M.C. Beaton: Death of a Bore

Hamish shared her worry. Despite all the encroachments of the modern world, there was still a certain innocence about the village children which had been taken away from their counterparts in the cities.

Again he had a feeling that John Heppel was a cancer eating into local society.

Freda spoke again. “A lot of the parents are furious, but then there are others who are seduced by the idea that they, too, could write a book. They say John’s book is literature and there are a lot of nasty things in Shakespeare.”

“I think we’re worrying ower-much,” said Hamish slowly. “He’s so self-obsessed, so conceited, and so boring that people will stop attending his classes. This will hurt his vanity. I think he moved here to be a big fish in a small pool. Once the locals have got over the romance of writing, they’ll ignore him and he won’t be able to bear that. What made you decide to come here?”

“I was working in a comprehensive in Lanarkshire. The kids’ parents were mostly on the dole. It was a miserable existence. Some of the boys were violent. One day one of them held a knife to my throat in the playground. He was overpowered by two of the masters. The school tried to suspend him, but the bleeding hearts at the education authority decided he had to stay. I saw the job up here advertised. I love it. I love the children.”

“It’s a lonely life for a young woman.”

“Oh, on my weekends off I go clubbing in Inverness.”

Hafflish suddenly felt ancient. How old was she? Hard to tell with her neat harlequin features.

“I have never been clubbing,” he said.

“You can come with me one weekend, if you like.”

“That would be grand,” said Hamish. “I like new experiences. More whisky?”

“No, I’ve got exam papers to correct. Let’s just hope John Heppel fades away.”

♦

Despite the boredom of Heppel’s initial class, most who had attended were determined to write.

Archie Maclean, banished from home as usual by his house-proud wife, was sitting on the waterfront wall, busy scribbling in a large notebook.

Hamish called at the manse to see if the normally sensible Mrs. Wellington had given up the idea of writing, only to find her seated at her kitchen table in front of an old Remington typewriter, bashing away energetically at the keys.

“What is it, Hamish?” she asked crossly. He had walked in by the open door, the weather being still unseasonably warm.

“I’m disappointed in you,” said Hamish. “You don’t really think that scunner can do anything to help?”

“I’ve always wanted to write. I’m starting with something easy. I am going to prostitute myself by writing one of those little romances.”

Hamish sighed. “I once spoke to a writer who said you can’t write down, and if you don’t enjoy reading romances, then you can’t write them.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” said Mrs. Wellington triumphantly. “I am getting along just fine.”

Then she ignored him and began to rattle the keys busily.

Hamish left, wondering whether he was being a killjoy. Surely it was better for the villagers to exercise their minds during the long winter months than sit every evening looking at television.

He walked out and down from the manse. A Strathbane Electrics van was parked on the waterfront, and two men seemed to be busy delivering computers.

He shook his head. “It’ll all end in tears.”

“Talking to yourself, Hamish? That’s a bad sign.”

Hamish turned round. Angela Brodie was standing there, smiling up at him, her wispy hair blowing about her face.

“I’ve still got a nagging worry about Heppel.”

“He’s an awful bore,” said Angela. “But it’s all turned out a bit of fun. It’s a long time since Lochdubh’s been so excited about anything.”

“But a lot of people left the class before he had finished.”

“It’s because he said he would look at their work. Once they all got home, they began to dream about bestseller lists.”

“I think a lot of them’ll be getting nervous breakdowns before they grasp how to operate a computer.”

“Ah, that’s where you’re wrong. I heard Jessie Currie saying that Hamish Macbeth had a computer at the police station, so he could help them.”

Hamish stared at her in alarm. “I’d best be off on my beat.”

He hurried back to the police station, collected Lugs, and got into the Land Rover.

The mountains were shrouded in mist as he drove up into the moors and foothills. The narrow one-track road shone black in front of him. Then as he reached the crest of the hill above Lochdubh, the mist began to roll up the mountains. He stopped the car and watched. This, he reflected, was one of the reasons he loved this part of the world so much. It was like watching a curtain rise at the theatre. Up and up went the mist, a stiff wind sprang up, and then the sky above the mountains cleared to pale blue, the sun shone out, and the wet road in front of him turned to gold.

He got out of the car and lifted Lugs down. The dog scampered off into the heather. Hamish stood with his hands on his hips, surveying the scene. He turned round and looked back down to Lochdubh. On the other side of the loch, in front of the dark green of the fir plantation, a perfect rainbow curved down into the still black waters of the loch. As he watched, the rainbow faded and the loch changed to deep blue.

He gave a sigh of satisfaction. He could feel all his troubles about John Heppel rolling up and away from him like the mist.

He was sure his fears about the man bringing something bad into the area were wrong.

And that feeling lasted until something prompted him to attend the next writing class.

∨ Death of a Bore ∧

3

At last it grew, and grew, and bore and bore ,

Till at length It grew a gallows

—Thomas Kyd

Hamish had not planned to visit the writing class on the following Wednesday, but Angela and Dr. Brodie said if he would come along they would take him for dinner to the Italian restaurant afterwards. Dr. Brodie said Angela had written a very good story, and he wanted to see how she got on.

The village hall was as full as it had been the week before. Hands clutched manuscripts. Faces were flushed with excitement.

As usual, John made a late entrance. He began, “There was another part of my life which influenced my writing. It all began…”

“No!” shouted Mrs. Wellington, formidable in tweed and a large felt hat with a pheasant’s feather thrust through it. “You said you would look at our work. There’s a lot of us here. Let’s get started.”

“Oh, very well,” said John sulkily. “Who’s first?”

There was silence, everyone suddenly being struck with shyness.

“I’ll start,” said Mrs. Wellington. She lumbered up to the stage on her stout brogues. “I have started writing one of those little romances. Beneath my intelligence, but it’s a beginning. I’ve done one chapter.”

John’s mobile phone rang. Hamish noticed that once more he was made up. He heard John saying, “But you promised!” Then he lowered his voice and snarled something before ringing off.

Strathbane Television is not coming, thought Hamish. And he’s in a right fury about it.

“Read out some of your work,” John ordered.

Mrs. Wellington shifted her large feet uncomfortably. “I would rather you read some of it yourself.”

To her dismay, he began to read out loud. “It was a dreich day in the glen when Claribell McWhirter went out to feed the hens. Her long red hair blew about her white shoulders…”

“Was she naked?” sneered John.

“Of course not.”

“Then how does the reader know she has white shoulders?”