Death of a Bore Read Online Free PDF

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.

 
Chapter Three
    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?’
    ‘She’s wearing one of those . . . one of those Gypsy blouses, off the shoulder.’
    ‘You should have said so. Now to her name. Claribell is the name of a cow, my dear woman. Hardly romantic.’
    ‘I can change that.’
    He flicked through the pages. ‘If I were you, I would buy some romances and get some idea of what to write. This is rubbish. Next?’
    Mrs Wellington, her face flaming with fury, grabbed her manuscript and clumped off the stage.
    A thin youth walked up to the stage. Hamish recognized Angus Petrie, a forestry worker. ‘It’s science fiction,’ said Angus proudly. ‘I’ve only got the first few
pages, but it’ll give you an idea.’
    ‘Read!’ ordered John.
    Angus went as red as his hair and pimples, but he gamely cleared his throat and began: ‘The five suns were setting over the planet Zog when Burt Lightheart walked back to his cave followed
by his trusty gorg, Siegfried.’
    ‘What’s a gorg?’ interrupted John.
    ‘It’s a hairy creature which lives on the planet, rather like a pig.’
    ‘Might have been a good idea to tell us that. And why the hell would he call this gorg Siegfried? Fans of Wagner up there, are they? Oh, go on, go on.’
    ‘His wife, Zelda, had prepared him a succulent supper of forret’s flesh.’
    ‘What’s a forret?’
    ‘It’s a ferret what’s had it,’ shouted someone, and was immediately shushed.
    ‘It’s a big hairy thing, rather like a mastodon,’ said Angus.
    ‘But we don’t know that because you haven’t told us.’
    ‘Gie the lad a chance,’ shouted Archie.
    ‘I’m not reading any more,’ said Angus stiffly, and walked off the stage.
    And so it went on, with one would-be writer after another being crushed. The Currie sisters were