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Meetings are held on the first and third Tuesdays of the month at Dancox House Club Room, St Clements Gardens, St Johns, Worcester from 7.30 pm to 9.30pm.
If you want to know more about Worcester Writers' Circle, please telephone Sue Round, Secretary 01905 619062.
Probably the oldest writers' circle in the country, we have grown from half a dozen enthusiasts in the dark days of the Second World War, to a thriving and productive group of people who share their experiences, successes and pitfalls at each meeting. We have a wide range of writers, some published professionals, some occasionally appearing in magazines, and many newcomers eager to see their name in print.
At a normal meeting, we read from our work, sometimes on a theme set for the evening and we offer advice and reactions. A cup of tea and a chat of course, and discussions about markets, successes and rejections. Sometimes we have a speaker from amongst our ranks, or a guestjoining us for the evening. Our interests are wide - stories, Westerns, nostalgia, poetry, biography, roofing and cats have all featured at our meetings. If you can get to Worcester, (that's the one in Worcestershire, England) give us a try.
Wishes Can Come True
by Angela Lanyon
`You want to be careful when you make a wish,' my Grannie used to say, `it could come true.' In those days, before it happened to me, I always hoped it would. After all when you make a wish it's usually for something nice, not something that's going to bring you unhappiness. When I said that to Grannie she shook her head and reminded me that things don't always turn out the way you expect them to.
I wish I'd remembered that when I first saw Rose Cottage. I'd had to leave my flat because the area was being redeveloped and was looking round for another when I came across the tiny Victorian house tucked away between the supermarket and the canal. It wasn't at all what I'd been wishing for but the moment I saw it I knew it was what I'd always wanted. It was old and needed a lot of work but my dad had been a builder and DIY was second nature. Once it was mine I got stuck in and in the end the only thing I couldn't fix was the sitting room door. No matter what I did, it rattled, even when there wasn't a wind. Eventually I pinpointed the trouble. It was the knob, posh Victorian one, a big cut glass affair, dark amber and smoky, as old as the house by its looks. I couldn't bear to get rid of it and I couldn't find any reason why it was loose but after trying for about a month I gave up and decided to fix a new one. I still wasn't going to throw the original out, but because it didn't fit anywhere else I gave it a good clean and then hung it on the rose arch outside where it would catch the sunlight.
I had only the tiniest patch of garden but with the roses I planted against the red brick walls it seemed cut off from the world - almost magical.
`I don't know how you can live here, Elaine, honest I don't,' my friend Lyn said. `It gives me the creeps,'
`But why, what's wrong?' The sun was shining, it was June and the walls were smothered with creamy yellow Buff Beauty roses. `It's the house of my dreams,' I said, `I just wish I could live here forever.' The statement came out more aggressively than I meant and I could see she was surprised.
`All right, all right, you don't have to go on.' She looked round, `I mean it's lovely now but have you thought what it'll be like on a winter night? Won't you feel shut in?'
I had actually thought about that but having lived for the past two years in what was best termed Grotsville, where the wind blew crisp packets and plastic bags against my front windows, the thought of being shut in was rather appealing.
`It's all part of the charm,' I said and added, `it isn't as if I was away from civilisation, the supermarket's just round the corner.' I laid a hand on the warm brickwork beside the back door. `Do you know these bricks have been here for nearly two hundred years, can you imagine the kind of things they've seen?'
Lyn shivered and rubbed her arms `Don't, it's spooky.'
I think she would have said something else but there was a ring at the bell and a couple more of my mates arrived. It was warm evening and we sat in the garden till after eleven. I was surprised how long the light lingered but it was midsummer after all, and the walls seemed to radiate heat even when the sun had gone. I lit candles and stuck them in the flowerpots. The shadows grew, flickering a little in the almost windless air.
It was shortly before midnight when my friends left. I put out the candles and stood in the garden, listening. The traffic had died down to an occasional car swishing over the tarmac like waves on a shingle beach. I could have been miles away as I looked at the roses drenched in the silver sheen of moonlight then suddenly I thought of my Grannie. The memory was so vivid that I wouldn't have been surprised to see her standing there. Now it's all over I can guess why. She was warning me.
I didn't realise that, but why on earth did I stay out there in garden, drinking in the moonlight and listening to the silence? If I had any sense I would have gone off to bed and crashed out till morning. Instead I took off my shoes and stood on the cool grass, looking at the ghostly flowerbeds and allowing the magic to surround me.
I was lured there, I can say it now. I was bewitched. I was bewitched even before I realised what was happening. You know, when we are doing something dangerous, something we know we shouldn't, we are aware of it and in some perverse way that eggs us on. It was like that with me. There was I, barefoot in the garden, in danger of catching cold and goodness knows what else, thinking how lovely it all was and wishing I could stay in there forever.
The scent of roses drifted around me under the fat, full moon. The star cities twinkled overhead and the old glass knob looked like one of those mirror balls as it threw back the moon in sharp facets. I wanted to set the light dancing and without thinking I reached up and made my wish.
A sharp crack. What was it? I saw the knob slowly start to revolve. As I watched it, I thought it must be sensitive to vibrations, like a wine glass will resonant with a singer. But instead of slowing down the rate of spin increased until it was almost horizontal. To my astonishment it was creating a circle of light which thickened to a mist and grew in intensity. Then as I continued to stare I saw something taking shape within the light. At last it solidified into a small person.
I blinked. Had I drunk too much or had I fallen asleep? I blinked again. The person was about a foot height and dressed in smoky brown - although that might have been the moonlight. He had small pointed ears and small pointed shoes on his feet. In fact he was exactly what you would expect if you were looking at an elf. I know now that spirits always appear in the form you expect - that's what makes them so dangerous.
`Hello,' I said. It sounded pretty feeble and my voice was barely more than a whisper. I think I was afraid of scaring him. `Where have you come from?'
He turned round and gazed at me. His eyes held a kind of glow, as if there was something burning behind the iris. Suddenly he stretched and took a deep breath.
`I suppose I should be grateful to you for letting me out. It gets a bit cramped after a time.' He smiled in a twisted sort of way and bowed. `Pinchbeck, at your service.'
His name didn't strike me at the time - in fact if I thought anything, I thought it suited him. I had forgotten that it was name the Victorians gave to false gold.
`I'm Elaine,' I replied. `Is there anything I can do for you?' I can't believe I was so eager in my ignorance.
He stretched again but this time I saw that he had grown. He was almost waist high now and was changing by the minute. Instead of the elf there was an old man in heavy Victorian clothes. And I could see straight through him to the roses. I caught my breath. The roses which earlier in the evening had been blooming and fresh, now hung grey and withered on their branches as if an arctic wind had touched them. For the first time I began to feel afraid and wondered what I had done. I felt the hairs rise on my arms as around me all the warmth was being drawn out of the summer air. I shivered. Pinchbeck lifted a hand in my direction.
`I'm terribly sorry,' I said. `I didn't mean to disturb you.' I hesitated, then added. `The moonlight was so lovely that I couldn't resist staying in the garden.'
`It's my garden. My garden!' he repeated but his voice was so soft that I had to strain to listen to it. `And there is something I want.'
`Something I can do??' Suddenly I wanted rid of him.
`Anything?'
Even this didn't alert me. `Well, can I help you?' Despite my growing apprehension I was still thinking of Cinderella and fairy godmothers.
A strange smile crept across his face. `I'm so glad you offered. I can only take what's given. There has to be an agreement. You did say - anything?'
It was the third time he had asked and the cold was getting to me.
`Yes, of course.' I said, knowing I sounded rather cross.
He stretched again, voluptuously. `I want your body.'
`You want what?' My voice rose almost to a shriek. I wasn't hanging about in the garden waiting to be raped by a Victorian ghost. I tried to move but found I was frozen to the spot.
He knew my thoughts. `For keeps.'
He was growing or I was shrinking. The cold became more intense as he moved nearer.
`What on earth do you mean?'
He smiled again but the smile was no longer friendly. `I had a body once, this was my house, but my family wanted it. They were greedy, couldn't wait for me to die. I barred the doors to keep them out but instead they locked me in and after they'd gone I found myself a prisoner. I've been waiting ever since to get even with them.'
`But they'll all be dead by now.' My voice choked on the words.
`Down to the fourth and fifth generation, isn't that what the Good Book says?' He fixed me with his flaming eye. `You have an immortal spirit, I can't steal that but your body is earthly and belongs to the earth.'
`But what about me?' My voice was no more than a squeak and I saw I had shrunk and was now no taller than the flowerpots. I could feel my life being sucked out of me even as the moonlight was discoloured with ochre blotches.
He raised a finger, I saw with horror it was my finger. I was looking at myself, huge and towering. And he pointed to the glass doorknob hanging from the arch, glinting in the moonlight, and as it closed round me, I could feel his dying fingers tighten their grip. My world had contracted to a pinpoint of consciousness. I couldn't even scream. All I could do, all I can do, is think.
So I got my wish. As my spirit is immortal I shall remain here forever or until the right moment comes and someone else discovers the doorknob and sets it spinning again.
Copyright © 2004 Angela Lanyon