The Circle Read Free

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