The group meets monthly on the last Wednesday of the month from 14:00 to 16:00
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We concentrate mainly on memoir writing, but also digress for variety into other types of writing, such as an article by a 'Grumpy Old Man/Woman' on one of the evils of modern society.
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The meetings comprise a lively discussion of members' pieces, which are first read out to the group. Constructive and gentle criticism is invited. This is followed by refreshments and then some 'warm-up' exercises for the next task, which often provoke much laughter.
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The group is now settling down and we have nine regular members. Room probably for one more, after which a waiting list will be started.
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SEA BASS - AN APOLOGY
Once
You arced and whorled your path through azure seas
Breasting the glinting wave in joyful abandon.
Now
You lie flaccid on my plate
One opaque eye staring dully.
I pare away your tinny skin,
Prise off your delicate spine,
Dissect your flaky flesh,
Eat, gorge, sate my hunger.
But
My moment of lemony pleasure
Sounds a bass note of rumbling guilt
"Plenty more fish in the sea"
No longer applies
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YOUR NAME IS BETHELL
A True Story Told by My Father, John Bethell.
(I still have the Wallet with 'J W' on it)
I stood there, ramrod straight, head proudly tipped back. My fedora which, when given to me by me Da had made me feel really grown up, was clenched with an iron grip on one hand. The other hand was taut in sympathy. I stared boldly at the man opposite me, eyes not blinking.
What had he said? Just what had he said? Was it realy only a few happy hours ago that I had felt that I was really a man? I was so excited, thrilled with what the future might bring. My friend Will and I had planned it secretly for months, not one person was to know until it was all over. Now it has been done, but oh, what a bottomless chasm it has opened.
Think, John, think. What did he really say to me? What did I say to him? My words were:
'Da, I've something to tell you. Will and I have just come back from the Army Recruitment Centre. You see we felt we had to do something for our country. It's 1914 and we've been called again and again, you know, Da:
"Your Country Needs You."
That finger, Da, was pointing at us. So we went to sign on. We've signed on, Da, we've joined the 'Liverpool Pals! We're going to fight for our Country. Yes I know that I'm only sixteen, but our Country needs soldiers to fight against those vicious Germans. Yes, I told a lie, I said that I was seventeen. The Recruitment Officer just wrote seventeen down in the age box. He never looked up.'
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Then what happened? My hands are longing to relax and take a cigarette out of my pocket and light it. I cannot. I am a rock, fluid lava that solidified when he said it. I am a man. I hold my head upright. My eyes never leave his sad, worried face. What did he say?
"What name did you give, Son?"
What a stubid question! I know my name perfectly well. I am John Wilson. In my pocket is the leather wallet that I was given for my sixteenth birthday, and engraved on the leather is'J W'. I must remain upright. I cannot fall, though my stomach is churning, I feel sick, my heart is beating furiously and there are tears, yes watery tears just longing to squeeze out of my eyes.
What else did he say?
"You'd better go back, Son, and give them your birth name. It's Bethell. With two Ls. You see you were two when I married your Mother. Your Father died before you were born. His family would have nothing to do with you or your Mother. Your sister Lil was four years old when I married you Mother. Her Mother died soon after her birth. Ben and Joe are your half-brothers, but you've always been my Son, John, always."
That explains a lot! I've always wondered why my Mother was always so strict with me, far more that she was with the others. It's obvious. She did not want anyone to think that she was favouring me above the others. How I wish I had known this before now. Of course, I would surely have understood, as I am her first-born Son. And Lil? It's amazing that she has never said anything to me. She's always pestering me and fussing over me. But haven't I been lucky? I've had a Father and a Mother who loved me and my sister and brothers. I have never wanted for anything
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There was something else he said, wasn't there?
"John, please go and see Mrs Smith who runs the corner shop. She knew your Father very well. She made me promise faithfully, that when I told you about him I would send you to her so that she could tell you all she knows about him."
Of course! She already has!
"What a happy little boy you are, John, just like your Father..."
"You have grown so tall, John, Just like your Father..."
You are such an elegant, courteous young man, John, just..."
All these years she's been telling me, but I did not understand. It was the wrong Father! I thought she meant me Da. No, it was my birth Father she was telling me about.
Stop. Is this man looking at me with concern and love in his eyes the wrong Father? No, that cannot be. He is not the 'wrong' Father, he's me Da. I love him. He's always been there for me, always. He's guided me, helped me, taught me, loved me....
I am myself again. My hands have relexed.
I look him straight in the face.
'Yes, Da. I'll do what you say. I'll go back and change my name to Bethell. I'll go and see Mrs Smith. But it doesn't change me, Da, not one bit. You'll always be me Da.'
The tall, upright, elegant man looks at me. His face breaks into a beaming smile, concern disappears and, for the first time in my life, he holds out his arms towards me. I walk into them and we hold each other in a tight embrace.
July 2009
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'Me Da' Grandad Wilson
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'My Dad' John Bethnell Aka John Wilson
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Why not join us and explore your own creative writing skills?
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