Something Was There . . .

by Various, Kate Pullinger

Genres: Short Stories

Synopsis

The latest stunning collection of short stories, including the winning entry of the 2011 Asham Short Stories Award, which was set up 1995 to encourage and promote new writing. It is the only short story competition whose winners and runners-up are published alongside some of our best known women writers. Past collections have included specially commissioned stories by Carol Shields, Michele Roberts, Barbara Trapido, Patricia Duncker, Helen Simpson, Helen Dunmore, Deborah Moggach. Margaret Atwood and A.L. Kennedy.

This year's theme is Ghosts and Gothic and will be judged by authors Sarah Waters and Polly Samson and Virago publisher Lennie Goodings.

Release date: September 1, 2011

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 224

Sample

Oh, we do love a shivering, spooky ghost story. It is utterly delicious to have the hair on the back of our necks rise in fear and anxiety. And the suspense … We know we are about to be surprised, but we don’t know from around which corner the dénouement will leap. What will be revealed? What truth was hidden from us? Who will be behind it all? We hold our breath.

We held our breath when we fixed on the theme of Ghost and Gothic for this new collection of Asham short stories, the first published in conjunction with Virago. There has never been a set theme before and we wondered – would we receive stories of the calibre, the range, the excitement that has characterised previous Asham Award-winning collections?


We were wrong to worry. We were overwhelmed with stories by marvellous new writers who took this theme and made it their own.

We chose the Ghost and Gothic theme in honour of Sarah Waters, one of our three judges, who has only recently published the wonderful and decidedly unsettling ghostly novel, The Little Stranger (from which the title of this book comes). Aside from me, Publisher of Virago, our other judge was Polly Samson, whose brilliant short story collection, Perfect Lives, has been wildly praised. So between these two writers with their impressive knowledge, expertise and flair, the entries we received were going to be seriously scrutinised.


Asham received six hundred stories for this competition and shortlisted forty-four of them which were passed to us judges. It was our job to whittle the list down to the twelve stories which you find in this collection and to choose a first, second and third place. It was difficult! We kept shortlisting and reading each other’s choices until, over a lunch in Clerkenwell with stories spread across the restaurant table, we hammered out our list.

Is Ghost and Gothic a good female form? Certainly this collection shows that women thrilled to the theme. There is a huge range of emotional responses: here are tales that are poignant, droll, loving and of course puzzling, mysterious and frightening. Some set in London houses, one under an Indian bridge, another in a magical forest. What was especially gratifying was to find subtle, insinuating stories.

I think what did surprise all of us was that our first prize winner – unanimously chosen – is dryly funny. ‘All Over the Place’ by Linda McVeigh brings an unexpected twist to a genre that is already taut with the unexpected. We took huge delight in this story. Our second place winner is ‘Sam Brown’ by Kate Morrison, a chilling tale about young men on the cusp of adulthood at Oxford, and our third is ‘The Traveller’ by Fiona Law, a beautiful and haunting story about love and mothering. Even though it isn’t required, we chose a very worthy Honourable Mention with Gabriella Blandy’s ‘The Courting’, an eerie futuristic story.

It is the tradition of Asham to commission published writers to add to the collection. We are very lucky to be able to include brand-new ghost stories by Naomi Alderman, Kate Clanchy and Polly Samson. And as an extra-special treat – a recently discovered story by Daphne du Maurier.

Huge thanks go to Carole Buchan at Asham and to her sponsors, Much Ado Books of Alfriston, East Sussex; the Booker Prize Foundation and the Garrick Trust. Special thanks to Kate Pullinger who has so nimbly edited the new writers.

Now, dim the light, make fast the door – and settle down for some serious chills with this ghostly gothic collection.


Lennie Goodings

I’ve got a tale that will freeze the hairs on your balls, sir, if you’ll pardon the word. Will you sit, sir? The best chair is the red plush close by the fire. I’ll spin it out for you, sir, but stop me please, if I vex you by too much detail. The ladies call me Clappertrap for that my mouth claps up and down so! I was glad to come here, sir. Glad when I heard you wanted a tale and no more. Is it true? It will be a rest for me, sir. Thank you, sir. My name? I beg your pardon, sir. My name’s Willa, sir – Willa Jenkins, if you please. I am considered second in this house, Belle Whiley being the first, if you care to know. I know you are from out of town.

It happened two years ago, sir, when I had not long started out in my … trade. In the summer time, which is odd as I thought ghosts were most at home in the cold, dark weather – winter – Christmas most of all. As I’ve heard. At least, that was the preference of Mr Charles Dickens and that mad American fellow, Mr Poe, whose tales we all have heard a while since. How sir? Why, it’s kind of you to ask. There’s a teacher, sir, reads tales to us of a Sunday evening in the gin shop. There’s precious few of us bang-tails that can read, you see, sir. Even the labels on our medicines, sir, we have to ask Mr Dutton – that’s the teacher I mean, sir – to read to us. I’m one of the lucky ones, having been to Sunday school when I was a girl, though my education was cut short, as you will hear.

More wine, sir? Or a little brandy? Fill your glass, sir. Make free. Shall I go on with my story now, sir? Please be comfortable. Unlace my bodice? Of course, sir, if you wish. You have paid good money for my time.

The weather had been sultry all week, but the storm we expected didn’t break. We bang-tails of Eden Place found that pesky inconvenient. You see, sir, we had at that time no place of our own. We kipped down for the night roped together on hard chairs at Ma Coffin’s shakedown, leaning against each other’s shoulders to sleep, which we did fitfully. It’s hard on the older ones – and by ‘older’ I mean over thirty. It’s a tough life when you begin servicing the gentlemen most likely at the tender age of twelve or thirteen. Most that live hard, as we did, don’t make it past forty and are glad when dancing days are over. ‘A blessed release’, Ma Coffin calls it, whenever one of our number turns up dead in a ditch, or an alleyway … or a gin shop. But I mustn’t bore you, sir, with our domestic details.

So, as I say, the weather had been sultry. We were sticking to our dresses like rotten meat to brown paper, we stank of our own sweat and each other’s, and our hair hung in greasy ringlets. The horse trough where we normally washed, by the coaching inn, the Four Corners, was reduced to a filthy puddle and we had to make do with a bowl and a rag. When evening came and time to go about our business, we avoided the street lamps, stuck to the shadows. We weren’t a pretty sight. Not that the gentlemen who crossed our palms with silver (copper for the older gals) were taking much time to look as they made their choices. You laugh, sir – I am glad to entertain you.

That kind of weather makes them hot under the collar – and at the groin – you see. The younger gentlemen who come in their droves. They come on strong, hard and quick. Thankfully. Unless you’ve got the ‘arther’ in your hips or a busted back. In which case you hope for a limp one with muscles like jellied eels …

Much like my da … But you don’t want to hear about my troubles, sir. They’re common to many. ’Tis the lot of women, as they say, to pay for the sins of Eve. And what can we say? We have an answer, sir, but no reason to waste our breath giving it, for they do not listen. Enough to say I was an orphan, fostered by a childless couple, and ran away when I was just shy of my fourteenth birthday. Out the front door in the middle of the night, down to the turnpike. Turned my first trick with the landlord of the turnpike inn for my ticket to London. He was an angel compared to my da. Handled me real gentle, knowing it was my first time, when he could have done anything, with me being so desperate for my escape. An angel, sir, much like yourself. I’m glad of the rest, sir, in this warm parlour. It’s rare, sir, for a gentleman to take it easy at an assignation such as this. I thank you, sir. The wine is warming me nicely.

We first noticed Red Branwen standing on the corner under the pie-shop awning where we used to shelter when it rained. We weren’t too bothered, to be honest, sir. She wasn’t much to look at, pock-marked in the face and shuffling along like an old crone. She was a sorry sight. It was Straw-hair Poll, bless her – you saw her just now as you came in – she that wore the purple gown with the lace collar and smiled at you – who first went over to ask her name and whether she wanted to stand with us for protection. There’s safety in numbers, ’specially when the bad men come, sir. Those as use their fists, or worse. Sometimes you get first-timers who are well over the ripe age for the work – widows, beaten wives who’ve run away from home, you get the picture, sir. They don’t last long. We warn them off when we see they have a chance of a better life. The others, we tolerate.

Poll wasn’t above a minute talking to the poor soul. ‘Says her name’s Branwen,’ she told us. ‘Wants to know if we mind sharing our patch with her for a bit. Says she’ll only be here but a day or two … ’ Poll put her pretty head to one side and gave us her secretive look. We leaned in close, the smell of our bodies making a sort of womanly fog around our conversation. ‘She’s a poor, ugly soul: sore, red eyes, carroty red hair, freckles all over her face – at least in all the spots where there ain’t no mark of the pox. Shouldn’t think she’s no competition to us. Leave her be would be my advice, ladies.’ We looked at one another and nodded in unison. ‘She asked for you, child,’ Poll added, turning to me. ‘Send the young one to me with your answer, she said. She’s taken a shine to you, but be careful – there’s sometimes evil in that.’

As I crossed the street and drew near to Red Branwen, as Poll had christened the new arrival, it was as if the sun suddenly drew behind a cloud, though the light was an even dirty-yellow colour from the gas-lamps. I shivered and pulled my old gray shawl tight about my shoulders. She was standing there, still as a statue under the awning, waiting for me, and I caught a flash of her red eyes as she turned her head to me. They went through me like a knife through butter, sir, and I felt the torture of her life, sir, if you get my meaning, though I knew not a thing about her at that time. It was only later that I learned her story …

‘The girls say to tell you welcome and you’re not to mind us. Do what you have to, and if you like, you’re bid to join us for a glass of gin and a bite of bread and cheese at Ma’s after we’re done. And if you’ve nowhere to sleep, you’re welcome to an end chair, if you’ve a farthing on you. What do you say?’ I took all my little speech at a rush, still a mite shy, being only fourteen and a mere child to the other women. Red Branwen stared into me with her red eyes for a good while, and then nodded up and down slowly, her eyes never leaving my face. It was uncanny, I can tell you. She smiled as if she knew me. As if she was proud of me. Even then. Of course, now that it’s all happened … Well, I shiver whenever I think of it.

More wine, sir? Thanks. The sofa? Of course, if you wish, sir. Am I lying just as you prefer? Am I shown to advantage? I’m sorry for the holes in my stockings. I shall buy some new with the money you have given me. Red, sir – I always wear red. In memory of that time …

Well, I worked hard that night we saw Red Branwen. Back and forth to the alley-way I was, for I had promised Poll I would take half her gentlemen, her being with child and all, and her legs swollen and her back aching. Oh yes, sir! We whores have our own peculiar code of honour, you should believe it! Well, my point is I had no time to see how Red Branwen fared. Or who or what she occupied herself with. And the other girls were busy too, with it being so sultry. Only Mags did say she saw her with two different gentlemen, in conversation, and that she was absent from the street from time to time. We never saw her leave, and after that night we never saw her again on the street. She vanished into the night, and no one knew where she came from, or where she went …

My frock, sir? Of course, if that is your wish. Yes, sir – a red petticoat always. It’s my way of remembering, as I said before. Ah! Here comes Mags with our supper! Bless you, my dear. Set it down on the small table and I shall serve this kind gentleman. You look tired, Mags. By all means go to bed. I shall be along when our business here is satisfactorily concluded. Good night, dear, and God bless …

A good girl, Mags, sir. We have all known one another for a long time and learned to trust … Would lay down our lives for our crew … The world may call us scum and other vile names, sir, but we look out for our friends.

Apologies, sir. The tale is past half done. Yes. I remember my last customer that sultry night: a sailor he was, and one of my regulars. He once gave me an ivory bracelet all the way from Africa. He took his time with me, but was straightforward and only wanted the usual. He put his arm about my shoulder as we came out of the alley entrance, so I didn’t see at first what was lying there. But then he took away his arm to search in his pocket for coins … It was a man’s corpse, sir, all bloodied, and the hands and tongue and private parts cut off and placed on the belly, like a centre-piece on a dining table. Well, I screamed at first, but when I’d done screaming I began to laugh. It was a strange sight, sir. My sailor put his hand over my mouth, but I bit him hard and let my laughter rip. It was Poll who came in the end and shook me by the shoulders until I became quiet as a lamb and pointed to where it lay.

The girls called for help from the constable, who chased us all off home to Ma Coffin’s and we heard no more until next morning, when Ma came to bring us our bread and milk and told us the rest.

You may place your hands where you wish, sir, if it adds to your temporary contentment. And press too – but gently, if you will, or I shall doubtless become inflamed with desire and you shall be deprived of the end of my tale. Yes, a pity – that’s right, sir! It woul. . .