I knew I had a busy day and I knew what time I was going to finish work, so I decided to plan ahead. I stood on the train to Charing Cross and looked at the Meetup app; the first event at seven o’clock in the evening was Clapham Girls Book club. There were two obvious problems: firstly, I hadn’t read the book that was going to be discussed, and secondly, I wasn’t a girl. Throwing caution to the wind, I registered and asked the organiser whether I could come along. The was my first proper invocation of the 'inappropriate Meetup group' rule.
I received a reply a couple of hours later. Tina, the group organiser, said that the group wasn’t open for men. I was disappointed, but not too surprised; after all, the title was very clear. I replied, explaining what I was doing and asked whether I could interview Tina instead. Fifteen minutes later, I had received further response: since her group was about books and I was pretending to be a writer (my words, not Tina's), she said I could come along.
I had never been to a book group and had no real idea what happened in them, other than knowing that were an opportunity to make friends, be exposed to new books, and, of course, to drink copious amounts wine.
The book that was to be discussed was ‘The Fault in Our Stars’ by American author John Green, who is known for his young adult fiction. The book was about two characters who had cancer, and was apparently narrated by a character called Hazel. The evening really didn’t sound like a bundle of laughs, but the rules dictated I had to go, and Tina was expecting me; I couldn’t let her down.
‘Do you want to come out with us for alcohol and food?’ asked my colleague.
I looked at the clock in the corner of my computer screen. It was ten minutes to six. She had endured a tough day dealing with timetables and student queries. Plus, there was another colleague who had just finished a tough day of interviewing who I knew would benefit by imbibing a couple of glasses of the red stuff. Two pairs of expectant eyes looked at me. I couldn’t decline, but I felt torn; I needed to get to book group yet at the same time I needed to catch up with all the office gossip.
In the restaurant, we settled down for wine and pizza, and when there was a lull in the conversation I told my two colleagues about Clapham Girls Book Club and my one hundred Meetup quest.
‘Have you even read the book?’ exclaimed Lou, astonished by my explanation.
‘No. I have no idea what it’s about, other than it’s by John somebody, and it’s about two young cancer patients, I think… It was written by… John… No, I can’t remember his surname. Can’t remember’.
‘I think I know the one you mean! My daughters have been raving about it! It’s been made into a film! It’s just come out… It sounds like a terrible book, but they’ve been saying it’s really good, it’s not sad; it’s uplifting!'
Lou told me everything that she knew about the book. Lou’s familiarity with the book had changed her view of how crazy I was (but only by a small amount).
‘What time does it start?’ Lou asked.
‘Seven o’clock’.
‘You need to go! You need to go now!’ Lou said, looking at her watch. ‘You’re going to be late!’
The journey was simple: a tube train from Camden Town to Clapham Common followed by a short bus ride. Clapham is a part of the city that remained confusing: I had no real clue about where the tube station was in relation to The Socialist Party of Great Britain (now a London landmark, but only in my own head) and Clapham Junction (Britain’s busiest railway station). The bus I needed to catch had the destination of ‘Clapham Junction’ emblazoned on its front. Every Meetup was helping me to learn how London was connected.
As I approached my destination, a gastropub called The Marchant, I become increasingly nervous. People were stood outside chatting and smoking cigarettes in the warm air. Inside, I approached a large imposing bar which offered a myriad of different beers. As I walked towards the bar, I unexpectedly saw a familiar face: it was Annie, who I vaguely knew from a comedy Meetup I go to.
‘Annie!’ I said loudly, relieved and surprised to see a familiar face. ‘What are you doing here? Are you here for the book group?’
‘Hello Chris! Yes, I am’
‘That’s great! I’m not supposed to be here… but Tina said I could come along. Is she here? I’ve got special dispensation’.
‘It had better be pretty good dispensation!’ Annie laughed. ‘A boy asked to come along once before, and she wouldn’t let him. He was kicked out. Yeah, she’s here. We’re all at the back. Come. I’ll introduce you’.
I bought myself a drink a wandered over to the back of the pub. In the corner, sixteen women turned to look at me. Tina gave me a massive smile and gestured for me to take a seat. I quietly sat down, and the conversations that I had rudely interrupted quickly resumed. I felt a set of suspicious eyes upon me and started to wonder what Tina might have told to the others about by presence.
It took me a few moments to get a handle on the discussions: they discussed the two main characters, their relationships, their illnesses, that the sex scene had been clearly written by a man (‘it wasn’t fluffy, was it?!’ chuckled Annie), the incidental characters and how others related to their plight. The discussions were gracefully directed by Tina. When the discussions lulled, she asked further questions, drawing on several pages of notes which seemed to contain questions or prompts. I was impressed: it was expertly run.
I noticed glasses of wine on the table; the drinking and discussions were measured and controlled, it was friendly and thoughtful, and gradually moved into deeper topics: live, love and death. From time to time, some of the women spoke about how they were touched by cancer: Annie spoke of a friend, another woman spoke of a friend’s father, and I remembered a student I once knew. All this reflection made me realise that I needed to complete this ridiculous quest more than ever. I vowed that I should live, and live well, by finding all these different groups, that I should continue to be challenged, and continue to feel cautious and uncomfortable.
The women discussed questions that have, from time to time, preoccupied me (and perhaps preoccupy all of us): what it means to leave a mark, and what it means to be forgotten, and whether all that ‘making a mark’ business really matters in the big scheme of things.
A couple of months ago I read or heard a simple answer to the question of ‘what is it all about?’ (and I fear that I might write this more than once, since it keeps preoccupying me): that the only reason for life, is simply, to live. Being at this random event in Clapham, in some respects, was a simple expression of that elemental will.
During the discussions I was steadfastly quiet. This was their space; I didn’t want to intrude. All I could potentially contribute was opinions based on hearsay, which was a phenomenally lazy way to attend a book group. I enjoyed hearing the discussions and I knew that after the meeting I had to go and buy the book. I also knew I would appreciate the writing more having heard everyone’s opinions. Besides, I wanted to read it. I wanted to read about these two star crossed lovers who were challenged by illness and, ultimately, death.
‘So, what do we think about the end?’ asked Tina. I wondered whether I should close my ears, but I decided to keep them open. In some respects, I felt it didn’t really matter: it was now the reading of the book that mattered rather than how it ended.
When the final words about the book had been spoken and the discussions had been exhausted, Tina turned to me, and said, ‘so, what do you think?’ Fifteen pairs of eyes turned to look at me; it was the turn of the interloper to speak.
‘Erm… it’s been very interesting!’ I babbled inanely. ‘I’ve never been to a book club before. I had heard of them, so I had no real idea of what to expect. I’ve really enjoyed listening to all your discussions’. I told them that I was going to read ‘The Fault in Our Stars’, and said what I was thinking: that everyone’s discussions will add to both my understanding and appreciation of the book.
Within minutes, the group had dissolved, and the tables were empty. A couple of the regulars said goodbye to me, but there wasn’t really the opportunity to chat to people; perhaps the discussions had made everyone reflective, or perhaps I was the strange visitor who didn’t say much, or perhaps simply because it was getting late and people had homes to go to. I had enjoyed coming along. No one person dominated the discussion; it was friendly and respectful. It was a good night out, but one that had been spectacularly weird.
I walked with Annie to the tube station and we chatted about the meeting for a while. I said that really liked the idea of the book group.
‘There’s a mixed group in Brixton that I go to, but this one is closer’ Annie said.
I made a mental note of this. Brixton wasn’t too far from where I lived. Her causal throw away comment gently pointed towards the different adventures and opportunities that London accidentally offers.
We said our goodbyes, and I dived into the Clapham South underground station to catch the Tube to London Bridge. As I made my journey home, I started to think about my week and how I might find the time to read ‘The Fault in Our Stars’ so I can read about Hazel and the other main character, Augustus. I easily resolved this short debate: there is always time for books.
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