Flying High

FLYING HIGH

The winners of

the 1993 Ian St James Awards

Copyright

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Figure of Eight © Min Dinning 1993; The Spirit of the Times © Jude Jones 1993; Drawing from the Figure © Cynthia Chapman 1993; Berlin Story © Philip Sealey 1993; Karmic Mothers – Fact or Fiction? © Kate Atkinson 1993; The House with the Horse and the Blue Canoe © Cheryl Nyland-Littig 1993; The Wee Man © Lorraine Lorimer 1993; The Birthday Treat © Linda Pitt 1993; The Olive Tree © Hilary Waters 1993; Black Lizzie Black ©Jenny Maguire 1993; Good Neighbours © Stephanie Egerton 1993; Nobody We Know © Carey Jane Hardy 1993; Moira Flaherty ©Juliet McCarthy 1993; Richard Remembered © Leonard Tyler 1993; Someone to See You © Isa Moynihan 1993; Northern Light, Southern Comfort © Sheila Kelley 1993

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

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Source ISBN: 9780006476542

Ebook Edition © NOVEMBER 2016 ISBN: 9780008235451

Version: 2016-11-22

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Foreword

Judges

FIGURE OF EIGHT

Min Dinning

THE SPIRIT OF THE TIMES

Jude Jones

DRAWING FROM THE FIGURE

Cynthia Chapman

BERLIN STORY

Philip Sealey

KARMIC MOTHERS – FACT OR FICTION?

Kate Atkinson

THE HOUSE WITH THE HORSE AND THE BLUE CANOE

Cheryl Nyland-Littig

THE WEE MAN

Lorraine Lorimer

THE BIRTHDAY TREAT

Linda Pitt

THE OLIVE TREE

Hilary Waters

BLACK LIZZIE BLACK

James Maguire

GOOD NEIGHBOURS

Stephanie Egerton

NOBODY WE KNOW

Carey Jane Hardy

MOIRA FLAHERTY

Juliet McCarthy

RICHARD REMEMBERED

Leonard Tyler

SOMEONE TO SEE YOU

Isa Moynihan

NORTHERN LIGHT, SOUTHERN COMFORT

Sheila Kelley

Keep Reading

About the Publisher

Foreword

The sixteen stories that you are about to read emerged from over three and a half thousand entries for this year’s Ian St James Awards.

There have been several new developments in the last twelve months: the introduction of a shorter category of fiction under five thousand words alongside the established category of up to ten thousand words; for the first time this year, we opened our doors to writers in the English language from outside these shores and this volume contains stories by writers from New Zealand and the United States; the launch of Acclaim, a bimonthly magazine featuring stories by shortlisted writers in these Awards. Acclaim will publish sixty-four stories in six issues and include writers from Namibia and South Africa. All the activities associated with these Awards are co-ordinated at The New Writers’ Club. In the summer, the Club organized its first Short Story Workshop as part of the 9th Birmingham Readers and Writers Festival. There will be more to come.

Every writer who enters the Ian St James Awards – and they have to be over eighteen without a published work of full-length fiction to their name – receives an appraisal of their work. The success of this operation can be measured by the receipt at The New Writers’ Club of only eight letters consigning (a few of) our readers to the darkest depths. Not a bad ratio from such a large entry. The critiques are by no means definitive. In the time and space available, they can’t be, but they are intended to highlight a story’s strengths and weaknesses and are, hopefully, of great value to writers who find feedback so hard to come by. In addition, the Club also now appraises stories by member-writers outside the entry dates for the annual Awards and these more detailed reports are proving to be very popular.

To all the readers who have helped us arrive at this book, many thanks. Similarly, our thanks go to this year’s panel of judges who gave freely of their time to decide on the stories that would be published in these pages. I am sure that the stories that have been selected – and there is as always a real cross-section of styles and subject matter – will entertain.

To all the writers who sent us stories this year and missed out, thank you for entering, good luck with your writing and there’s always next year. This is the fifth Ian St James Awards book to be published in as many years by HarperCollins. Our thanks go to the many people at the publishers who helped with the production of this book and to all our supporters in the book trade. Finally, many congratulations to this year’s sixteen Award-winning writers who are now, without doubt, ‘Flying High’.

Merric Davidson

Director, The New Writers’ Club

Judges

CLARE COLVIN

Writer, journalist and book reviewer

DANIEL EASTERMAN

Novelist

CORINNE GOTCH

Marketing Executive, Booksellers Association

ELIZABETH HARRIS

Novelist

MARK ILLIS

Novelist

IAN ST JAMES

Novelist

NICK SAYERS

Publisher

CAROLINE SHELDON

Literary Agent

FIGURE OF EIGHT

Min Dinning

Min Dinning spent more than twenty years teaching English worldwide, travelling in Europe, South America, China, Papua New Guinea and Australia. She began writing fiction at the age of seven but lapsed for more than thirty years, only to begin again two years ago, inspired by a creative writing class. Until then she had written letters, diaries and academic papers and published some non-fiction. These days she teaches Business EFL and is trying to come to terms with domestic bliss in rural Cambridgeshire. She still has secret yearnings to run away to exotic lands.

FIGURE OF EIGHT

He tasted of sour pickle and rice porridge and stale tobacco. I had wanted this kiss for months and now I had it. Desire was injected uncomfortably into my bloodstream. His skin was hard and chapped as he pressed it into my face. I was shocked. It was not as I had expected. I was still unsure of why I wanted him. It may have been sex, but it wasn’t straightforward; he wasn’t attractive in a conventional way, like Martin. It may have been need and gratitude.

He kissed as if he didn’t know what a kiss was. Or maybe he wasn’t kissing at all. It was me who was doing it. His mouth was stiff and immobile but betrayed a repressed emotion that I couldn’t define. It briefly occurred to me that it might be anger. I had caught him unawares, walked up to him from behind. But was it unawares? We both knew.

He was wearing his best jacket, tailored too large in stiff blue cotton in what used to be an imitation of Mao, and smelling of mothballs as most Chinese clothes do when they are seldom worn. Why did I focus on that? It detracted from the moment. Smells and tastes tried to deflect me away from the strange reality of it.

For a moment we remained in an awkward clinch, he with his eyes closed, me searching for reaction, wanting response. He took no initiative and then withdrew as I placed my tongue on his teeth.

‘No, no,’ he moaned.

‘But we must, we’ve been waiting so long. We can’t waste more time just thinking about it and doing nothing.’

‘Somebody will find out. We’ll be criticized.’

‘We’ll be discreet. Nobody will know. Anyway we haven’t done anything wrong.’

‘You don’t understand. We’re not in your country. In China this is impossible. I could go to gaol.’

‘Don’t be daft. Of course you couldn’t,’ I said, not sure. People certainly seemed to get into trouble for things that go unnoticed or are laughed off in the West.

Anyway – what were we doing? Was this adultery? Infidelity? It certainly wasn’t fornication, nor was it likely to be.

Before the momentum was lost I drew his wiry body towards me again. I sensed tension, reluctance.

‘If someone sees, it will be wrong.’

‘But if no one sees it will be right?’

He relaxed a little and laughed.

‘Chinese logic!’ I said. The idea that a sin must be witnessed to be a sin struck me as peculiar but practical.

‘Honestly, Alison. You know what I’m saying.’

Sometimes he sounded like a middle-class Englishman. These phrases, learned from World Service plays, tripped off the tongue like the rehearsed script of a thirties drama. He seemed more foreign at moments like that and a twinge of uncertainty unnerved me. Was I dealing with an inhabitant of another world? Were we as close as I thought or had I invented it out of want?

He gently removed my arms and buttoned the top button of his jacket. He did up the hook and eye on the collar and took a step backwards.

‘I must go now.’ He looked out of the blurred curtainless window at the bleakness of the early spring campus beyond. Grey concrete blocks, brightened by the occasional piece of vivid underwear hung on a bamboo pole out of a window to dry in the dusty air.

‘Don’t come down,’ he said.

‘Shall I come to the studio tomorrow?’ I asked, suddenly unable to cope with the prospect of being alone in this chilly, dingy flat, not wanting him to leave.

To my relief, he smiled. ‘Yes, come for your lesson as usual. The other guys will be there. We’ll paint together.’

I heard his footsteps retreating down the concrete stairs fainter and fainter, then the click of his bicycle lock. I watched him as he pedalled silently down the path. I kept watching until he disappeared into the heavy stream of traffic on the main road beyond the gates of the campus.

Yes, I thought, I’ve done it. I’ve changed things between us at last.

I was trying to remember how it had been at the beginning. I cast my mind back to the day when I announced I was going to China.

‘You’ll never survive,’ Martin taunted me. ‘You’ll be back in two weeks.’

I tried not to believe that he might be right. It had certainly been a rash decision for me, but he had this way of making me feel inadequate and I had to show him I could cope.

‘Of course I’ll survive. Anyway it’s only nine months. I’ll be back in the summer. You won’t even have time to miss me.’

The thought of leaving Martin for so many months made me uneasy, but I told myself I had nothing to fear. He would be there when I got back and whatever happened in between would soon be over. He still hadn’t been keen. He had wanted us to get married but I wanted to get my urgent need to travel out of my system. I thought I’d stay about a year, then go home and settle down for ever. I didn’t think Martin had the right to tell me not to go, so I made up my mind to do it, to stick it out whatever it was like, just to prove to him that I had a mind of my own. I felt I needed another dimension to myself. Martin was not enough. He was reliable, kind and rather good looking but I wanted to deny to myself that I cared for him as I didn’t relish the prospect of missing him. It would spoil my adventure. Besides, I was not interesting enough as I was. A tall, pale Englishwoman, over thirty, a virgin. A real spinster schoolmarm, in fact. I’d never worked abroad before and mistrusted foreigners on the whole. But something about China drew me. I needed to go there and see it. I wanted to be able to tell people I’d been to the Great Wall, the Ming Tombs and the Forbidden City. It would change me. The very thought was exciting, and my heart raced as I had fantasies of people in silk robes, gliding across the semicircular bridges and reading poetry in bamboo groves.

I’d got the job at the university through a friend who knew someone at the embassy. It didn’t seem to bother anyone that I had no experience of teaching university students. They seemed pleased to get a real English teacher and in the first few weeks I was treated like a VIP. When the novelty wore off and winter began to set in I felt less excited and less keyed up to learn new things. What had at first been amusing curiosities and fascinating ways eventually became tedious routine. I got fed up with the way the cleaners bobbed around with their stinking mops, the way the cook, sweating even in the ice of November, hawked and spat on the kitchen floor, and the chore of shopping at the market where my fair hair and my height set me apart as a freak or a visiting Martian. If Martin had been there it would have been all right. I wouldn’t have felt so self conscious. He was even bigger than me. It annoyed me that I wasn’t managing well on my own. ‘You’ll never survive’ – his words echoed in my head as I contemplated my inability to stride out and enjoy myself.

I bought local clothes – an army jacket and some quilted shoes – in an attempt to melt in a little. The shoes were men’s: no woman in China wore a size seven. But it made me more of a freak as the girls were by then starting to wear what they thought were Western clothes – hideous shapeless Crimplene jackets with twinkly thread and plastic high-heeled shoes. The daring ones wore lipstick. I knew I’d got it wrong, but I also knew I could never get it right. Not here.

My ideas about the country had been gleaned from National Geographic and the paperback book of the travels of Marco Polo. Reality was a rudely different shock. Nothing had prepared me for the drabness and alienation which seemed to make people physically ill in the winter, the strange food and the smells. Everywhere there hung in the air an almost palpable veil of smells. They were always stale and sickening. From the overpowering stench of lavatories which supplied fertilizer for the vegetables we ate to the acrid smoke of the miserable little market food stalls and the sweetish sickly aroma of hand-rolled cigars smoked by old ladies.

I became aware that I would have to learn the language or I would continue to feel autistic, sealed off into a bubble, in this world but not of it, as if I was watching it on television. There were no other foreigners in my unit, so I was obliged to seek out the company of Chinese English speakers, and this was how I met Liang.

‘I wonder if you could arrange painting lessons for me?’ I asked, standing at Dr Chen’s desk in the Wai Ban, the office that was in charge of me as a foreigner.

I had always wanted to do Chinese watercolours, though I was not artistic. It looked simple, so I thought I’d be able to produce something that I could hang, framed, over the mantelpiece at home.

‘Please sit down. Can I offer you some tea?’ came his high-pitched voice from behind a newspaper.

‘I’d like to learn painting.’ I remained standing. Once I sat down it would take all day.

There was a silence while Dr Chen finished reading the article he was absorbed in. On the shelf behind him there was a photograph of his son looking like an all-American boy at the University of Southern Illinois, and next to it a bottle of Mao Tai and two glasses.

‘Of course, Miss Alison. We’ll send you a teacher whenever you like.’ This was the predictable response. The answer was always yes, but I was doubtful whether it would actually happen.

‘I’d like to learn on Wednesdays.’

‘I see. You have nothing to do on Wednesdays.’ He laughed, coughed on his cigarette and peered over his newspaper.

They always seemed to think we were without inner resources. There was talk of getting a television to entertain me, as they thought I’d wither away without one. But of course there was no sign of it yet.

I wanted to snatch the newspaper away and yell ‘Get on with it, then!’ but I would have been wasting my time.

‘Well, thank you, Dr Chen. Could you let me know how much the lessons will cost?’

‘No charge,’ he said. ‘The painting unit will send someone.’

I forgot my request for a week or two, not expecting anything to happen quickly.

One afternoon I was idly staring across the microcosm of the campus, watching people going about their business. Students strode around in army coats, their numb fingers clutching texts to be learned by heart, mumbling to themselves, grannies wheeled babies dressed in jewel colours in bamboo prams, old men tended plants in pots or spoke to their geese, and cadres cycled by, puffing on their rancid little cigarettes as their bikes clanked along. I was the only one doing nothing. I was getting together the courage to go out and shop but it was always an ordeal to venture forth, head and shoulders above the nimble locals, stared at and laughed at and, I suspected, cheated by the peasants with their crooked teeth and filthy hands. I must have seemed like a millionaire, and without a word of Chinese still I couldn’t do anything about rudeness or cheating except shout in English.

There was a tap at the door of the flat. I thought it would be the Wai Ban checking up on me again, coming on some pretext or other to see what I was getting up to. But when I opened the door I saw a small wiry man with a broad grin. His hair was longer than usual for a Chinese man, and he was wearing the height of fashion, a polo-neck sweater.

‘How do you do, Miss Hutchings. I’m Liang, your painting teacher.’

He was at least six inches shorter than me and peered up like a confident child hoping to please a teacher. I almost expected him to hand me an apple.

‘Hello, Mr Liang. Come in. Would you like some tea?’

‘No thanks, no thanks,’ he protested, waving a hand.

He sat on the hard plastic sofa. His shoes were covered in mud and I noticed with dismay that he’d left a trail across my mats that I would have to sponge off.

‘The Wai Ban told me to come and teach you painting,’ he announced.

‘Well, Mr Liang, I just mentioned it. I thought it would be nice to have something to do on Political Study afternoon.’ I was free on Wednesday afternoons as foreigners weren’t invited to Political Study, though it seemed they were often the subject of discussion. Sometimes we were in favour, sometimes we weren’t. You could tell by the way they kept at a polite distance, courteous but not friendly. They usually tried to provide things we asked for and didn’t want complaints or any kind of controversy.

Liang’s real job, he explained, was to churn out numerous identical ‘works of art’ for ‘dignitaries’ and foreigners. He made me laugh. On Wednesdays he was to show me the fundamentals of Chinese watercolour painting.

‘We’ll go to the artists’ store to get your paper and brushes and paints next week.’ He paused and lit up a Phoenix, settling into the uncomfortable sofa. He slurped his flower tea and I wondered whether to offer him a piece of Cadbury’s chocolate, but decided I didn’t know him well enough yet.

So that was how it began. He used to pedal across town to my flat, where I would set up a table with newspaper, jars of water and my selection of paints, ink stick and stone and a row of brushes he had chosen for me, from the one like a feather duster to the wispy tiger-hair one. Sometimes he would talk about his studio and I hoped to be invited there one day. I imagined it. It would be romantic, arty. There would be paintings in various stages of completion and sunlight flooding in at a large window. He would be there working quietly with a few chosen friends. The little clique would have higher things on their minds than the price of oil and how to get something for nothing. It would be a haven from the turmoil of daily life.

‘Liang, what’s your studio like?’ I asked.

‘Just a big room. We all sit and get on with our work.’

‘Do you talk to each other? Do you discuss art?’

‘No. Not really. We chat about this and that, but it isn’t really necessary for us to talk about what we’re doing.’

The lessons were a bit of a disappointment as they consisted of copying various masters from a book of samplers. I spent hours trying to flick the brush into a bamboo leaf, whirl it into a rock, dab colour into peonies and lightly tease out hairs on the head of a dancer. He was a patient teacher – either that or he didn’t care that I wasn’t talented. He was just doing his job.

At last he said, ‘Next week you must come to the studio to watch.’

I was so looking forward to being introduced to the charmed circle of artists. I hoped perhaps these people would become my friends. Here was an opportunity to get to know people. The language barrier wouldn’t matter once we started painting pictures together. I felt quite privileged.

I cycled over an hour in the rain to get to the studio on the other side of the city. It was a large grey building with dirty cracked windows, and inside the main room, in light I would have thought inadequate for painting, there were rows of artists producing delicate watercolours for tourists and diplomats. Liang welcomed me with a large smile and looked straight into my eyes, which he had never done before. He was larger than life on his own territory. Complicity with foreigners was not on, so what was he trying to say? Then I realized he was beginning to treat me as a friend. I was glad I’d made the effort to come. With the weather being so foul and the prospect of cold wet clinging clothes all afternoon I’d nearly stayed in the flat, but indoors and outdoors were equally cold and dank, so what did it matter? Anyway I was curious to see him on his own ground, I wanted to know what made him tick and I wanted to meet his friends.

‘Mr Wu paints tigers. One of his pictures was presented to an African diplomat last month. We are all very proud of him.’

I smiled, slightly embarrassed. The idea of an art factory seemed so Chinese. Several artists beamed up at me as if I was visiting royalty. I still hadn’t made enough progress with my Chinese to say more than hello.

One man was painting carp from life. I was disturbed to see the fish darting around an enamel bowl, confused, their scales reflecting light from the neon strip lights above, their silly eyes staring as if in fright and their mouths mouthing a silent message. They swam aimlessly round and round, sometimes in a figure of eight. The artist had captured their movement and their fearful staring. They would be trapped in the enamel bowl until the picture was finished, then, their aesthetic purpose over, disposed of in a practical manner.