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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.
Family Love
by Jane Waller
She peered through the metal railings. The wind swept up to meet her, carrying a welcoming entourage of leaves that celebrated her arrival in their best coats of russet, gold and ochre. The newcomer moved hesitatingly along, gently running her hand over the spiky tops of the palings. She stared once more into the gloom, inspiring the wind to greater heights of gusto as it swirled the leaves encouragingly around the metal catch of the gate.
The woman slid the catch back and insinuated her body through the tight gap she created. She was inside. The gate clicked back in place, and, at once, the churchyard seemed to enfold her, leaving the twilight world beyond opaque and shadowy. Lights flew out and sparkled from the interior of the church. The woman was heartened by the odd peal of the bells that confirmed that she was not the only human being high up on the hill. Below her, the village houses twinkled a happy warmth of people and comfort but the woman turned away, towards the grey mystery of the churchyard.
Gnarled tree trunks curved up towards the rising sliver of moon and then arched back to the ground, swaying around the woman, who moved, now purposefully, now swiftly, amongst the graves. She bent over the tombstones and, removing a glove, rubbed vigorously at the moss-covered surface in front of her. 'In memory of Catherine Clayton, dearly loved mother and wife, 1873-1950, Not asleep, only resting.'
Quickly, she moved onto a shorter, fatter stone, topped with an equally stubby cross. 'Leonard Farnscot Clayton, 1897-1956. Blessed art the meek for they shall inherit the Earth.' She paused, caressing the letters, allowing her fingertips to trace out the words 'Clayton' and 'meek'.
Shaking her head slightly, the woman bent over the next tombstone in the row. Again her hands sketched out the shape, this time of an angel, its wings outstretched to the skies, its eyes downcast, poised in prayer. Sighing softly, she read, 'Frank Clayton, 1921-1940. Never has so much been owed by so many to so few.' The woman continued to read aloud, examining closely the letters on the smallest stone at the end. 'Julia Barnes Clayton, 1923-1985, also her husband, Martin Clayton 1919-1992. In death they shall not be divided. '
'In death they shall not be divided'. The woman smiled wryly and gazed blankly round at her relatives. How frighteningly ironic. 'Beloved wife and mother, Catherine Clayton,' she murmured softly. 'Dear great-granny. You were a right witch by all accounts. Leading your poor, weak son, Leonard, by the nose. His best chance of inheriting anything of value was certainly after the Last Coming. He didn't move from your side in life, and turned the house into a shrine to your memory for the six years that he survived you.' A sniggering cluster of leaves flew up from behind, whirling around Leonard's name before collapsing onto the mud and mush by the stone.
'Leonard's wife never stood a chance. Produced a satisfactory number of sons and faded away under your unloving care. And she managed more than the heir and the spare. Surely, that deserved at least your respect? Your grandsons. Martin, Robert and Frank. The three musketeers? Or the three blind mice? Catherine Clayton's grandsons. The apples of your eye and the Clayton dynasty assured.
'How Leonard loved you, Catherine. Skulking away in the house, flapping around in your shadow. He used to whisper about his love to me. A six year old girl, his grand-daughter, his only confidante. Leaning over me as I played, he wafted a musty smell of disuse, disinfectant and wine. Snuffling about his unrequited adoration for the mother who had dismissed him once he had produced the next generation.
Staring beyond the church where the unknown bell-ringer continued to chime out sonorous, peaceful notes, the woman shifted her eyes from the graves, scanning the glimmering lights that pushed through from the heavens. 'Three bright shining stars, that's what they were, Leonard's sons, Catherine's grandchildren. Martin, my own, my beloved father, serious and successful. Robert, everyone's uncle Bob, charming, irresponsible and debonair. And Frank, handsome, laughing Frank, who, of course, rather blotted his copybook by dying. But my mother was on the scene by then, offering the promised land of Clayton great-grandchildren through her marriage to Martin, to my father. You could afford to sacrifice one son for the sake of the country.
'My mother.' A silent laugh shook the woman, the movement breaking the stillness of the grey-shrouded world she inhabited, even the bells momentarily acquiescent, seemingly caught up in her reverie. 'Now, there's the thing, great-granny Catherine. Not a total success, my mother. Only one girl baby. Quite a pretty little girl. But not really what the Claytons required. You'd think, wouldn't you, those three manly grandsons, that the world would be teeming with mini-Claytons. You should have let them go, Catherine. Let them spread their wings and set up their own nests. Three healthy, young men cooped up in one house in one small village.
'I wonder when my father found out. One brother may be forgivable, but two? Oh, mother! Did you know, Catherine? Did you see the cuckoo?' The church bells set up a booming counterpoint to her still anger. 'I didn't. I found out today. In a letter. In a box. In the attic. As if I was in a film. And, Catherine, I loved my father. I loved Martin so much. Like Leonard loved you. Like you loved all Leonard's sons. And, apparently, like my mother loved all Leonard's sons. No one can say that she didn't embrace her in-laws. Only her divided love seems to have left me with a slight problem.
'Catherine, I want to believe that Martin really was my father. I know that Uncle Frank wasn't. He had bedded and flown away, crashing a plane and my mother's second love into an English hillside. Frank makes her just a slut and a cheat. Disqualifies her finally, as I always knew she should be, from the love that my father, my Martin, had had to divide between her and me. Making my father's love all mine. I can appreciate that. I can revel in that.
'But, Robert. Robert, the last living male Clayton. Your final chance… apparently, Robert is… Robert is… And, for the sake of family, Catherine, I cannot let that be. You see, I believe in family. You drilled us all in that. Leonard, Martin, me. My family. My father and me. Martin and me. Nothing can be allowed to tarnish that. I have to remove all trace of this, place it with her letters, in the ground. It will be wiser for all, if the family are together and my life is allowed to continue just as it was. Martin and me. And no more. The future does not interest me. Just the memory of my father and me. The dynasty ends here. Catherine Clayton to Catherine Clayton.'
Wiping her hands down her jeans, the woman stood up, and smiled at the family. She fumbled in her pocket, feeling for the reassurance of the cold hard metal catch on the trigger after the cold hardness of stone. She turned and left, entering the church where Robert Clayton was alone ringing out the old year. The bell tolled even as the gun was fired.
Copyright © 2005 Jane Waller