Death of a Bore Read Online Free Page A

restaurant business, Mr Patel, Callum McSween and Freda, the schoolteacher. Various other villagers filled the other seats. To
Hamish’s surprise, Alistair Taggart was there with his wife, Maisie.
    Hamish took a seat at the back next to Angela Brodie, the doctor’s wife. ‘I’m surprised to see you here,’ he said. ‘Don’t you know the man’s an
idiot?’
    ‘Well, he got a book published. I’ve always wanted to write. I need all the help I can get. Where is he? We were due to start at seven-thirty.’
    ‘He’ll want to make an entrance,’ said Hamish.
    At quarter to eight precisely, John Heppel strode into the room. His coat was slung over his shoulders and he was carrying a large travelling bag. He hung his coat on a hook and then mounted the
stage, carrying the bag, and faced the class. He was dressed all in black: black roll-necked sweater, black cords and black shoes. His face was made up.
    ‘He has the make-up on, make-up on,’ hissed Jessie Currie, who, like Browning’s thrush, said everything twice over.
    ‘Maybe he’s a transferite,’ said Willie Lamont.
    ‘ Transvestite is what you mean,’ boomed Mrs Wellington.
    ‘I have put on my television make-up because they said they would be here,’ said John crossly. ‘Perhaps we should wait.’
    ‘I cannae wait all nicht,’ called out Archie. ‘I’ve the fishing to go to.’
    There was a murmur of agreement.
    ‘Very well,’ said John. He bent down and opened the bag and lifted a pile of his books on to the table in front of him. ‘At the end of the class I will be glad to sign one of
my books for you. A special price. Ten pounds.’
    ‘Ten pounds!’ exclaimed someone. ‘They’re remaindered for three pounds ninety down at Best Books in Strathbane.’
    John ignored the interruption.
    ‘I will tell you all how I got started,’ he began. His eyes assumed a fixed look, and his voice took on the droning note of the habitual bore. ‘I was born into one of the worst
slums in Glasgow. We didn’t even have a bath.’
    Hamish’s mind drifted off as the voice went inexorably on, and he only snapped to attention after twenty minutes when Mrs Wellington stood up and said, ‘You said you would teach us
how to write.’
    John looked flustered. ‘I think, then,’ he said, ‘we will start by discussing the novel. Perhaps we will discuss linear progression.’
    ‘Do you mean the plot?’ called Hamish.
    ‘Er, yes.’
    ‘Then why not say so?’
    ‘I tell you what I am going to do,’ said John. ‘I am going to ask you all to bring a piece of writing here next week. It can be anything you like – poetry, essays,
fiction, anything – and I will give you the benefit of my expert advice. It will be easier for me to assess your work if it is typed and in double spacing.’
    ‘You mean we’ve all got to get computers, get computers?’ wailed Jessie.
    ‘Perhaps not right away,’ said John. ‘I will now take questions.’
    Archie piped up. ‘Have you met J.K. Rowling?’
    ‘Ah, yes, a most charming lady. We signed books together in Edinburgh. She was kind enough to congratulate me on my work.’
    What a liar, thought Hamish. Any bookshop lucky enough to get J.K. Rowling was not going to clutter up the premises with a minor author.
    ‘Do you think it’s easier to write for children?’ asked Mrs Wellington.
    ‘Very much so,’ said John.
    Angela stood up, her thin face flushed with annoyance. ‘I think that is very misleading,’ she said. ‘A lot of people are misguided enough to think that writing a
children’s book is easy, but the author needs to have a talent for that genre.’
    ‘Perhaps I said that,’ conceded John, ‘because I personally would find it easy despite my own unfortunate childhood. Why, I remember one dark Christmas . . .’
    And he was off again down memory lane. A bored highland audience does not stamp out or make any noise. It just melts away. Hamish decided to join them.
    He was just heading back to the