Best British Short Stories 2015

by Nicholas Royle

  As most of the people-of-the-common were in the fields, or on errands, the new arrivals were noticed by very few. These were either the extreme old who spoke little, or the young who spoke not at all. When these older residents spotted the flitting, starling motions in the dusk and twinkling camp fires, they drew their charges closer and lit lamps, feeling the bright glimmerings of unease. Yet the residents returning from working in the fields were relaxed. This was a travelling fair, they told each other, a raggledy-taggledy group stopping en route to some distant place, not staying long. The people-of-the-common knew themselves to be sensible. They had no business making life difficult for those passing through.

  It was clear these new people were not passing through. Over the next week, hoes and blades were used, and latrines dug. Vegetable patches were marked in the fertile soil. The earth of the region was widely known to be of excellent quality, nourished by steady, temperate seasons, loamy as Christmas cake. It was said seeds could be blindly tossed, and within 24 hours plants would sprout, rich with glossy offerings. Although whether this was because of well-nourished soil or the seeds’ tenacity, it was unclear.

  The people-of-the-common felt the new people were a circus without the exciting, main elements of a circus. They made wheeling, haphazard journeys as they picked their way through an oil drum here, a collapsed, disposable barbecue there. Efforts at communication were met with flashing-gold grins, the new people’s soil-lined palms outstretched, as if in prayer, or hope. Often, the new people would break away to duck into tents. There they would remain still as statues, silhouettes sometimes visible, leaving the people-of-the-common to shake their heads and walk away. Yet every dawn without fail, the-people-of-the-common would be woken by the sounds of their rubbish being picked over as they lay in bed. The lids were always neatly replaced afterwards.

  Rumbles began. The people-of-the-common began talking. Sproutings of discontent took root. At the northernmost field of the neatly bordered land, the people-of-the-common called a meeting. The woman of these people, the residents mumured in low, soothing tones, swayed hips and wore skirts festooned with roses, and wild daisies, and looked different. The men of these people had flashing teeth, wore red-spotted neckerchiefs, were thin, and looked different. They didn’t like to question, said the residents, not really. Not at all. But. Hadn’t they been generous? Clean-living? These were half-queries, vague as the wind, and so received only half-answers. Then one old man spoke. Leaning on his walking stick, he called out that if these new people had been familiar, well. That would have been something. If they had shared some common interest. But. It was time for the people-of-the-common to take action. If, he added. If they didn’t want to be looted in their beds, gutted from their comfortable homes. In answer, there was a rippling silence, heavy with knowledge. Then one by one, the people standing nearest began to boo, a booing which extended outward like waves. No-one, the man was told, was interested in hearing such prejudiced, mean-spirited talk. And so the man stumped home, where he vented his dissatisfaction to the hens, and blew out the lamps. Slowly, the rest of the commoners who’d gathered also began to drift home. Something big had been averted. Because of this, despite their dissatisfaction, they were proud.

  At the season’s peak, when every moment seemed paused in syrup before being allowed to continue, and the sun skeetered on the pond’s iron surface, two extra vans arrived. Seen from the uppermost window of the tallest home, so a small boy reported, these new vans looked like neatly parked hyphens. From the first of these vans came a stream of hammers, and saws, and nails, and silver jemmies, and a quantity of other carpenter tools all oiled and winking. From the second van came plyboard sheets, flat and white and gleaming with threat as new bone.

  The sinewy, teeth-flashing men of these new people began to hammer and nail and measure. They worked in lines of fours and fives, in synchronicity and in breathtaking speed, as though performing well-rehearsed movements. The original, old people-of-the-common gathered in throngs to watch and take note. Eventually, they realised that the skeleton of an outhouse was being built. With every nail driven, new life was being breathed on, flesh added to the bones. As if flint had been struck against the people-of-the-common’s souls, they realised. Unless action was taken, unless they came to, soon nothing would be the same. New structures would be built, and others, their own probably, torn down.

  All that had been protected over the period of their existence here would be destroyed – although no-one could remember quite when that had begun. One wizened old woman living by a brook that was now a trickle remembered her grandparents as they’d knitted, and smoked pipes, during a very long winter. They had often recounted stories of travelling as little children, for days, weeks, months, years even. And when they’d arrived at this spot, their grandparents, they’d said, had collapsed on the soil, crying with happiness.

  The people-of-the-common appealed to the mayor of a nearby city. Then they appealed to the main opponent of that mayor, a grizzled, wily politico in a cramped, shadowy office located at the back of the city. When the residents left, they knew they had found a solution to their problem. That week, nearly all the people-of-the-common’s grain was neatly bagged up and marked as donation to this wily opponent. It would be hard to survive without the grain, but the people-of-the-common understood this was a price worth paying. After the bags were left on the clean scrubbed steps of the city’s Big Hall, more vehicles arrived. They slid sleekly around the common’s outer grass edges. There were more than ten in number, and when they parked, their engines did not make any sound at all.

  Now the common was covered. Not one inch of space was visible. Not one blade of grass. These new trucks were black. They had C.I.T.Y. stamped on them in big, shiny grey letters. Spiked claws were at their sides like clenched hands with thorns, and flat sheets of iron at their front, to sweep away plyboard and nuts and makeshift bolts as though in a tide of water. The sort of tide that would easily edge objects from their original, truer meaning.

  At first the new people were still. They ran everywhere and nowhere. They wheeled about, giving great hollering shouts. They beat their chests. The response of a small number was to sing. Women and men opened their mouths, velvety tremolos tipping from their throats. But after they’d recovered, the new people fought. Sticks, fragile brooms, tent poles and even hairbrushes were collected, to beat off the masked and armoured men pouring from the trucks. Singeing palms, they hurled firewood with licking fire attached. But the masked figures’ armour was barely dented. Instead the firewood bounced off and flames licked at whatever was nearest. Canisters of eye-spray were aimed at adults, children, dogs, patiently waiting mules. Nothing that could be judged as alive was excluded. Hens scattered. Boots kicked at canvas tents or latrines and the grass reddened. Recognising defeat, the new people ran, scooping up shrieking children and hurling them onto whatever pick-up truck or horse was nearest. Or they dove into fields, shivering nose-down along fox dens and badger burrows, to slip silently into the night. One by one, or in packs, they disappeared.

  When the rubbish of these lives was left, a cheap-looking spangled scarf here, a ripped khaki tent there, its canvas cloth giving the appearance of a crumpled, grubby skirt, the people-of-the-common worked together. Each put in their fair share. They teamed up in pairs to cleanse the grassy area and tiny cobbled streets. Carefully, they drew out objects strewn across the surface of the pond, and plucked colourful fabric scraps from the branches of trees. They were efficient, and tireless. Not one resident stopped until all had agreed the area had been returned to its previous spotless state.

  Once the rubbish bags were removed, it was clear that the grass of the common had been starved of nourishment. Where the new people’s main structure and smaller tents had blocked the sun, the shoots were yellowed and pale. But, the old people-of-the-common remarked, how familiar the area now smelled! With relief, they agreed that it was once again familiar, an atmosphere stripped
of scents.

  For all the people-of-the-common’s efforts, one object had been overlooked. Hidden by a sheaf of burdock, with its silken fringe of dangling threads and a hole gaping in the toe, was a barely recognisable maroon-and-green child’s slipper. Only the old woman who lived by the brook spotted the slipper’s muddied tones and fraying threads. She marked its presence, until one day she marked its absence. A mother fox had taken it, the woman decided. To be tossed and caught between the glistening milk teeth of her cubs. It wouldn’t be long, the old woman nodded, before the slippers would fall apart, buried by the rich soil of the area.

  For a long time, the people-of-the-common tested the width and breadth of this new silence. They completed daily chores dazed, but with care. They said good morning to each other before nodding up at the empty bowl of sky. Pails were filled with local blueberries and roseberries, and front gardens swept clean. The communal area sparkled, once more returned to its billiard-green brilliancy. Autumn was on the horizon, and the people-of-the-common prepared for the cleaner, surer months winter would bring.

  For the summer’s remainder, the silence of the common was golden, and the silence of the common was deafening. Autumn slid by, and as winter approached, the people-of-the-common were pinned to the cloth of this silence like tiny frozen puppets.

  Eastmouth

  ALISON MOORE

  SONIA STANDS ON the slabs of the promenade, looking out across the pebbly beach. It is like so many of the seaside resorts from her childhood. She remembers one whose tarred pebbles left their sticky blackness on her bare feet and legs and the seat of her swimsuit. She had to be scrubbed red raw in the bath at the B&B. Her hands are wrapped around the railings, whose old paint is flaking off. When she lets go, her palms will smell of rust.

  The visibility is poor. She can’t see land beyond Eastmouth.

  ‘I’ve missed the sound of the gulls,’ says Peter, watching them circling overhead.

  He says this, thinks Sonia, as if he has not heard them for years, but during the time they’ve been at university, he got the train home most weekends. Sonia does not think she would have missed the gulls. She is used to the Midlands and to city life.

  She lets go of the railings and they walk on down the promenade. Sonia, in a thin, brightly coloured jacket, has dressed for warmer weather. Shivering, she huddles into herself. ‘Let’s get you home,’ says Peter. For the last half hour of their journey, while the train was pulling in and all the way from the station he’s been saying things like that: ‘We’re almost home,’ and, ‘Won’t it be nice to be home?’ as if this were her home too. Their suitcases, pulled on wheels behind them, are noisy on the crooked slabs. ‘They’ll know we’re here,’ says Peter.

  ‘Who will?’ asks Sonia.

  ‘Everyone,’ says Peter.

  Sonia, looking around, sees a lone figure in the bay window of a retirement home, and a woman in a transparent mac sitting on a bench in a shelter. Peter nods at the woman as they pass.

  ‘It’s quiet,’ says Sonia.

  ‘It’s quiet most of the year,’ says Peter.

  He points out a modernist, pre-war building just ahead of them. ‘I’ve always loved coming to see the shows,’ he says. ‘My all-time favourite act is Cannon and Ball.’ Reaching this seafront pavilion, they stop to look at the posters. ‘Look,’ says Peter, ‘Cannon and Ball.’ He is beaming, cheerful when he says, ‘Nothing changes.’

  Peter lets them into the house with a key that he wears on a chain around his neck. His mother comes into the hallway with her arms wide open, saying to Sonia as much as to Peter, ‘You’re home!’ Taking Sonia’s jacket, looking at its bright colours, she says to Sonia, ‘Blue and green should never be seen!’ and then she puts the jacket away.

  As they sit down to dinner, Peter’s mother says, ‘Sonia, what were you planning to do with your summer?’

  ‘I’ve applied for a job up north,’ says Sonia. ‘I had the interview yesterday, and I think it went well. I should hear tomorrow whether or not I’ve got it. I gave them this number – Peter said that was all right. If I get the job, I’ll save up for a while and then I want to go to Las Vegas.’ She mentions pictures she’s seen of the place, all the lights.

  ‘If you like that sort of thing,’ says Peter’s father, ‘you should take an evening stroll along our prom. You’ll see it all lit up.’ He chews his food for a while before saying, ‘It’s a lot hotter there, though. It wouldn’t suit me. We stick to England, the south coast.’

  A gust rattles the window and Sonia turns to see the wind stripping the last of the leaves from a potted shrub in the back yard.

  ‘Look,’ says Peter’s father, ‘the sun’s coming out for you,’ and he nods towards a patch of sunlight the colour of weak urine on a whitewashed, breeze-block wall.

  Peter’s mother opens the wine and says to Sonia, ‘You’ll be needing this.’ Sonia supposes she is referring to their long train journey, or perhaps the cold weather; it isn’t clear.

  ‘It’s nice to have you home,’ says Peter’s mother, later, when they are clearing the table.

  ‘I think Peter’s glad to be home,’ says Sonia.

  ‘And what about you?’

  ‘I don’t live here,’ says Sonia. She is surprised that Peter’s mother does not know this.

  ‘You didn’t grow up here,’ agrees Peter’s mother. Opening the back door, she throws the scraps into the yard and the seagulls appear out of nowhere, descending instantly, filling the yard with their shrieks. ‘Our home is your home,’ she says, as she closes the door, ‘but I do remember what it’s like to be young and independent. There are lots of empty flats around here and they always need people at the pavilion. The place is crying out for young blood.’

  ‘I wasn’t planning on staying long,’ says Sonia.

  Peter’s mother nods. She looks around the kitchen and says, ‘Well, I think that will do. I’ll go and change the sheets on your bed.’

  Their bags are side by side in the corner of Peter’s bedroom. Hers has a sticker on the side saying I Las Vegas, even though she has never been there. His has a label giving his name – Peter Webster – and his home address, his parents’ address, so that it can’t get lost.

  They go to bed early but Sonia lies awake in the darkness, in between the cold wall and Peter, who is fast asleep. She finally drops off in the early hours before being woken at dawn by what she thinks is the sound of babies crying, but it is only the gulls. She finds the noise depressing.

  Sonia, in the bathroom, doing up the belt of her jeans, can hear Peter’s mother talking on the phone at the bottom of the stairs. ‘No,’ she is saying, ‘I don’t want it. I’ve changed my mind. Please don’t call here again.’ Sonia checks her face in the mirror before coming out, finding Peter’s mother on the landing now, outside the bathroom door. ‘All right, dear?’ says Peter’s mother. ‘Come down to breakfast. I’ve made pancakes with syrup, just like they have in America!’

  Sonia stays in all day. At the end of the afternoon, at ten to five, she phones the company she had hoped would call to offer her a job. She speaks to a receptionist who says, ‘Please hold.’ Then she speaks to a secretary who tells her that the job has been offered to someone else. The secretary sounds impatient and terminates the conversation as soon as she can. Sonia redials – she has some questions to ask – but no one picks up; they’ve all gone home.

  When Sonia goes up to bed that night, she finds that the sticker on her bag has been doctored with a permanent marker. ‘Las’ has been neatly changed to ‘East’ but ‘Vegas’ required a heavier hand, a thicker line. I Eastmouth.

  The following day is Saturday. After breakfast, Sonia watches the dead-eyed gulls gathering on the wall of the yard. They grab at the scraps Peter’s mother puts out, and if the door is not kept closed they will come inside, wanting the cat food, taking more than they have been given.

 
‘I think I’ll go for a walk,’ says Sonia.

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ says Peter, beginning to get to his feet.

  ‘I’d rather go on my own,’ says Sonia. Mr and Mrs Webster stop what they are doing and look at her. They watch her as she leaves the room.

  She puts on her shoes and looks for her jacket but she can’t find it. She asks Peter’s mother if she’s seen it and Peter’s mother says, ‘I’m washing it. Wear mine.’ She takes down a heavy beige coat and helps Sonia into it. ‘Yours was too thin anyway,’ says Peter’s mother. ‘You’ll need something warmer now you’re here.’

  Sonia walks a mile along the promenade before coming to a stop, leaning on the railings and looking out to sea, watching a yellow helicopter that is circling in the distance. As a child, she used to wave to rescue helicopters even though she knew they weren’t really looking for her; she just did it for fun or for practice. She raises her hands now and waves, scissoring her arms above her head, like semaphore, as if she were someone in a high-vis jacket on a runway, although she does not know semaphore; she does not know how to say ‘stop’. The helicopter turns away and leaves.

  ‘Sonia.’

  She turns around and finds Peter’s parents standing behind her.