Every year there is an internet event called National Novel Writing Week (NANO) in which aspiring writers are encouraged to write a 50,000 word first draft of a novel during the month of November. This works out at 1,666 words a day for thirty days and is very good discipline.

In 2013 I decided to enter this competition and develop a theme that I had had in my mind for several years, that of a young man at the end of the university days entering into a pact with a fellow student which will completely change his life. I completed the task and since them I have edited and amended the manuscript and increased it to 75,000 words. This is my third novel The Growing Season.

One

Liam steered into the landing stage. Robert jumped out, tied up the punt, made the necessary financial negotiations with a bored young chap who looked as if he hated being the servant of students and tourists. After miming a man pouring drink down his throat Robert headed off to 'The Anchor.' Liam held his hand out to help Angela up and she rewarded him with a panoramic view of her net petticoats and sunburnt legs as she stood up, pushing her sun glasses into her hair.

'You'll note that he doesn't think of what I might like to drink,' she said.

'No doubt he knows,' Liam said. 'G and T?'

'Better not,' Angela said. 'I'm meeting my supervisor for sherry at one. Sad, isn't it? All these goodbyes. When shall we three meet again? To
quote Mr Shakespeare'

'At Trinity May Ball.'

'Gosh, yes. I hear they've booked Pete and Dud for the cabaret.'

'Who?'

'Peter Cook and Dudley Moore. I hear they're a hoot.'

They stood waiting for a break in the traffic on Silver Street so that they could cross the road. He took hold of Angela's hand as they dodged between two cars. The seats outside The Anchor were all taken but as they walked down the steps a group of people stood up to leave. Angela darted forward to claim the table, smiling to disarm anyone who might have thought she was jumping the queue.

A barman picked up the discarded glasses. The table was drenched with beer. As they sat down Angela said, 'Is Robert all right these days?'

'As far as I know. Why?'

'He seems distant. Every time I try to talk about the wedding he changes the subject. You don't think he's having second thoughts, do you?'

Liam drank some beer and wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

'What sort of problem?'

'A problem of a sexual nature.'

Liam felt uneasy. It was unusual for Robert to confide in him in this way.

'A couple of weeks ago I was waiting to go into the bathroom, And I in pyjamas for the heat, to quote Mr Lawrence, when the door opens and out steps Linda wearing only a diaphanous nightdress. We sort-of accidentally brushed against each other and suddenly......' He tapped his fingers anxiously on the table. 'Something happened.’

'You mean you fucked her.'

Robert sat dazed, shaking his head. Smoke curled from his cigarette, ash accumulated on the tip.

'And made her pregnant,' he said.

'Jesus.'

'We might need one of his miracles.’

'Angela doesn't know, of course?'

'And she must never find out.'

Liam let his eyes settle on the scene around him, students celebrating, or lamenting the end of their time at Cambridge, tourists inexpertly trying to steer punts while being laughed at by their friends, traffic crossing the bridge. He had imagined being in Robert’s situation many times and considered himself lucky to have escaped. Instead it had happened to Robert, who was so good at organising his life, avoiding risks, about to marry Angela. A big wedding in a fashionable London church.

'What's to be done?' Liam said.