The Writing Class

by Esther Campion

Genres: General Fiction; Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

A tender, heartwarming novel of unlikely friendships and second chances, perfect for fans of Monica McInerney and Maeve Binchy.

Vivian Molloy hardly expected to retire early from teaching, but for her husband, Dave, she'd do anything. But when Dave abandons her after a weekend away, she returns home to their picturesque town in Tasmania, shell-shocked and alone with nothing to fill her days.

When an old colleague tries to rope her into teaching a writing class at the local library, Vivian is hesitant. How can she teach with her life falling apart? But it is the people she meets that help her remember who she is. Marilyn, tough-as-nails, has a secret passion for reading and a complex family life. Sienna, a young single mother, is trying to outrun her painful past. Quiet Oscar is housesitting for his sister, retreating from the mainland after losing his job.

As the writing class becomes a refuge and strangers become friends, its members will face decisions that will change their lives, and come to realise that when one door closes, others open in its place.

Praise for Esther Campion:
'Warm, wise and full of humour' CATHY KELLY

'Join[s] the captivating Maeve Binchy in the pantheon of popular Irish novelists' Irish Scene

'An intelligent novel. Esther Campion has woven a poignant story about that journey everyone takes to find their own beloved place in the wide world' Better Reading

Release date: November 27, 2024

Publisher: Hachette Australia

Print pages: 384

Sample

Under normal circumstances, Vivian Molloy would never have dreamt of driving forty kilometres out of town to do her grocery shopping. With a perfectly good supermarket on her doorstep, anyone would think she was mad driving to Ulverstone. Not that she minded the drive up the coast on a good day. There was nothing quite like the view from where the highway rose out of Devonport and scooped round the downhill bend where the Bass Strait revealed itself, stretching out to the horizon in all its sparkling glory. Today, however, a low gloomy sky hung over the ocean. Rain wasn’t far away. February was still summer, of course. She just hadn’t got out of the habit of thinking the season came to an end with the start of a new school year.

In the supermarket, Vivian pushed her trolley round the vegetable stands. Cauliflower was on special, but she didn’t need a whole cauliflower. The last one had blackened in the fridge, like a lot of things, neglected and past their sell-by date. On the radio, the presenter was asking a local author what advice he’d give his younger self. His answer was something trite about self-belief. If anyone asked Vivian right now what advice she would give her younger self, it would be to think hard before taking early retirement, and to know that despite what your marriage vows might say, parting could come well before death.

At the deli counter, she chose a small portion of olives and the five slices of cooked meat that would do for a week’s worth of toasted sandwiches. She pressed on to pick up a loaf of bread, begrudging having to buy some preservative-packed product instead of the spongy fresh bread on offer at her local bakery. But that particular purchase would have meant running into people she knew, the conversation always coming round to the inevitable, ‘How is Dave?’.

At the check-out, the lady in front had barely anything in her basket. Great. Vivian would be out of there in no time. As she placed her purchases on the conveyor, the young cashier gave her a confident smile.

‘How’s your day been?’

‘Not bad for a Monday,’ she said.

‘Got much on for the rest of the day?’

She had an urge to make up some exciting event she was in a hurry to get to, a dinner party to prepare or an important meeting she would chair in the afternoon.

‘A nice quiet one,’ she said, mustering a bland smile. It wasn’t his fault her career and social life had ground to a halt.

‘Not really a day for doing anything,’ he said with a nod toward the windows where she saw the teeming rain that had customers darting back and forth to their cars.

Top marks for tact, she thought as she loaded her bags into the trolley and said a polite goodbye.

Thinking she was home and dry, at least in a metaphorical sense, Vivian pushed through the automatic doors, her sights set on the shortest route to her car. Oh god! Cathy Shannon appeared from nowhere, grinning at her from under the hood of the rain jacket she was holding up while clutching a laptop bag to her ample chest.

‘Vivian, how are you?’ Cathy stopped under the overhang of the roof that offered enough shelter for a chat without getting soaked. If only she’d been another metre along, Vivian could have kept going with a passing hello.

‘I’m so glad I ran in to you,’ Cathy was saying while Vivian was still formulating a response as to how she was.

Cathy rested her bag on Vivian’s trolley, pushed down her hood from her mop of bottle-blonde hair and leaned in. Vivian had known Cathy for years. They’d taught at the same high school until relentless crowd control, or the lack of it in Cathy’s case, became too much and she’d taken a transfer to a much calmer number at the community library as an outreach officer. In fact, Vivian realised, Cathy was probably on one of her jaunts up the coast to the outlying libraries right now and, if her relaxed demeanour was anything to go by, thoroughly enjoying it. Why couldn’t she have kept her own good job? Early retirement was hardly what she’d expected.

‘I haven’t seen you since your leaving do,’ said Cathy.

Vivian could picture them now, chatting over a cuppa in the staffroom of the school she’d given half her life to. Cathy had been invited to the afternoon tea, where teachers and admin staff, past and present, told her how much she’d be missed. At the time she’d given a wry laugh and joked about how she’d be thinking of them all, especially on the Sunday afternoons she’d no longer spend preparing for the working week.

‘Gee, they must miss you,’ said Cathy.

Vivian shook her head. Not as much as I miss them, she wanted to say, but Cathy didn’t need a response.

‘I’m so glad to be out of it,’ Cathy continued. ‘Those rascals in Year 9 made it easy to leave.’

Vivian smiled. ‘We sure had some wildcards. Kept us on our toes, all right.’

‘But you had a gift,’ said Cathy. ‘You didn’t let it faze you. Best English teacher that school ever had.’

Vivian blushed.

‘Been doing much lately?’ Cathy asked.

The question shot through Vivian like a poisoned arrow. How to go from boosting one’s ego to laying it flat on the ground and stamping on it. No, she hadn’t been doing much lately. She shrugged.

‘Probably still getting used to the new routine,’ Cathy answered for her.

In the awkward silence, Vivian glanced round to where a northerly gust blew the rain directly into them. When she turned back, Cathy was looking at her with new intent.

‘There’s actually something I’d like to chat to you about,’ she said, moving in closer. ‘I’m planning to run a writing class. You’d be perfect to lead it.’ A broad smile spread across her face like she’d just been inspired. ‘Come see me Friday at the library. Morning works for me. Say ten?’

Vivian was about to protest, invent a prior engagement, but Cathy lifted her bag from the trolley and made toward the supermarket door, talking as she went. ‘Best get in here and grab some lunch. Interviewing all day. Casual staff. Bet you’re glad to be free of all that hassle.’

By the time Vivian got to her car, she couldn’t recall actually agreeing to a meeting with Cathy, but neither had she put her off. As she shoved her shopping bags into the boot of her ageing Subaru, a tear slid down her cheek. She slammed the door shut and plonked herself into the driver’s seat.

With raindrops pooling on the windscreen, she sat for a moment to gather herself. Why the heck did Dave have to be away, ‘sorting himself out’? Couldn’t he just come home and let them get on with the next phase of their lives? In the privacy of her car, she swore aloud. Fuck you, Dave! Tears poured as the rain occluded her view. How could she possibly entertain the idea of teaching a writing class? Did Cathy have any idea how bad things were? No, only one person could possibly know. She’d give Deb a phone once she got back to the safety of her four walls.

Deb had been there the night Vivian’s life had been turned upside down. And the next day when she’d had to show up for the flight home alone, everyone bearing witness to the fracture in her marriage, which, in hindsight, had been looming since Dave retired. It reminded her of a glacier she’d seen on television, underlying stress in the ice building up to form a crevasse. Were there warning signs? Things you could know to avoid falling in? As she drove home, almost on automatic pilot, the sequence of events played out in her head like a movie she couldn’t rewind.

When the pandemic hit, Dave had joined the ranks of artists and musicians locked out of their normal environment. With no sign of borders reopening, his lifeline had been severed, his travels on indefinite hold. He’d begun to talk about retirement. At sixty, he was old enough to tap into his Super. They’d been careful with finances, their one splurge a third-hand Winnebago to practise for their dream of taking a long, slow road trip around Australia. But instead of hitting the road, she’d watched Dave retreat to his study.

At first, he’d spent hours practising his beloved music. Two hours on sax, a brief trip to the kitchen to grab lunch, another two hours on piano, playing, singing. The routine seemed to fall off almost without her realising. She’d spent months at their kitchen table, immersed in learning to teach online, putting in extra hours to ensure her students stayed connected and on track, especially the older ones who needed top grades to win university places. Over dinner, she’d tell him about her busy day, the frustrations of her new normal: tech issues she’d had to troubleshoot, the conversations with parents of kids who were holed up in bedrooms, too anxious to turn their cameras on, withdrawing into themselves and unable to keep up with their learning. When she’d ask what he’d been up to, he’d say he was composing. If there were a few extra grog bottles in their recycling, she didn’t nag. She’d felt his loneliness. He’d gone from a life of travel and theatre to being home full time. No preamble, not even a period of working some day job which brought him home at night. She’d persuaded him to keep the local choir going via Zoom. It buoyed him a bit, but when she returned to the physical classroom, it felt like leaving him behind. She’d watched enough live-streamed funerals to feel her mortality. Fifty-eight wasn’t too early to retire. She gave the department notice. They’d navigate this retirement thing together.

It hadn’t made an awful lot of difference. Dave still spent hours locked away in the study. Still drank too much. She’d insisted they get out for a brisk walk every day. They went for coffee at the local cafés, but they didn’t talk like they used to, always busting to update one another when Dave came back from a gig somewhere on the mainland. Even the subject of taking off in their camper van had been dropped. When he missed a couple of choir practices, she decided to join to ensure he kept going, give them something to talk about. She’d had such high hopes that night on the Gold Coast. He’d seemed to come out of himself, still a little distant, but there were glimpses of her old Dave, the whistling and warbling in their bedroom as they’d dressed, the enthusiasm about going down to the gala ball. Over dinner he was animated, speculating with the others about what the competition’s results might be.

When the waiting staff cleared the main course dishes and began to serve dessert, the room grew quiet. Vivian’s tummy did loop-the-loops as the adjudicator approached the lectern on the low stage at the front. He was all drama, taking them through the list of categories with the requisite pauses between places: winners, runners-up, highly commended. She’d always been a ‘taking part is what’s most important’ kinda gal, but tonight there was more at stake. A win just might keep Dave on the up. Yes, they could do with a win.

And finally, their turn came; they’d won Best Arrangement for what their host called ‘a sublime performance of Eric Whitacre’s “The Seal Lullaby”’. It had taken all Dave’s patience to get right, but it had paid off. There was no mistaking where the north-west Tassie crew were situated in the room, such was the whooping and clapping around the table. The Queenslanders were generous in their applause. With so many borders still closed, only Tasmanians had been allowed to join them. Vivian had turned to give Dave a hug, but he was already on his feet and making for the stage. It had been decided earlier that if they were placed, that as conductor, he would be the one to accept the trophy. Besides, none of the women wanted to trip on their heels and the men deemed him the best looking. Vivian had to agree. As he strode up to the podium, buttoning his jacket, she fancied him as much as she had in her twenties. She shrugged off his hurry and hugged Deb instead.

Sometimes she wondered how the night might have ended differently, happily, with the two of them falling into each other’s arms between the crisp white sheets of the hotel bed, mustering the energy to make love there and then, or in the morning, waking without speaking, their mouths finding each other’s as they moved in close under the covers.

Once the host had presented the prizes, thanked the sponsors and introduced the band who would entertain them once dessert was cleared away, the convivial chat resumed around the table. Halfway through the best chocolate mousse she may ever have tasted while listening to Deb’s take on the winning performance in the male voice category, Vivian noticed Dave getting out of the seat beside her again. Glancing sideways, not wanting to lose the thread of what Deb was saying, she saw Dave reach out a hand to greet a man she didn’t recognise. She turned back to continue her conversation with Deb, half-wondering if the bald sixty-something was an old friend of Dave’s she didn’t recognise. A work colleague she’d never met?

‘Viv,’ Dave called, extracting her from Deb’s commentary. ‘This is Rory, an old mate of mine. A Corkman …’

She held out her hand and smiled. ‘Hi, I’m Vivian, Dave’s wife.’

The cheery man took her hand and shook vigorously. ‘Nice to meet you … I’m a baritone with the Gold Coast Gospel there.’ He gestured with a thumb to indicate a table somewhere behind him.

She’d seen them perform. Dave hadn’t mentioned knowing one of them, let alone someone from home.

‘You guys were brilliant …’ Vivian was about to congratulate Rory on his group’s stirring rendition of ‘Oh Happy Day’ when Dave gestured with a thumb over his shoulder.

‘We’re just going to get a drink, catch up. It’s been years …’

‘Lovely to meet you,’ said Rory with a smile that made him look like the kind of fella you couldn’t dislike.

She wanted to tell them to bring back a bottle of bubbles for the table in celebration of their win, but she’d get it herself in a minute. Best to leave them be. It wasn’t often Dave got a chance to get out and enjoy himself these days, and how good would it be for him to chat with another Corkman. She’d join them later. Although Vivian loved where she lived, there was always that longing for home that came over her when she heard the Cork accent. She spent lots of time listening to Dave, of course, but that was different. Her friends always talked about his sexy Irish accent, but she took it for granted now. When they’d finished dessert and the bottle of house wine they were sharing, Vivian enlisted Deb to come to the bar with her. As they waited for their bubbles, they looked around for Dave and Rory, but there was no sign of them.

‘Probably gone somewhere that serves better Guinness,’ said Deb.

Vivian agreed, but Dave could have told her. When he hadn’t returned by the end of the evening, she’d sent a text.

Everything okay? We’re all heading to bed.

I’ll be late, he replied.

Deb asked Ian to text Dave too, but Ian had been his usual laidback self.

‘I’d say he’s having a few beers with the competition to commiserate.’ After a big meal and lots of wine, Ian thought that was hilarious. Deb rolled her eyes.

‘Phone me if you’re worried,’ she said, ‘but Ian’s probably right.’

Vivian had lain awake until the early hours, but still there was no sign. When her alarm went off at seven, she woke up alone, torn between wanting to scream down the phone at him to demand an explanation, and treating him like a grown man who could do what he liked. Should she involve the police? What if he’d gone missing? Her phone pinged.

I’ll stay on here for a bit. Explain later.

She pressed Call.

There was a muffled sound in the background when he answered. A fan whirred, a door clicked closed.

‘Sorry, Viv. I crashed at Rory’s place. Not too good this morning.’

She could tell he was still pissed. ‘What the heck are you doing, Dave? Staying where for a bit?’

He sucked a breath in through his teeth. She knew the face he was pulling; it was the one he always pulled when considering an argument, especially one where he was planning to do something whether or not she approved. They weren’t good at conflict.

‘Rory and I go back a long way,’ he said. ‘He’s had a diagnosis. Prostate. I’d like to spend some time with him. Maybe sort myself out as I’m at it.’ He said the last bit with what sounded like mild frustration.

She stayed quiet, trying to process what exactly he meant. If it were Deb, she’d drop everything to help. Of course, she would. But this friend she’d never heard of before last night … And this business about sorting himself out. She knew he’d been down, but wouldn’t a bit of therapy or a course of SSRIs fix that? She hadn’t been able to convince him to go up the road to the GP, yet here he was telling her he’d be staying in another state.

‘I’m sorry about your friend,’ she began, trying to sound sincere. Perhaps Dave was in shock. Maybe the guy had no support. ‘Am I allowed to ask how long you’ll be away for?’

‘I’m not sure. I’ll keep in touch.’

It was on the tip of her tongue to say, ‘And what am I supposed to do?’ but she rallied her self-respect. There’d been so many things she hadn’t been able to say.

‘Right so.’

She let the phone slip onto the bed covers and put her face in her hands. Thirty-odd years of getting to know him, and he’d sounded like a stranger.

‘Oh, Viv,’ Deb said when Vivian had managed to get into their taxi to the airport. ‘I’m sure he’ll only be away for a few days.’

If only she could call round for a coffee and vent to Deb now. The pain of Dave’s absence wouldn’t go away, but it would ease. A problem shared and all that. A phone call would have to suffice.

Deb answered in the Hobart suburb where she and Ian had moved to look after grandchildren. It was the other end of the state, not exactly the other side of the world, but some days it may as well have been. The timing of the move couldn’t have been worse; a week after the trip to the Gold Coast. Vivian had seen them over Christmas when she’d gone down to spend a week with her daughter, but they had lives to get on with, new friends to make. She’d come home bereft.

‘How are you coping?’ Deb asked.

Vivian took a long breath and shrugged. ‘Ah, you know, plodding along.’ At least she wasn’t sobbing inconsolably as she’d expected to.

‘Any news from Dave?’

‘I’ve stopped texting. There’s not much point.’

‘Oh, Viv, he’ll come to his senses eventually.’

Vivian sighed. She and Deb had spent hours explaining away the difficulties of her marriage, but Vivian couldn’t shake the feeling that Dave hadn’t wanted to be around her. The hours he spent in the study, the turning away from her bids for affection, the stonewalling …

‘Have you gone back to choir yet?’ Deb asked.

‘No, not yet.’ And she wasn’t planning to. After the humiliation at being so publicly stood up, there was no way she could face them.

‘One day at a time, I suppose,’ Deb was saying.

‘That’s it.’

There wasn’t much else to say. She could wish Deb hadn’t moved away, she could wish Dave hadn’t gone AWOL, but the wishing wouldn’t bring them back. Ugh! Life could be so unfair. Dave used to tell her how lucky she was to be a woman because they outlived men. Washed up by sixty? Beset by fluctuating hormones from forty? Abandoned by men in mid-life crises? Ending up in care homes with brain disorders like dementia and Alzheimer’s, on top of failing bodies? Oh yes, so lucky.

‘How are the grandchildren?’ she asked Deb before she could be swept away by a flood of self-pity.

Deb could talk about her grandchildren all day, such was the love and delight they evoked in her. But even bringing up that subject felt disingenuous. Grandchildren might have provided a welcome distraction, if it weren’t for her son’s allergy to settling down and her daughter’s paranoia about her only child.

‘Has Clodagh calmed down at all?’ Deb asked, having told her the latest on the babbling baby and preschool cherub she and Ian had the pleasure of seeing every day.

‘I wish.’ Vivian sighed. ‘Calm and Clodagh never went in the same sentence, as you well know.’

That Christmas had been the worst of her life. Her first in thirty-five years without Dave. It should have been a joy to spend it in Hobart with her daughter, son-in-law and two-year-old grandson, but Clodagh’s helicopter parenting and insistence on over-the-top hygiene rituals only compounded the pain of Dave’s absence. Finn, Clodagh’s more sensitive younger brother, was also missing, with borders still to open in New South Wales. Whenever Vivian brought up the subject of her and Dave’s sudden separation, Clodagh insisted they’d sort it out. She loved them both. She wouldn’t take sides, she’d said. Between that particular elephant in the room, and the way Clodagh went on about little Max, it had been an exhausting few days. Vivian had been glad to get home. She could only hope that one day she and her grandson could spend time together without Clodagh hovering over them, lecturing her on the dangers of everything from screen-time to salicylates. Not that she had been the model grandparent either. To say she hadn’t been herself was an understatement. She suspected the toddler was a little afraid of her.

‘Oh, I’d better go,’ said Deb. ‘That’s the baby waking up for his lunch. Talk soon, Viv.’

After hanging up, Vivian realised she hadn’t told Deb about the writing class. Not that there was much point, as she had no intention of doing it, but it might have made her sound like less of a broken record. In the lounge room, she slumped into an armchair and allowed herself a mournful tear for the loss of Deb in her everyday life.

In the silence, she thought again about her plans, the dreams she and Dave had shared when they’d emigrated from Ireland. What did she have to show for all her years away? A marriage in some kind of strange holding pattern, a daughter caught up in her own concerns, a distant son, and a best friend at the other end of the state. Uaigneas. The Irish word came to her as it had in recent weeks when a slow, insidious cool had come over her. Loneliness. Like fog creeping across her skin, burrowing into her pores, settling between the layers of tissue, a squatter she couldn’t evict.

Marilyn tucked her book bag under her arm and stepped onto the small ferry that bobbed at the edge of the Mersey River. She was the sole passenger today, but that made no difference to the skipper, whose days were spent traversing the short stretch of water between Devonport and its eastern suburb. With no timetable as such, passengers would just stand on the gangway, press a button to summon the boat, and it would come. The three-minute crossing allowed for the casual arrangement, and it was quicker than the bus over the bridge.

Tuesday was the only day Marilyn crossed the river. She tried to make the most of it. From her usual seat at the stern, she watched trucks drive onto the Spirit of Tasmania, the red and white sea giant looming over their miniature version, like a Dinky toy in comparison, ploughing through the chop stirred up by the fresh summer breeze. Her mind drifted to where the trucks might be headed once they’d crossed the Bass Strait. West across Victoria? Or maybe all the way across the Nullarbor, carrying Tasmanian-grown food to the fancy restaurants of WA? Or would they head east into New South Wales? She’d been to Sydney and the Blue Mountains once, but that was a lifetime ago.

Today she had jobs to do. She’d look in a few op shops for a doona set as a welcome home present for her middle child, who she hadn’t seen in almost a year, but first she’d give herself a half-hour in the library to swap her bagful of books for some new ones. This was her favourite part of the week … that and catching up with her friend, Georgie.

With a nod to the skipper, Marilyn disembarked, pulled the straps of her bag tight, and made her way toward town. Anyone looking at her would think she was a woman on a mission, with the clap-clap of her thongs against the concrete as she crossed from the riverside to the CBD. She didn’t care what they thought. Getting off that boat just had a way of putting a spring in her step.

Devonport was hardly Melbourne, but with the new hotel and the glass-fronted building that housed the library and the council offices, it had the look of a place that was on the up. People were always complaining about the waste of taxpayers’ money that was the paranaple building. It had been a long time since she’d paid tax, but she disagreed. The name alone was worth every cent, in her opinion. It was the local Aboriginal term for the mouth of the river. She’d read as much in the newspaper upstairs in the library.

Inside the building, she made her way to the first floor and emptied her books onto the service counter.

‘Hello, Marilyn!’

‘Cathy. Haven’t seen you in a while.’

‘Oh, been getting out of the office. How’re you going? Read anything interesting lately?’

Marilyn knew most of the staff by name. Cathy hadn’t been there long, but she was good. Liked to talk about books and knew the kind of authors Marilyn preferred to read; Australian women who wrote stories about the land, the outback, and who could always come up with a romance between the main characters that made you feel you were right there in it with them. She eyed the cover of the latest book she’d devoured partly by the light of her phone in bed under the covers, so as not to disturb Frank, and partly in the bathroom where she did most of her reading. Not something she’d care to share with Cathy, but she’d tell her about the story.

‘That’s a good un.. . .