“Hello everyone, please welcome Denise Kane to our group,” announced Tabatha Hargrave, the co-founder of the Dante Writers’ Circle, in the echoing village hall in Temple End on a chilly spring evening. “Let me introduce you to everyone,” she continued, gesturing wildly as the group members settled into their usual seats. “Oh, where is Lawrence?”
The eight members exchanged glances and shook their heads, each hoping someone else would speak up.
Tabatha gave Denise a half-smile. “Never mind, I’m sure you’ll meet him later.” She turned to the group. “Right, I’ll get started without him. Even though we are a small group, we all get along well and are happy to support and help one another, don’t we gang?” Tabatha said enthusiastically.
The group smiled half-heartedly and gave slight nods before returning to their whispered conversations. Denise felt her enthusiasm about joining the group fade. She had joined on her aunt’s advice. A terrible car crash while working aboard had left her unable to support herself. At her aunt’s suggestion, she moving in to live with her in Temple End and now fully recovered she was ready to meet new people.
“You can sit here.” Tabatha said, pointing to a chair next to a woman dressed in a long gipsy-style dress and a large, chunky, red plastic beaded necklace that matched her bright red, unnaturally dyed hair. “This is Miranda Murdock who writes poetry and has had many of her poems published.”
Miranda smiled broadly, extended her hand, and said for all to hear, “More than most here have been published. Nice to meet you.”
“Yes, you have, but we don’t want to discourage others,” Tabatha replied, then turned her attention to the white-haired man dressed in a dark grey tweed suit, who sat next to Miranda. “Denise, let me introduce you to Fabian Pritchard, who writes Wild West stories.”
“I’m so pleased to meet you, Mrs. Kane,” Fabian said.
“It’s Miss Kane, but please call me Dee,” she corrected him gently.
“Oh, right, Dee it is. I’m so pleased to finally have fresh blood in the group. How long have you been writing?” he asked.
“Seriously for about two years. I recently had an article published in a magazine, and my aunt suggested I should join a writing group.”
“What made you take up writing?” Miranda asked as Tabatha returned to her seat at the head of the table and pulled a folder out of her bag.
“Well, a combination of two events really: I had to take early retirement due to a long recovery from an accident.”
“Oh dear,” Miranda replied, but there was no trace of empathy in her voice as she pulled a notebook out of her bag. “I have some new poems to read out this evening.”
“It must have been a serious accident. Are you fully recovered now?” Tabatha called over her shoulder.
“Are any of your Wild West books available in print, Fabian?” Dee asked, changing the subject to avoid the attention. Tabatha was now in conversation with another member of the group.
“I’m not writing Westerns anymore.” Fabian said through narrowing lips. “I’m now working on my second novel based on my undercover work in the Far East.”
“Wow, where can I buy a copy of your first book? I’d love to read it,” Dee said.
“Uh, it’s with my agent at the moment.” He coughed and turned to Miranda. “Any news on your book?”
The banging of the outer door heralded the arrival of another member, causing everyone to turn towards the entrance. A tall, thin woman dressed in baggy jeans and a suit jacket, with short-cropped grey hair, entered and unceremoniously dumped a large bag on a table.
“Hello, comrades!” Ruth’s bright and cheerful voice echoed around the hall. “At last, I’ve done it. I’m in print.” She pulled a magazine out of her bag and held it up like a magician presenting a rabbit.
The room fell silent until Dee spoke up. “Congratulations! How exciting!”
Ruth turned to Dee and said, “Thank you. I’m Ruth Honeywell, and you are?”
“I’m Dee. It’s my first time here.”
“Oh, Ruth,” Tabatha called from the other side of the room. “Have you see Lawrence?”
“Yes, he was just pulling in the car park behind me. When I got out of my car, he was still looking for a place to park. He’s not normally this late.”
“Damn nuisance that he’s late today! I’ve some exciting news to share with you all. Are you ready to get started?” Tabatha said. A ripple of excitement spread among the members, who were milling around chatting, causing them to return to their seats and pull out their notebooks and pens, eager to hear the news.
In the far corner of the room, a door opened, and a plump, middle-aged woman entered carrying a tea tray. She resembled the singer Dolly Parton, with her dyed blonde hair piled high on her head, bright red rouge cheeks, and matching red lipstick. However, unlike the singer, Agnes had a somewhat clownish appearance dressed in ill-fitting, dowdy clothes that even a charity shop would have rejected. The woman banged the tray down in front of Tabatha, spilling some of the contents onto a folder lying there.
“Please be more careful, Agnes,” Tabatha snapped, lifting the folder away from the spilt drinks and wiping it clean before passing the drinks around.
Agnes nodded, and with a bright smile, disappeared back through the door, only to reappear moments later with a tray of cakes.
Miranda whispered to Dee, “That’s Agnes. She's one of the founders of the writing group, but she never gets involved with the writing— just makes the drinks and brings in homemade cakes.”
“Thank you so much, Agnes,” Tabatha said, as the tray was set before her. “The cakes look delicious as always.”
Dee studied Agnes closely as she took her seat, pulled some knitting from a bag, untangled the needles from the yarn, and began to knit. Agnes smiled, aware that Dee was watching her, and waved the rainbow-coloured jumper she was working on in Dee’s direction.
Fabian, sitting next to Dee, leaned closer and whispered behind his hand, “For the life of me, I have no idea why she comes. All she does is knit: I’m sure she’s been working on that same jumper for years.”
“Maybe she enjoys the company,” Dee suggested, taking a sip of her drink.
“That may be true. She does live alone in a big, old house,” Fabian replied after replacing his cup.
“Doesn’t she have any family?” Miranda asked.
“I’m not sure. Maybe Tabatha knows. It’s funny; after knowing her all these years, I really don’t know her that well. She keeps to herself,” Fabian muttered.
“Are you all right, love?” Miranda called to Agnes sarcastically as the clicking of the knitting needles filled the silence. “How’s the jumper coming on? Will it be as nice as the one you are wearing?
Agnes smiled and nodded. The multi-coloured, faded jumper hugged her ample bosom, making it look as though it had shrunk in the wash. Miranda shook her head in disgust and turned back to the group.
“What is taking Lawrence so long?” Babs said to no one in particular as she opened her notebook. “I wanted his input on a new idea for the book I’m working on—”
“Sorry to interrupt,” Tabatha said, “but I’ve something amazing to share with you all as soon as Lawrence arrives. It is about our annual outing. We have been invited—”
The door crashing open cut Tabatha off mid-sentence, as a tall, strong-jawed silver fox entered. “That bloody car park! I wish we could meet elsewhere. This place doesn’t help my creativity; I’m always worrying about whether I’ll be able to find parking.” After hanging his jacket on the back of his chair, he sat down and tugged a notebook out of his pocket. “Hello, a new face, and a young one at that.” A beaming smile lit up his face. “Hello, I’m Lawrence.”
“This is Dee,” Tabatha said.
Dee nodded in Lawrence’s direction.
“A pleasure to meet you, Dee,” Lawrence replied with a wink.
“If I may start,” Tabatha said, struggling to keep her annoyance out of her voice.
“Please, carry on.” Lawrence said and leaned back in his chair.
“To begin with, Lawrence,” Tabatha said, her eyes narrowing, “If you arrived early, you wouldn’t have a problem parking. We meet here because it is the most affordable hall available in the village. “Would you like to start the evening off by updating us on your publishing news, especially your book?"
Lawrence muttered something before meeting everyone’s stare. “I was late because I was on Facetime with my agent. He explained that he could secure a much better deal for my book, which is why it is taking longer than expected. What were you saying about our annual outing when I arrived?” Lawrence said, changing the subject. “I hope we’re not visiting another art gallery. If I see one more, I’m leaving this group.”
“I thought the experience would give us a spark of inspiration— Oh, never mind.” Tabatha stood to address the group. “Now, my fellow writers, as your chairperson, I’m pleased to announce to everyone—”
"For goodness’ sake, get on with it, Tabs! I could have written another book by now.” Lawrence interrupted.
Tabatha sat down; all of her excitement vanished. “What I’ve been trying to tell you is that we’ve received invitations to the International Writers’ Guild Awards evening next week.”
“We have! How is that possible? You can’t just show up there; it’s by invitation-only and they’re only sent out to—” Miranda stopped mid-sentence as Tabatha pulled the tickets from her bag.
Lawrence’s jaw dropped as if he had just discovered he actually did have an agent. He took the gold-edged card with his name on it from Tabatha and read aloud. “Prestige invitation.”
“How do they know about us?” Fabian asked, turning his card over. “Is it for real?”
“For goodness sake, Fabian, don’t knock it! At last, we have something good to post on our website. It will be great to mingle with real writers and agents. Oh my, I might find a publisher!” Miranda exclaimed.
“But I thought you had a publisher for your book, Miranda,” Babs said.
“You’re so naive. I’m self-published. Many self-published authors eventually get picked up by big publishers.”
“Oh, so you’re no better than the rest of us.” Fabian narrowed his eyes and waved the card about. “It could be fake and I don’t want to arrive there only to be turned away because someone though it would be a bit of a laugh.”
“Fabian, you’re a cynic.” Babs sighed.
“When I worked undercover in—”
“Oh, please spare us! I’m going. It’s about time I mixed with some real writers instead of a bunch of amateurs.” Miranda replied tartly.
Tabatha coughed. “Now then, there’s no need to be rude. We’ll all go. Transport has been arranged for us as well.
“I agree with Tabatha,” Babs said, “They look real to me. How many invitations are there?”
“Enough for us all.”
All eyes turned on to Agnes, who sat quietly knitting. The soft clicking of the needles was the only sound she made as she completed another row on the long-awaited new jumper. No one ever questioned why it was taking her so long to complete it.
Lawrence swung back around in his chair. “My God,” he whispered, lowering his voice further. “She’s not coming, is she? I mean, there will be some important people from the literary world at these awards.”
Tabatha lowered her head. “Why shouldn’t she come with us? Agnes comes to every meeting; She’s always on time and never cancels.” Sarcasm edged her voice as she glared Lawrence.
“Yes, but every card has our names on them, except one.Agnes isn’t included.” Lawrence pointed out.
“She doesn’t write, just sits bloody knitting,” Fabian snarled.
“Now, my old fellow, Tabatha is right. You know.” Lawrence smiled over to Agnes, who returned his grin. “She does make us drinks and excellent homemade cakes all year.”
Fabian tutted in disgust.
Miranda spoke softly. “Well, if anyone is interested, I think Dee should come with us as our guest.”
“But I’ve only just joined,” Dee said and smiled weakly at Agnes, who winked back at her.
“Yes, I absolutely agree with you, Miranda. Dee should come with us; it would help her with her writing.” Fabian said with a broad smile.
“Well, that’s a first—Fabian, you agreeing with me.” Lawrence remarked, and then continued, “The evening will be more beneficial to Dee than to Agnes. I expect she would only want to take her knitting with her.”
On the evening of the event, they climbed excitedly into the stretched limo in their fine evening clothes. As the limo glided through the evening streets, they all sipped the champagne on offer. Lawrence laughed. “This is just how I imagined my writing career to be: fine clothes, wine and—”
“Women!” Fabian finished with a laugh.
“I’m sad Agnes isn’t here too,” Babs said, “She would have loved the glamour of the evening.”
“How do you know that?” Tabatha asked.
“I don’t know. There’s always been something about our Agnes that I could never quite put my finger on.”
At their destination, The Dante Writers group found themselves seated at the front of the proceedings, surrounded by the literary greats. Once the diners finished their meals, the lights dimmed, while the stage lights brightened. The presenter approached to the podium and announced that the international mystery novelist, Agatha Chase — known for her fifty-bestselling novels— would start the evening off by presenting the awards to the winners of each category.
The audience erupted in applause and began to stand as an elegantly woman with golden auburn hair, delicate make-up and dressed in a blue silk gown floated onto the stage and took her place on the podium.
“Thank you, everyone, for recognising my achievement. I would like to extend a big thank you to the many fans of my books and my heroine, Agnes Shepherd— the avid knitter and private investigator. I would also like express my gratitude to a special writing group, The Dante Writers. I’m so glad you could all make it this evening. You have all inspired me over the years.”
The Dante Writers’ group turned to each other as an usher laid a multi-coloured jumper before them.
“But, I don’t understand,” Miranda said, pointing at the jumper. “It can’t be— Isn’t that’s our Agnes’s - the one she was knitting.
“Oh no, she’ not here, is she?” Fabian said, finding his voice.
“Agatha Chase is my aunt,” Dee said, with a bright smile. “I guess you didn't know she was a published author?
“No! What, our Agnes is actually the international mystery novelist, Agatha Chase!” the Dante Writers exclaimed in unison, finally agreeing for once.
“Oh yes, Dee said, “she explained to me that her success came from truly listening to others, and understanding her characters."
“So all the time she was coming to the group, she was listening to our conversations,” Tabatha said with a sigh.
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