small, but it suits me.' She took a key from her bag. They'd come to a terraced row of houses that opened directly onto Tower Street. 'Please come in and I'll find that videotape.'
She stepped inside and turned on a light. Just off the hallway was the room where she did her writing.
'My den,' she said with just a suggestion of intrigue.
A computer and printer on a trolley. Bookshelves. An entire set of Who Was Who. Plenty of Snows in there, he imagined. She also had a framed photo of a showgirl in a cat costume, but without the headgear. He took a closer look and got a whole new slant on Miss Snow.
'This you?'
'Mm.'
'Wow.'
'I did some stage work when I was younger.'
'In Cats} This looks like the original show.'
'Yes, but I wasn't one of the stars, or anything.'
'You must have been good.' Good figure, too, he noted. Better than good, and the cut of the costume hid very little.
'I trained as a dancer, but it's a short career unless you can act, and I'm hopeless at speaking lines.'
'So you write them instead.'
'I can't write dialogue. Biography is my forte.'
On a table in the corner was a typescript.
'Is that it?' he asked.
'Only a draft. The clean version is in the other room.'
She was such an innocent that he resisted the obvious gag.
She added, 'Fortunately I got it back from Edgar Blacker before his house burned down. It can be awfully expensive printing out five hundred pages, don't you find?'
'Me? I've never written anything that length.'
'What have you done, then?'
Oops. He stonewalled. 'The odd bit of verse. I'm not in your league at all.'
She was bending over a carton in the corner, searching for the tape. I guess we've all changed shape since our dancing days, Bob told himself.
She said, 'I'd like to write poetry, but I haven't got the talent. What sort of thing inspires you?'
'Whatever pops into my head,' he said to her rear view. 'You'd be surprised what gets me going.'
'I hope you'll read some of it out at a meeting.'
He thought of his Army & Navy lines. 'That'll be the day.'
'Got it,' she said, straightening up, holding a cassette. You mustn't be nervous of reading your work, Bob. I hope you keep it nicely in a notebook.'
'It's not worth it'
'Then you can read to us at a meeting. We've all had to lose our virginity at some time - figuratively speaking - so we're a very sympathetic audience.'
'I'll take your word for it.'
'Promise you'll get a notebook and keep everything you write. They'll offer an opinion, some of them, and that can be valuable.'
'What do they do in real life?' he asked.
'The circle is real life.'
'Yes, but . . .'
'You mean, how do they earn a living? Maurice works for British Gas, at management level. Zach, the fantasy writer, who read out his work to us, serves in the record shop in South Street. Basil, the gardening man, is retired.'
'Anton?'
'Also retired. He was some kind of civil servant. Then there's Tudor, the Welshman. He sells cars, or insurance. I'm not sure which.'
'I can believe that. What about the dolly bird?'
'Sharon? She's a hairdresser. Does one day a week at college. She hasn't been with us long and to be frank I don't know how long she'll want to stay. As you saw, she doesn't contribute much.'
'Except when Tudor forces her to speak.'
'You noticed? He thinks he has a way with the ladies.'
'Then there's Thomasine. She told me she's a teacher.'
'At the girls' school, yes.'
'And Dagmar works for a solicitor.'
'You are well informed. She keeps that to herself. Who does that leave, apart from me?'
'The woman who had the letter published.'
'Jessie. She's a widow. She was married to someone quite important in the church, an archdeacon, I believe. That's only one down from a bishop. Oh, and I didn't mention Naomi.'
'X-ray eyes?'
'What makes you say that?'
'She saw right through Edgar Blacker and didn't mind saying so. She was the one who spoke up first, saying he was a bit flaky, raised too many hopes.'
'That's true, now I recall it.'
She stepped inside and turned on a light. Just off the hallway was the room where she did her writing.
'My den,' she said with just a suggestion of intrigue.
A computer and printer on a trolley. Bookshelves. An entire set of Who Was Who. Plenty of Snows in there, he imagined. She also had a framed photo of a showgirl in a cat costume, but without the headgear. He took a closer look and got a whole new slant on Miss Snow.
'This you?'
'Mm.'
'Wow.'
'I did some stage work when I was younger.'
'In Cats} This looks like the original show.'
'Yes, but I wasn't one of the stars, or anything.'
'You must have been good.' Good figure, too, he noted. Better than good, and the cut of the costume hid very little.
'I trained as a dancer, but it's a short career unless you can act, and I'm hopeless at speaking lines.'
'So you write them instead.'
'I can't write dialogue. Biography is my forte.'
On a table in the corner was a typescript.
'Is that it?' he asked.
'Only a draft. The clean version is in the other room.'
She was such an innocent that he resisted the obvious gag.
She added, 'Fortunately I got it back from Edgar Blacker before his house burned down. It can be awfully expensive printing out five hundred pages, don't you find?'
'Me? I've never written anything that length.'
'What have you done, then?'
Oops. He stonewalled. 'The odd bit of verse. I'm not in your league at all.'
She was bending over a carton in the corner, searching for the tape. I guess we've all changed shape since our dancing days, Bob told himself.
She said, 'I'd like to write poetry, but I haven't got the talent. What sort of thing inspires you?'
'Whatever pops into my head,' he said to her rear view. 'You'd be surprised what gets me going.'
'I hope you'll read some of it out at a meeting.'
He thought of his Army & Navy lines. 'That'll be the day.'
'Got it,' she said, straightening up, holding a cassette. You mustn't be nervous of reading your work, Bob. I hope you keep it nicely in a notebook.'
'It's not worth it'
'Then you can read to us at a meeting. We've all had to lose our virginity at some time - figuratively speaking - so we're a very sympathetic audience.'
'I'll take your word for it.'
'Promise you'll get a notebook and keep everything you write. They'll offer an opinion, some of them, and that can be valuable.'
'What do they do in real life?' he asked.
'The circle is real life.'
'Yes, but . . .'
'You mean, how do they earn a living? Maurice works for British Gas, at management level. Zach, the fantasy writer, who read out his work to us, serves in the record shop in South Street. Basil, the gardening man, is retired.'
'Anton?'
'Also retired. He was some kind of civil servant. Then there's Tudor, the Welshman. He sells cars, or insurance. I'm not sure which.'
'I can believe that. What about the dolly bird?'
'Sharon? She's a hairdresser. Does one day a week at college. She hasn't been with us long and to be frank I don't know how long she'll want to stay. As you saw, she doesn't contribute much.'
'Except when Tudor forces her to speak.'
'You noticed? He thinks he has a way with the ladies.'
'Then there's Thomasine. She told me she's a teacher.'
'At the girls' school, yes.'
'And Dagmar works for a solicitor.'
'You are well informed. She keeps that to herself. Who does that leave, apart from me?'
'The woman who had the letter published.'
'Jessie. She's a widow. She was married to someone quite important in the church, an archdeacon, I believe. That's only one down from a bishop. Oh, and I didn't mention Naomi.'
'X-ray eyes?'
'What makes you say that?'
'She saw right through Edgar Blacker and didn't mind saying so. She was the one who spoke up first, saying he was a bit flaky, raised too many hopes.'
'That's true, now I recall it.'
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