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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.
Return Journey
by Tony Robinson
"Listen please. We'll be going through into the departure lounge in about fifteen minutes, If you need to go to the toilet, go now - you can see the sign over there. Leave all your hand luggage here with your tutors, and come straight back here - don't go wandering off. Clear? Right, off you go, and report back to your group tutor."
Jenny Meadows and Lucy Warner, inseparable eleven-year olds since they'd arrived at the school two years earlier, hurried off with the rest of the group. They were used to doing everything together - the school choir, gymnastics and the junior orchestra, where each played the violin For both this was a first flight - and the school ski trip was their choice of special Christmas present.
"If we're in three seats, who d'you want to sit with us?" Jenny asked.
"Let's ask Graeme," giggled Lucy, "We can take it in turns to sit by the window - the other one can sit next to Graeme."
"Bet you he won't hold hands with you," said Jenny.
"Bet you he will - I'll give him some of my chocolate! Anyway he likes both of us, doesn't he? Remember the Christmas disco?"
When their flight was called the party filed through the departure gate and onto the plane, where the arrangements for seating worked out just as Jenny had hoped. Everything was so new to them, and even the video showing the safety drill held their attention. As the roar of the engines increased and the plane began to move, they popped barley sugars into their mouths; then, as the plane sped down the runway they played the game of "Now!" to see which of them was nearest to the exact time when they became airborne. Together they pored over the pictures of the current pop celebrities, read each other's horoscopes and then took it in turns to compose silly answers to the agony aunt letters in a teenage girls' magazine. Graeme's suggestions -in confidential whispers - made them laugh so loudly that one of the adults had to shush them, suggesting that they pulled down their seatback tables ready to receive their lunch trays.
Lunch in mid-air was an adventure in itself, a mini-voyage of exploration into different packets and plastic containers. Because the whole plane had been chartered for school parties, the comedy film shown after the lunch trays had been cleared was familiar to many but still made them laugh. Very soon after the film was over, it was time for the cabin crew to check safety belts; Jenny and Lucy played "Now!" all over again, to see who was nearest at judging the moment of touchdown. The plane landed, and their first flight was over.
For Ian and Linda Meadows the journey felt never-ending. Everything in Austria seemed to take such a long time, even with the help of the British consul in Innsbruck, who had arranged the various formalities and ensured them a trouble-free passage through customs.
They had gone together, of course. Neither of them had even considered undertaking such a journey alone, as if it were merely a solo expedition to gain fame by conquering Arctic tundra or desert wastes. This was not a race, and there would be no prize for coming first no prize, no glory, and only the briefest possible exposure to the hungry media.
Outside the airport terminal it was grey and gloomy, with a mixture of sleet and rain falling in a sporadic and half-hearted fashion. The airport lounge was noisy and crowded; the rather ugly Austro-German dialect mingled with French, English and Italian. Some young American men sat nearby -probably servicemen on leave, Ian decided as he noted the total integration of colour and race, within the group. He fetched polystyrene cups of coffee for Linda and himself - expensive and barely drinkable, just as he had expected. Time dragged by.
Their flight was called, and they snailed their way aboard, each retaining something to read before stowing their flight bags in the overhead locker and settling in their seats. Linda asked for a glass of water, then swallowed two small tablets. Ian felt her hand slide into his; no word was spoken. Her head rested against his shoulder, and for a few moments she slept, stirring briefly as the engine noise reached its crescendo for take-off, then sinking into a fitful slumber once more. Gently Ian eased his hand from hers, and dropped a blanket over her. He made no attempt to dip into his magazine, but chose instead to plug in his headphones, find a programme of easy-listening classical music, settle back in his seat and close his eyes. Before the oboe of the Albinoni adagio had completed its plaintive and haunting melody, Ian had relaxed; the turmoil within his mind was being held at bay.
Linda was woken by the rattle of the drinks trolley next to her, and gave Ian a nudge. "Wine or gin?"
"Gin for me," he said. "We're not driving home, are we?"
Much to Ian's surprise, Linda, who had eaten almost nothing for the last few days, managed almost half of her lunch, plus a glass of wine. Ian too, now noticeably less tense, was able to cope with the usual plastic chicken and to follow it with biscuits and cheese.
They ignored the film that was screened after lunch, alternately dozing and reading, since Ian's music programme was now on a repeat run. Shortly before the plane was due to begin its pre-landing descent, Ian and Linda received a visit.
"Mr and Mrs Meadows? I'm Stephanie, in charge of the cabin crew during this flight. On behalf of Proteus Airways, I'm asked to accompany you through Customs and Immigration; a car is waiting for you to take you home. Everything else has been arranged according to the instructions provided by your son."
They had known that Jenny would be waiting for them at the church - and Lucy too, for the two girls were seldom apart. Lucy's parents were waiting also, their faces superficially composed. The muted tones of the organ began to float through the church, then died away. The congregation stood; and as the school choir (some of whom had been part of the fateful ski party) began a favourite anthem, two sets of loving parents followed the pitifully small coffins of two beloved daughters along the nave of the church. Jenny and Lucy, together still, had embarked on their final journey.
Copyright © 2004 Tony Robinson