Downton Abbey in modern dress.

‘Will you come back and talk to our group again?’ The question came in the form of an email from a titled lady in the Cotswolds. I’d given a talk to her group a while ago, when I was living in the area, and had found the whole experience rather daunting. This was a book ‘group’ – nothing so vulgar as a book ‘club.’ By its very nature a ‘club’ suggests the possible availability of membership while a ‘group’ comes across as a closed and rigidly enforced collection of like-minded individuals.

The enquiry came from the group secretary, as portrayed by Dame Maggie Smith for those who’ve been following Downton Abbey. Whether she actually called herself a dowager or not, that was the impression she gave. Last time I’d read from my first book, Burn, Baby, Burn and the selected passages, heavily biased towards murder and mayhem, had gone down a treat.

Lady Angela assured  me the group had been avidly following my blog and had noted with approval the success of my books. I rather doubted any of the members owned a Kindle or approved of the rise of the e-book concept, but vanity being what it is I wrote back and accepted.

Last night I read from all my books, plus snippets of new projects, fielded questions from the audience and enjoyed the whole process enormously. The possibility of Princess Ann being there – she was a member of the group – didn’t materialise. Oh well. Fifty-two people were there, of which forty-four were female. Yes, of course I counted them. The room of the manor house just outside Blockley where we met could have easily contained twice that number. Shades of Downton Abbey again!

Refreshments deserve a mention. Tea in many forms, coffee (absolutely NOT instant), lemonade in glass bottles, elderflower pressé, wine, sherry, well, you get the picture. Sandwiches – sans crusts – pork pie, sausage rolls, and far too many varieties of cake to recall. Naturally, given my nature, I made an utter pig of myself.

As to the ‘readings,’ I mixed passages of delicacy with tales of slaughter. The violence won hands-down. Subsequent questions had a common theme: where do your ideas come from? These delicate souls had a background very different from my own. A lady who described herself as a housebound recluse wanted to know how I could write so knowledgeably about violence. Had I ever been in a fight? Well, yes I’ve been in many fights. My former job brought me into close proximity with violent men. I’d read a passage concerning the time I spent in a crack house, mingling with cocaine and heroin addicts, indistinguishable from the other residents. That went down very well. These genteel citizens of the shires know about drugs and the manner in which they ravage society and are eager to know more.

I’m always happy to talk to people who read books. I don’t presume to call myself a writer. I occasionally write, but that’s very different. I’m far happier to be a reader. Books are a passion and these people share that passion. They were intelligent, knowledgeable, interested and interesting. I loved every moment.

Will I do it again? Yes, without a doubt. Does this mean I want to do more ‘personal appearances,’ attend book signings and travel the country publicising my books? I can think of nothing I’d like less. A one-off chat among like-minded individuals is fine; anything more smacks of commercialism and there I draw the line.

As a footnote, Lady Angela’s mother was also present. He maiden name had been ‘Balls.’ Miss Balls had married well, a farmer naturally, but she told me of her relief at being finally able to change her name. Her first name was Rosie. Yes, I sympathised, Rosie Balls was indeed unfortunate. ‘My poor parents never gave it a thought,’ she added. ‘My sister was even more unfortunate. Her given name was Ophelia.’

The old lady collapsed into distinctly girlish giggles as she repeated the name of her poor sister, “Ophelia Balls.’