Beale

• The Snows of Yesteryear, a sample chapter, by Amelia Snow

• Tips for the Twenty-First Century, by Jessie Warmington-Smith

• Showing Prize Marrows, by Basil Green

• My Meeting with Sir Larry, by Tudor Thomas

'Do you want me to click on one of them?' Sue asked.

Sod that for a lark. 'No thanks, love. Kind of you to mention it'

'A writers' circle might be just the thing for you.'

'Like Alcoholics Anonymous?'

'Don't be like that'

'They'll be serious writers. It's not for oiks like me.'

'Have it your way. But you ought to get out more.'

This from a fourteen-year-old.

In his van on the M3 next day he composed a few lines. 'Circle' is not a word that rhymes with much, but Bob liked a challenge.

Let's see if the jerk'll

Join a circle

His loving daughter said

But the jerk gave ferk all

For the circle

He was horribly low-bred

That summed up Bob and his writing. He was the son of a plumber and a barmaid who had parted when he was seven. With young Bob in tow, his mother had gone through at least ten cheap addresses and almost as many men. He'd failed all his exams and left school at sixteen. The only thing he'd ever passed was a driving test. He'd never read anything by Shakespeare or Dickens. Didn't look at the arts programmes on TV. Didn't drink wine or borrow books from the library. The books in the house belonged to Sue, or her mother Maggie, who'd died of leukaemia three years ago. Three years, one month and two days.

Rhymes helped him fill the times when everything went quiet.

'They'll be know-alls,' he said that evening.

Sue looked up from her homework. 'Excuse me?'

'That writers' circle. Teachers and such. I'd be way out of my depth.'

'I thought you'd put it out of your head.'

'I have. I was telling you why.'

'Oh sure.' Sue looked down again. It wasn't the homework that made her smile.

He didn't mention the circle for two weeks, but that was par for the course. He always began with 'no way' and got more positive by stages. In his fertile imagination he was facing every hazard, the pointy-heads with university degrees who could quote Shakespeare, the old ducks in twinsets who could spell anything, the crossword solvers and the English teachers. He could picture himself reading out his rhymes, stuttering and sweating and losing his place and swearing and seeing the shocked faces around the table. Mayhem was going on in his head. When he'd faced every horror he could imagine, he would decide that, after all, it couldn't be that bad.

'Do you think they allow smoking?'

'Probably,' Sue said.

'I can't see it.'

'I expect they have a coffee break.'

'Maybe. What do they do at these meetings, do you reckon? Write stuff?'

She flicked her hair back. 'Why ask me?'

'And read it to each other?'

'Go along and find out.'

'You're joking.'

The following Tuesday at six forty-five he parked in front of the New Park Centre and watched who went in. New Park was also a cinema and they were showing a sexy French film, so it was difficult to tell who was part of the writers' circle, except that some of them came with bags and briefcases. Why would you need a briefcase for a sex flick? He hadn't brought a briefcase. If he went in at all he was damn sure he wouldn't be reading out his rhymes.

A youngish guy with a rucksack crossed the car park and went in. Long hair, earring, sweatshirt and jeans. Looks human, Bob thought. Not a schoolteacher or a professor. Give it a go, mate. He opened the car door and got out. If I don't like the look of the punters, he told himself, I can say I'm in the wrong room, looking for the film.

Inside, he strolled past the queue at the box office and went towards a door on the left, the only way to go if you weren't there for the film. A blonde in her forties was ahead. She glanced back to check that he wasn't anyone she knew. Deep-set blue eyes and the hint of a smile. Then she stopped, turned round and said, 'Are you a writer?'

Bob cleared his throat. 'Me?'

'It's the writers' circle in here.'

She didn't sound highbrow, and she was pretty in a way that younger women can't be, with creases that promised to be laughter lines asking to be exercised.

'Thought I might look in,' he said. 'See what you get up to.'

'Nothing we can get arrested for, more's the pity, but you're welcome to check. I'm Thomasine O'Loughlin, by the way.'

Fancy handle, he thought, but she seemed like a real person. He followed her into the meeting room where a long table and chairs were set up and nobody was seated yet. Two groups were in conversation. A man in a bow tie was holding forth in a carrying voice.

'No better, no better at all.'

Sounds like a line from Shakespeare, Bob thought. Should I look as if I've heard it before?

'He doesn't know,' the voice went on, as if reading his mind.'I tell you, he doesn't have a clue.'

If this is how they treat visitors, Bob thought, I'm off.

'He put me on some new stuff that sends me to sleep in the afternoons. I'll be back to see him in a day or two — if I can stay awake long enough to make another appointment.'

Smiles all round, even from Bob.

Thomasine was beckoning. 'Come and meet the chair.'

'Why? Is it special?'

'Chairman.'

'Ah.'

The chair wasn't the man with the medical problem. He was in the group at the far end. Catching Thomasine's eye, he stepped forward, a fiftyish guy in a sweater and cords who looked as if he would be more comfortable in a suit. His hair was thick and dark, too dark to be natural. The eyebrows probably were the genuine thing. They popped up. 'A new member?'

Bob tightened inside. The accent was top drawer. 'Just visiting.'

'A friend of yours, Tommy?'

Thomasine laughed. 'That's quick. We met outside the door.'

'Maurice McDade,' the chair said, gripping Bob's hand. 'Do you write?'

'Only a beginner.' Bob gave his name.

'We're all beginners in a sense,' Maurice McDade said. His speech came in bursts with overlong pauses, making him sound excited when the words came. 'The circle only came into being last year. You'd think a town this size would have had one for ages. Nobody took the first step.'

Thomasine said, 'Maurice set it up with the help of two others, Naomi and Dagmar.'

Names so posh that Bob checked where the exit was.

'We're still small,' Maurice said. 'Eleven if they all come. Like a cricket team. How did you hear about us? A recommendation?'

'The website.'

'Splendid. Miss Snow designed that. She'll be so encouraged. We'd better make a start.' He clapped his hands. 'Calling all writers. High time we put our feet under the table.'

Bob watched them find seats. Six women and five men, or six if he included himself. Average age, mid-fifties. One bow tie, five pairs of specs, a hearing aid and a wig. But also a blonde of about twenty who might have strayed in expecting to see the film.

'Before we begin, I'll introduce our visitor, Bob Naylor,' Maurice said. 'He's only taking a look at us this week. If we play our cards right, we could be up to twelve soon.'

Bob summoned a grin. He was to the left of a woman in her forties, hair streaked with silver, who had to be the secretary, already writing down the chairman's remarks. On his other side was the young guy with the earring.

Maurice spoke again. 'For Bob's benefit, I'll repeat my mantra, familiar to most of you by now. This isn't a talk-shop. We're here because we are creative people and we're not afraid to read out what we produce. This way, we are all — what are we?'

A couple of them spoke together. 'Published writers.'

'Exactly, for what is publication but making publicly known? Writing is about communication, so we're not afraid to have our efforts discussed by the others. Any writer should welcome the input of his peers.'

Sounds a pompous prat, but he's doing his best, Bob thought. Give him a chance.

The minutes of the last meeting were handed round by Miss Snow, the grey-haired secretary. Maurice asked if there were any matters arising and Bob thought of a rhyme.

Who fancies Miss Snow?

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.'

'Was,' Maurice said.

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 The Lady.'

'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 open the batting.'

'Cliche.'

Everyone except Anton smiled.

Anton said, 'Since the last meeting, I have not done any writing owing to pressure of work.'

Someone murmured, 'Cliche.'

'If you like I could give you ten or twenty minutes on the curse of the cliche in modern English.'

'Another time, perhaps. I happen to know there are members bursting to read out their latest work and I think they should have their opportunity. How about you, Zach?'

To Bob's right there was a movement. The young man with the earring had sunk low in his chair during the early part of the meeting and seemed to be falling asleep. He braced himself, reached into his rucksack and took out a thick, dog-eared sheaf and placed it on the table. So this was Zach. Without any preamble he began to read with extraordinary intensity. 'Gripping the great, razor-sharp, double-bladed axe forged in fire by the ironmaster of Avalon, Madrigor the fearless strode across the narrow causeway that led to the ancient castle on the mount, ignoring the savage east wind fanning his black velvet cloak and the icy sea-spray whipping his leathery calves. He had one objective and that was to vanquish the stinking hordes within and recover the mazarin stone of his ancestor, Godfric, and put its magical powers to noble employment, arming him for the ordeals to come. Not even the massed ranks of the Querulinda would stand in his way now. He was transformed, invincible, super-strong. His green eyes gleamed and his teeth flashed in the glow of the setting sun. If the gods were with him he would prevail over his enemies. True, the opposition were vastly better equipped than he with their vats of boiling oil and their flaming arrows. What did it matter, the terrifying din they made by beating on their shields and chanting war-songs? The archers stared down gimlet-eyed from the battlements, crossbows at the ready, impatient for him to come within range. They were dressed in chainmail and helmets. Madrigor spurned even a shield, relying on his agility, his innate sense of timing, to avoid whatever the enemy cast in his direction. Within himself, he relished the challenge. .'

While the tide of words poured over them, Bob glanced around the table. Not everyone was listening. Opposite him, Thomasine rolled her eyes upwards and gave a slight smile. The owner of the bow tie was looking at a competition leaflet. Two, at least, were rehearsing for their turns, scanning their scripts, their lips moving. Maurice leaned back and checked his watch.

I'm having a ball, Bob thought. This is like nothing else, this bunch of strange people united only by their desire to write. I can't wait to hear what each of them will read out. What sort of book has the chairman written and almost got into print? The doodling blonde? Thomasine, with the twinkle in her eye?

'. . the salt of his own sweat stinging his lips, he hauled himself higher up the rock face without heeding the damage to his bare hands. Another stream of boiling oil hit the outcrop above him and splashed, sizzling behind him. He swayed to one side to avoid a flaming arrow. Having got this far, almost to the great granite wall of the citadel itself, he knew with glorious certainty that the gods had chosen to favour him this day. Without their aid, he would assuredly have been struck down before getting so far. The encroaching darkness, evening's gift to the oppressed, would help him now. He still had to scale the bare wall and surmount the bastion. .'

Maurice the. chair said, 'Perhaps at this point-'

But the torrent couldn't be halted in mid-flow. '. . above which his enemy waited to engage him.'

'Thank you, Zach.'

'Lanterns had been lit along the parapet.'

'I'm interrupting you there because we could run out of time. Speaking for myself, I wish we could go on. You've reached an enthralling part of the story.'

Zach's lips were still moving, though his voice had tailed off.

Maurice said, 'Anyone care to comment?'

'I couldn't take much more of it,' the outspoken woman said. She had deep-set, dark eyes that looked as if they could see right through you.

'I'm not sure if that counts as constructive criticism, Naomi.'

'No, I mean I'm not used to such excitement. I was there with him, climbing the castle walls. It's a tour de force.'

'Really? There's a tribute, Zach.'

The Welshman said, 'You could, perhaps, get him over the rocks and up the wall a little quicker. We all know he's going to sock it to the opposition.'

'Tudor, that's not the point,' Thomasine said. 'Zach is writing long. It's fantasy. They're big books. A fantasy writer can't get away with under six hundred pages.'

'There's more if you want,' Zach said, brandishing unread pages like banknotes.

'Unfortunately,' Maurice said, 'we'll have to deny ourselves until next time.'

'I'll be into another chapter by then.'

'Excellent. We can't wait. Thomasine, let's change the mood with something from you, shall we?'

'I can't compete with what we've just heard.'

'We're not in competition. Never were.'

'All right. I've written another erotic poem.'

There was a noticeable raising of the attention level.

'Good on you, Tommy, girl,' Tudor the Welshman said.

She took a small, black notebook from her bag. 'It's called "A Night with Rudolf".' She cleared her throat and began to read.

'Covent Garden, Nureyev alone upon the stage,

The music of Le Corsair rising to a great crescendo,

And I know, I know, I know, this is the one, the solo,

The thing he does so well, the reason I am here,

Two months' wages, a small fortune, my holiday in France,

For a seat in the stalls, front row. Close-up view

Of those stallion haunches in all their muscularity stretching the tights,

Gold tights, gold, gleaming, steaming, straining tights.

I watch him circle the stage with leaps as enormous

As the music, giving me sensations I should not have in a public place.

I cannot shift my eyes from his bulging masculinity. Wondering, wishing,

Dreaming, thrilled by the music and the man, in my memory I will hold

This experience for ever.'

'Oh, my word!' Miss Snow said. 'I'm all of a quiver.'

Anton was frowning. 'Was that erotic?'

Tudor said, 'If it was, it went over my head.'

'You men,' Miss Snow said. 'You have no subtlety. If it isn't in four-letter words, you don't respond at all.'

'I loved it,' Maurice said. 'Straight into our next anthology, if I have anything to do with it. Personally I never understood the appeal of Nureyev, but you've just opened my eyes, Tommy. Very telling, that stallion reference. What was it? "Haunches in all their masculinity"?'

'Muscularity.'

'Right. What a striking image. I would almost say rampant.'

'Whoa, boy,' Tudor said.

'I mean it. She promised us an erotic poem, and she delivered.'

'Don't. I'm getting embarrassed,' Thomasine said.

'This might be the right moment to have our break, then. Did anyone put the kettle on?'

It was good to stretch the haunches, muscular or flabby. Bob hadn't appreciated how tense he had got climbing up the castle wall and leaping around the Covent Garden stage. No one else seemed to know what to say to Thomasine after her reading, so he went over. 'That was high-tone. If the rest of this mob are up to your standard, I'm leaving right now.'

'Don't be daft. We're all beginners. You hear what someone else has done and it sounds kind of special because it's different from your own stuff. I bet you've got something really brilliant tucked away in a drawer at home.'

He was about to turn this into a joke about drawers, but decided against it. He was the newcomer. 'Can we light up in here?'

'The corridor. Wouldn't say no to one myself after opening up like that. Worse than a striptease.'

After they'd both taken their first drag he said, 'Will they all read to us?'

'About half of them. Sometimes the excuses are more inventive than the stuff anyone has written. Maurice is very good at helping the timid ones pluck up the necessary. You're not timid, are you?'

'Just ask me to read and see the state of me.'

'You'll get over it.' She gave him a sudden nudge. 'Hello. Looks as if you're not the only new boy.'

Two hunks in leathers and jeans edged past and into the meeting room. They were given the welcome treatment by Maurice.

'Young and beefy,' Thomasine said. 'Nice for our Sharon. Nice for all us girls.'

To Bob's eye, they didn't look like creative writers. He watched from the doorway. Maurice had gone through his welcoming spiel and it hadn't impressed. The newcomers were doing the talking. Maurice made a sweeping movement with his hand as if to show they'd got something wrong.

'They're cops,' Bob said.

'How do you know?'

'Something about the way they're talking to him. And they work in pairs.'

'What would they want with Maurice?'

'You'll have to ask him, but I don't think you'll get the chance.' One of them had grasped Maurice's arm just above the elbow.

Maurice turned and spoke to the little woman called Dagmar.

'Our vice-chair,' Thomasine said. 'He's asking her to take over. He's leaving us.'

She was right. They steered Maurice through the door. It seemed to be voluntary, even though his face was ashen.

Thomasine went straight over to Dagmar. 'What was that about, Dag? What's going on?'

'I've no idea. Maurice asked me to take over after the break.'

Tudor said, 'I heard it all. They're CID. They want to question him about the death of Edgar Blacker.'