The Wickshaw Ladies Book Society
met on Wednesday afternoon.
It began promptly at half-past-two
on the founding member’s orders -
no one remembers exactly who she was
as they had met together for years.
Every single week of those years,
except Ash Wednesday,
and an exemption was made
if Christmas fell on the scheduled day.

The location was on a rotary basis.
Each member taking a month at a time.
The subjects deliberated alternated
from the latest fashionable author
to the classics one and all.
From Plato to Chaucer
and Dickens to Doyle.
The society devoured them all -
however, the Romans and Greeks less so,
for they were terribly difficult reads -
it took virtually five months
for them to conquer Oedipus.

The membership might seem familiar
as it was a duplicate of the Recipe Club.
There was an addition of a token male -
Nathaniel Abervalle made application
several years before
and the entire – otherwise well behaved -
assembly nearly killed themselves
over who might be fortuitous to be his advocate.
His presence in the group
brought an elegant and refined
validation to their midst.

Discussion topics ranged
from the “Love of Heathcliff”
to the bawdy references of Martin Luther.
The gatherings only lasted one hour
due to a dread of tedium
and the chartered requirement
that Tea be served at half-past-three.

As they snacked on cakes and sandwiches
informal chatter would ensue,
most likely with the rapt attention
to Nathaniel’s ripe opinions.
“I believe it is not for us to say
whether Hamlet was indeed sane or no –
it is most assuredly stated in the text!”
“I quite agree” chimed the Mrs. Brameley
“Oh quite right” said Miss Dane, while
the Sisters Waller shouted
“Absolutely” and “Here, Here!”
Nathaniel held such high regard
that he could have said the sky was green
and all gathered would agree!
Ms. Hartly was the only one
who was not trapped in his spell.
She would roll her eyes
but none the less would give a nod
when Sarah Stride looked her way.
The shy Sarah would glance between
the stoic Hartly and the gentleman
and as she munched a biscuit
would wonder about their history.

The afternoon would wrap up
with all feeling satiated –
both bodily and intellectually.
They would just confirm the selection
for the next week’s symposium.
“Is it Chapter Three or Four?”
“No it’s Chapter Nine”
as they giggled out the door.

Read more about The Village

An Ordinary Place
The Recipe Club
A Gentleman of a Certain Age
Love So Green