Dying to Write Read Online Free PDF Page B

I’m generally confident in my own abilities. And I seemed to get on well with Kate. But I discovered, as I hovered in the corridor outside her study, that I was quite reluctant to tap the door and go in. Apart from anything else, I had absolutely no idea what I could possibly write about.
    When Kate opened the door, I was greeted by Sidney, who darted backwards and forwards in anxious forays to sniff my feet. Kate knelt on the floor, and he finally retreated to the security of her lap. She stroked him, gathered him up in her arms, and got up to put him in his cage, a procedure not entirely to his satisfaction. She pacified him with a piece of wholemeal biscuit from a packet on her desk. He ate with gusto. When he stood to ask for more, he looked like a cuddly toy, a cone of thick fur from which apparently inadequate hands and feet protruded. Kate let me give him another sliver of biscuit. He took it gently but very firmly, and withdrew to the far corner of the cage. A perfect pet, except for the pong. Despite a litter tray, the room smelled like my grandmother’s house before the council sent in the rodent man. But if Kate didn’t object, why should I?
    She sat at the desk and waved me to the chair beside her. She pushed away the computer notepad and its printer, and a wad of printed pages with blue arrows and scribblings.
    â€˜That’s what I ought to be working on,’ she said, as if apologising for any subsequent inadequacies as a tutor. ‘I don’t know why I let Matt talk me into this.’
    â€˜But why should you have come as a student? You obviously don’t need any tuition!’
    â€˜I wanted to master this in peace,’ she began, patting the computer. ‘It’s time I gave up my quill pen. And it’s also a sort of touching wood. It was Matt who really set me on the way, and I always show him work for criticism and advice. I’m working on a novel now and I know there’s something wrong and I know he’ll sort it out for me.’
    â€˜He seems very nice,’ I said neutrally.
    â€˜His whole family is. His wife and both their children.’
    Her tone too was carefully neutral. We both knew a question had been asked and answered. What I didn’t know was how truthfully. Nor that it was any of my business anyway. Courtney was my business, though, and I still couldn’t think of a way to broach the topic tactfully.
    â€˜Do you know any of the students on the course?’ I asked.
    â€˜Two, actually. People from my past. The long arm of coincidence, I suppose.’
    â€˜One of them – Kate, this is none of my business but he isn’t very happy to see you. I thought I ought to –’
    â€˜Neither of them is.’ Her smile was grim but established her discretion. Not a word would she speak even to her fellow singer. Then, rather to my surprise, she added: ‘Men! At least I knew Sidney was a rat before I bought him.’
    â€˜Funny, isn’t it?’ I agreed. ‘The nicest, kindest man I knew got killed. Murdered by mistake. Everyone loved him and yet –’ Appalled, I felt my voice break. ‘George,’ I continued. ‘My friend George …’
    She passed me a tissue. ‘It’s all right.’
    â€˜And that’s what I want to write about. George.’
    We talked quietly for several minutes about how I might tackle such a mammoth task. We agreed at last that a poem might fit the bill. Long or short. Rhyme or free verse.
    â€˜Now all you have to do is go away and write it,’ said Kate kindly. ‘Look, the sun’s coming out. Get into the fresh air – have a walk. It really does seem to help people think.’
    And the session was over.
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    All I could think of was a cup of tea. I headed for the kitchen to find it full of amateur cooks. I got grudging permission to boil the kettle.
    In the lounge I found one of the grey ladies. Agnes, I think. I was to be in her