The Reading Group.
an excerpt

She headed up the steps towards the building, keeping her umbrella facing into the wind, her head down low, her body hunched under a plastic mac that was already beginning to leak. Her sensible brown shoes kept her feet dry in the sudden downpour, but her hands were wet and white where her fingers gripped both her brolly and her capacious handbag.
For such a small women her paraphernalia seemed almost ludicrous, but May wasn’t used to going out so she had come prepared. Outside the library she looked again at the poster that advertised tonight’s event and wondered for the umpteen time if she would ever summon up the courage to actually go inside.
Her mind was made up for her by the arrival of a large women laden down with books, bags and keys. May guessed correctly that this was the group leader, Diane Fairborn.
‘Hello there, be a dear and hold these for me,’ she said, topping up May’s already full arms with her books and carrier bags. The key inserted in the lock she opened up quickly and bustled inside, sweeping up the tiny woman in the haste of her passing.
‘What a night!’ she said, stating the obvious. Though it was perhaps a bit unseasonable for early September. ‘Hot tea, that’s what we need. Oh I do so hope the other’s will turn up, only this beastly rain is enough to put anyone off. You must be May, I’m Diane, ‘ she pumped May’s hand up and down still chattering on in a most unseemly way as she then moved on to setting out cups and saucers.
‘I wonder if mugs would be better, no, I think we’ll wait and see. Do hang your coat up May, it’s dripping everywhere, now where did I put that display…Ah, it’s in here.’
Poor May was quite disturbed by the whole business, but somehow she knew she couldn’t just sneak away from Diane. There was something about the woman that suggested those sterling English qualities, determination, organisation and supreme confidence. In fact all those qualities so lacking in her own make-up. Perhaps the rest of the group would be less overwhelming, more like herself, or just less, well’ boisterous’ came to mind.

She thought back to the day when the idea has been proposed to her. She had been in the nurse’s room having her blood pressure taken when suddenly she just burst into tears. A full three months since she’d buried her beloved Bert and everyone had said how well she’d coped. Now she sat in the surgery wringing her hands and sobbing as if he’d just died. Nurse Wilkinson had been marvellous, holding her gently and waiting until the storm of weeping had passed. Then she’d talked long and compassionately about how bereavement can just creep up on someone months, even years after the event. She’d suggested grief counselling but May could not talk to strangers about her feelings, it just wasn’t done in her generation. It was no use being told that sixty-eight wasn’t old. She felt old and worn out. She also felt terribly lonely. There wasn’t any way she would become a burden on her children and grandchildren, anyway, she was in good health. The nurse had nodded and then had come out with the idea that she, at her age, should join an evening class. There was no possibility of doing that, the very idea horrified her. When had she ever had time for hobbies? Not with helping her mother with the younger children and later looking after her own brood. Nursing Bert didn’t leave time for anything but reading and she devoured every book she could get her hands on.
‘Well why not join the library’s women’s group?’ the nurse had asked. She promised to think about it but had done nothing until a week ago. Now she was scared.