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‘Lovely. Thanks, Tommy.’ On a sheet of paper Samantha writes:Tommy. Drugs. Musician.She looks up, catches the eye of the woman sitting next to him, the one with the undercut and the neck tattoo.
The woman glances about her, as if to meet the gaze of every other student individually. ‘My name is Lana.’ Her accent is Eastern European. ‘I’m from Poland. I’m living in UK for five years. I have bad experience with boyfriend so I want to write about that.’
Samantha nods, scribbles on her aide-memoire:Lana. Polish. Bad boyfriend.
‘I’m Aisha,’ says the woman next to Lana, one of the mum friends. ‘Like you, Samantha, I’m an English literature graduate. UCL, a few years ago now. I’ve come with my friend Jenny. I’m here because I’ve loved literature all my life and I’d like to create some, if I can.’
Samantha smiles while she writes, refrains from adding that she graduated from the same university – it’s not the right moment to get into a conversation. Aisha’s friend with the red hair goes next.
‘Yes, I’m Jenny, like Aisha said. Also a UCL English grad, a few years after Aisha. We met at uni, well, in the pub near the uni.’ She gives a brief laugh. ‘We share a flat and she suggested I come along. I’m looking for work at the moment so I’m pretty much here to enjoy myself and try something new. Er, yeah, that’s it really.’
Not school mums then, as she had first thought. Samantha scribbles, nods, looks up to encourage the elderly man with the thick glasses, who has taken a seat in the corner.
‘Hello, my name’s Reginald Spark. Reggie.’ He speaks in a broad London accent. ‘Used to be a session musician and I’ve worked with some pretty interesting people over the years … Elton John, the Stones in the early days, even did a gig with David Bowie once, so I’m hoping to maybe write a memoir or something in that vein.’
There is a collective murmur of approval. Reggie has taken off his woolly hat to reveal a bald head, shaved close at the sides, and his navy cardigan opens on a grey T-shirt with a rainbow passing through a prism, a design Samantha thinks might be an album cover, though she doesn’t know which one.
‘My name’s Suzanne,’ says the middle-aged woman, looking thin now that she has sat down and only her narrow shoulders are visible. ‘I left school at sixteen and I’ve always regretted it, so I just wanted to see if I could come up with something. Thought it might give me a bit of confidence.’
‘I’m sure it will. Thanks, Suzanne.’Suzanne. Left school 16. Confidence.
‘Sean?’
‘Yes, hello. Like I said, I’m Sean Worth. I’m writing a futuristic fantasy novel where this guy is basically the last man left on earth, or he thinks he is, but then he goes around the world and one day he discovers this tribe living in the jungle and they’re all women and the only way to save the world is if he gets them all pregnant, so he—’
‘Thanks, Sean.’ A giggle bubbles up in her chest. She bows her head and writes, pushing her teeth hard into her bottom lip. The air has thickened. But everyone has to be made to feel safe and she cannot – must not – laugh.Sean, she writes.Sci-fi. Last man on earth.Wait till she tells Peter.
She looks up, careful not to catch the eye of any of the women in case one of them so much as twitches in amusement. If that happens, she will collapse into hysterics. Not good.
Pink-haired Daphne saves them all, however, announcing with a cheeky chuckle that she hopes to write erotica to supplement her pension.
‘Something saucy to keep the heart beating,’ she adds and giggles, which allows the others to release the laughter that they’ve undoubtedly been stifling for the last few minutes. Thankfully, the tension bleeds out of the room.
Samantha feels herself lift. People are incredible. They are wonderful, she thinks. Peter was right. He said she would enjoy this, and she thinks, once the nerves die down, she will.
After the break, Samantha tells them they are going to write some simple poems. A collective groan ensues, which she bats away with a smile.
‘We’re going to pull poetry apart like a wind-up radio,’ she says. ‘To see how it works, how it’s put together and how you might build one yourselves.’
‘Is that a metaphor, Miss?’ Tommy’s smile looks more like a sneer.
‘It is, Tommy. Well spotted.’ She smiles again and presses on. ‘Today we’re going to learn how to write a clerihew,’ she tells them. ‘Does anyone know what a clerihew is?’
Blank looks all round.
‘OK, well, the clerihew is a simple four-line satirical verse. It was invented by Edmund Clerihew Bentley in the early twentieth century.’ She reminds herself to stand up straight and to keep her speech slow, loud and clear. ‘If you look at your sheets, we can read his famous example.’ She clears her throat, takes a sip of water and reads the poem aloud:
‘Sir Christopher Wren
Said, ‘I am going to dine with some men.
If anyone calls
Say I am designing St Paul’s.’
The group gives a low harrumph of amusement. Samantha feels her nerves abate a little. The ice is breaking, hopefully.
‘If you look at the first line,’ she says, ‘you’ll see it’s simply the person’s name. The second line is something whimsical about the person that rhymes with that name, and the last two lines rhyme with each other.’ She looks up, scans their faces. So hard to tell if they are listening or bored rigid. ‘Can anyone name a celebrity?’
