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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.
Safely Home
by Tony Robinson
Michael Belfield decided later that the red car had not been travelling too fast. He had heard a soft crump, then seen a small furry bundle fly into the air and land on the pavement. Dimsie, his daughter's cat - and Emma was in France on a school trip!
The car slowed down, and he noted that the driver had a close-cut ginger beard. The female passenger opened the car door to look back at the cat, which was trying to stand; then the door closed and the car moved off. Michael noted the registration number, then ran to where the cat was lying. Pulling off his sweater, he laid it on the ground beside Dimsie, then gently lifted her onto it and carried her the few yards to his driveway. Five minutes later Dimsie was in the hands of the vet, a family friend.
"We'll do our best, Michael," he was told. "Her pelvis has been shattered, and there are internal injuries which we'll investigate. Let's hope that she's on the mend by the time Emma gets back."
Two weeks later, it was time for a final check-up. Because their family vet was on holiday they were to see Mr Weston, the new partner whom they had never met. Michael parked near the surgery behind a shiny blue estate car, then lifted the cat basket onto the pavement. Emma led the way towards the door; then her father called to her, "Emma! Wait a minute!" He pointed at the blue estate car; "That's the number of the car that hit Dimsie!."
In the vet's waiting room the door to the surgery was opened.
"Mr Belfield? Would you like to come through, please?" He followed Emma into the surgery; they faced the vet, who had ginger hair and a close-cut ginger beard; Emma opened the cat basket and Dimsie hobbled out onto the surgery bench.
"Poor cat - she has been in the wars, hasn't she? Let's have a look at her." He checked the case notes on the computer screen behind him, then turned round to Emma. "It's been three weeks now, hasn't it? How do you think she's doing? It must have been a real thump to hurt her hip so badly."
"You know bloody well it was," Michael burst out, "since it was your car that hit her! Changed your car, did you, to hide the evidence? Not very bright to keep the same number, was it?" He reached out to put his arm round Emma, who had begun to cry.
"You didn't even bother to stop - and you're a vet! You're supposed to help animals get better, not kill them!" Now the tears were streaming down her face. "Come on, Dad I'm not going to trust Dimsie to a monster like him!"
The vet was silent for a moment as he bent over Dimsie, moving his hands gently and expertly over the cat's flank; then he straightened up, looking first at Michael, then at Emma. He reached behind him for a box of tissues, and pushed the box towards her; then he spoke, slowly, picking his words with care.
"I'm sure I'd feel the same if I were in your place," he began, "but, you see, it wasn't like that. Please would, you let me explain?"
His measured tones, and the steadiness of his gaze, were somehow calming; father and daughter looked at each other, then nodded, and he continued, "You were right about the car; it was my car, but I wasn't driving. My son and his fiancee - Linda - had dropped me here to start surgery, and were going on to buy some things for their new flat."
"But why didn't they stop after hitting Dimsie?" Emma asked. "That was really mean of them."
"That's what I asked Linda," said the vet. "They did slow down, and saw that the cat was still moving and needed help. They were only three minutes from the surgery, so they started back here at once to fetch me."
"Then why didn't you come? Surely the people in surgery would understand if you had been called out?"
The vet paused before answering, and reached into the pocket of his white coat for a handkerchief. "Bill and Linda never arrived here," he said at last. "The car was hit by a drunk driver at the top of Ross Lane; Bill was killed instantly, and Linda is still in hospital."
There was silence in the little room, except for the gentle purring of the cat. Emma reached forward to stroke Dimsie; then her hand rested on the vet's, and she looked up at him.
"I'm sorry I shouted at you," she said simply. "Thank you for looking after Dimsie. Then she added, "Please may I come and help you sometimes?"
He smiled, and walked with them to their car. Then he said, "The old car was a write-off, but I kept the old number because those are my initials. After all, PAW is just right for a vet, isn't it?"
Dimsie yawned; it was time for home.
Copyright © 2004