Litro #83 Valentine's Day Teaser

WELCOME TO ISSUE 83 OF LITRO Editor’s blurb >> Such is the struggle and strife of the lover, it’s hard to disagree with Katharine Hepburn’s droll analysis of relationships: “Sometimes I wonder if men and women really suit each other. Perhaps they should live next door and just visit now and then.”

In this special Valentine’s Day issue of Litro, we offer tales of Twisted Romance that would make Jane Austen blush and get Chaucer all hot under the collar. >> Both Chrissie Gittins’ and Kathryn Lane’s stories tell of forbidden love; desire contained and limited by the pressures of professional duty (their narrators a social worker and a teacher respectively). >> Matthew Licht, a regular Litro contributor, reports on a relationship with quite an age gap in ‘Me & My “Aunt” Doris’, and in Trilby Kent’s ‘A Fine Woman’, a loyal widower carries out his late wife’s wishes – but perhaps wishes he hadn’t… >> East End Casanova Tim Wells provides quirky but tender takes on love and romance, whilst Maggie Veness adds a touch of erotic cynicism to proceedings. >> This issue of Litro is supported by Anglo American and the BTA/ CREATIVE MEDIA Anglo Platinum Short Story Competition, which has been made possible by Beulah Thumbadoo, a champion of the written word in South Africa. “The competition seeks to engage communities to tackle issues such as illiteracy. With more than 15,000 entries over the past nine years it is doing just that. In addition, 40,000 books have been distributed free of charge as part of the initiative to enable thousands to experience the joy of reading and empower them further.”

CONTENT HOLDING PATTERN Chrissie Gittins STEAMY WINDOWS Tim Wells THE RIGHT NOTES Maggie Veness ME & MY “AUNT” DORIS Matthew Licht LONDON IN PEACE Tim Wells A FINE WOMAN Trilby Kent TWO TONGUES Kathryn Lane BTA /ANGLO PLATINUM SHORT STORY COMPETITION Budo Cartoon Strip Events LITRO IS BROUGHT TO YOU: PUBLISHER-ERIC AKOTO-OCEAN MEDIA EDITOR-TOM CHIVERS DESIGN/PRODUCTION-ANASTASIA SICHKARENKO EVENTS EDITOR-JULIE PALMER-HOFFMAN

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BY FOYLES BOOKSHOP

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HOLDING PATTERN CHRISSIE GITTINS Each day I make a sojourn. The library, the post office, the corner shop supermarket. People think they know me. There goes that old lady with the hat pulled over her glasses. The stooped one, the grim one, the frail one. They see me fumble with my change on the silver slipway at the post office counter.

“A small book of stamps, please. I usually have a large one but I want a small one today,” I say.

The assistant gives me a small book. The stamps have pictures. A union jack, fireworks, a sunflower.

“I don’t usually have these,” I say, curmudgeonly.

“They’re first class. It’s a book of six first class,” he says gently and with patience.

“I haven’t had these before.” I count out the money and let it rattle onto the metal tray. Turning away I mumble, “It’s a terrible terrible life.” This usually throws them off the scent.

Back home, front door locked, I hang up my coat, put my glasses back in their case, and slip into my bootleg jeans.

They’re more aerodynamic than a flapping woollen coat.

Some days I pack sandwiches, some days I simply drink in the rare air, the striations on hillsides, the sudden edge of wind-blown water on a glistening lake. Either way I always hitch on my daysack with its sunblock supply, bottle of still water and a packet of post-it notes.

Flying used to be just part of the job. Had to be done.

Now I take the utmost pleasure. The rush of air, divine topography, the jewel lights of a car tracing the bends of a lane at midnight. It’s a privilege. Anyone who tells you otherwise is a fool.

Take yesterday. I took off from Walthamstowe. By ten I was over the meanders of Cuckmere Haven. They’re even 4

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STEAMY WINDOWS TIM WELLS I’ve been sporting my bins a while now. A matter of months and they’ve not steamed up once. This concerns me. I thought that I lived a Carry On life, one with a fair dash of sauce, but not once has a peek of cleavage or a peep of arse caused any condensation at all. I feel cheated; by opticians, by circumstance, by life.

In my boyhood it seemed that Charles Hawtrey’s fogged like the inside of a Turkish Bath every time a winsome young thing bent over. I remark upon this to a bespectacled friend. One who has worn them for years rather than my paltry months. He says that walking into a warm pub from cold weather has done it for him. For several weeks of a ‘tatoes Spring I walk into a variety of pubs, East End, West End, even across the river. Lunchtime, evening, night… nothing happens. I hunch face down over my usual lager top. I try brandy, whiskey and work my way across the top shelf. Nish.

My girlfriend notes my frustration, as she is wont to do.

She holds my hand and tells me reassuringly that it’ll happen for me. It doesn’t. Perhaps I’ve been looking in the wrong places?

I phone her from work and tell her I’m going to the Olde Axe. That’s the best strip pub that East London has to offer, best in my parlance being the one where your shoes stick to the carpet, the girls have stretch marks, bruises and it’s tears before bedtime.

A couple of hours later; nothing… lager top, arses, salt and vinegar crisps, tits, bad jokes, pussies, a pickled egg and a girl who makes her arsehole wink just inches from my face, which, to be honest, I could have done without. Nothing.

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When I get home she clocks my boat and can tell I’m not best pleased. All the same she asks hopefully how it went.

I dejectedly shake my head. She tells me that she’s sure the former Soviet Bloc girls tried their very best for me.

She takes both my hands, leans into my face and haaaaahs a gentle breath into my face. There! The glasses mist a fine dew of her whisper. She lifts her index finger and writes her initials onto the lenses. Her first upon the left, the next onto the right in what, to her, must be mirror writing.

“What can you see?” she asks.

Oh yes, I love you and you love me.

THE RIGHT NOTES MAGGIE VENESS Rain is driving against the windows of the bar, but tonight I couldn`t care less. I`ve shrugged off my wet coat and I`m sipping a glass of ruby red, listening to dry wood popping in the fire. Jen`ll be joining me soon.

I wait in secret anticipation of the dark eyed mysterious pianist who`s been playing his way deeper into my heart every Friday, from ten.

In my fantasy world there are no lonely nights, frozen dinners, romance novels or empty letterboxes come Valentine`s. Under this dim lighting my skin appears buff and unblemished, my hair naturally blonde. I slip into my fantasy like a warm bath.

He appears right on time, moving like a sleek animal, sliding into position on the stool, skin the colour of burnt caramel and hair shiny as jet. He prepares himself, fingers brushing tenderly across the keys like a lover, and my belly squeezes and burns. I hold my breath, praying Jen won`t arrive just yet.

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ME & MY “AUNT” DORIS MATTHEW LICHT She wasn’t really my aunt. Maybe her name wasn’t really Doris, I don’t know. She was one of my mother’s friends, and my mother had lots of friends. They’d come over, drink, blab. Usually the party went on all night. Aunt Doris used to come into my room to make sure I was still alive. Sometimes she flopped on my cot and told me a story. She smelled of booze and perfume and something else, something I liked. Aunt Doris’ stories were on the short and dirty side, but they were the only ones I got.

Since home life was the way it was, I stayed in school, hit the library when school let out. School plus library equals college scholarships. You better believe I went to college.

College was OK. A week before graduation, I got a phone call from Aunt Doris. I hadn’t heard from her in a long time. She said she was coming up for a visit. Nobody else ever came to visit me at College. I braced for first-degree embarrassment.

Aunt Doris showed up at the wheel of a cherry-red custom convertible. She had a white scarf around her hairdo and big sunglasses. She looked like a movie star from Hollywood, which is exactly where she drove from.

She parked liked she never really learned to drive. Maybe she’d been drinking. When she stepped out of the car, she went from Hollywood movie star to dorm room smoker babe. Aunt Doris was 50 pounds lighter than the last time I saw her, but none of the weight loss was from hips, keister or bosom. The pounds took 10 years with them. Suddenly I was extremely glad my Aunt Doris had come to see me.

She hugged me a lot closer, a lot longer, kissed me on the mouth a little deeper than a real aunt would have. That was OK too. Slight booze breath, but no cheap perfume when she raised her arms to wrap them around my neck.

The smell I liked was still there.

“Wow,” she said slowly, moving her lips like this was her big glamorous close-up in a silent movie. “Look at you. My little boy’s a handsome man.”

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LONDON IN PEACE TIM WELLS The sunshine slaps my shadow across Hanbury Street.

There’s a skip to my step as the latest old song Grabs me by the ears and snogs me hard And London is in loooooove.

The slivers strewn and the sick spewn Are testament to every rampant lust That bowl around Hawksmoor’s towering prick.

We can touch the sky for but a moment Before we smack back to the earth of this succulent city.

On the 25, the dippers fleece the crush, At Shadwell, a knife finds a home.

The art students make neither art nor study.

The phungas do as much nothing as they can.

Today I will say hello in any one of five languages.

I will be cursed in English. I will be blessed by G-d.

The girls who sits with me in the office Took the hijab after the last bomb.

She knows now that any moment might be final.

The rumble didn’t reach the Vibe Bar. Who knows when the records will scratch For the last drink, the last dance, The last kiss, the last night, Th Tim Wells is the editor of poetry fanzine Rising, lives in North-East London and is doing very well.

His Boys’ Night Out in the Afternoon was nominated for the Forward Prize for Best First Collection. He joins Phill Jupitus and others for an evening of words, music and words about music on 9th March at Bethnal Green Working Men’s Club.

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A FINE WOMAN TRILBY KENT So here they were. Sidney clasped the remaining ounces of what had once been his darling, his Freya, and let the brass knocker fall against the door.

Seven years ago, he had stood at Provideniya and scattered his wife’s ashes into the Bering Strait. It had been the first stop on a tour that had taken in the Grand Canyon, a rooftop bar in Tijuana, and the Miraflores lock overlooking the Panama Canal. Portions of her had been released to the heavens from atop Chichen Itza and cast out to flutter among the moai at Easter Island. He had sprinkled her into the spangled waters that slapped against their boat somewhere between St. Helena and Tristan da Cunha. He had watched her swirl about his ankles above Lake Victoria; he had released her into Nile; he had made his pilgrimage up the Appian Way before casting her upon the Senate steps to mingle with Caesarian blood. Now she floated among the hyacinths below the water palace at Jaipur, settled into the crevices of the Great Wall, haunted the frozen magma peaks at Hanging Rock. He had done his best to secure her presentation to the King of Tonga.

When this had failed – and it had been, he told himself, the only disappointment in the entire journey – he had entrusted part of her to the care of a Methodist clergyman in Nukualofa.

There was no response to his knock, and Sidney took a moment to consider the house before him. It was an inelegant hybrid of styles: Scottish baronial updated with touches of Nouveau and Deco, postwar reconstruction to the façade, a neglected walled garden trimmed with chicken wire. From an adjoining field, several sheep gazed at him with marble eyes. It had taken him almost three hours driving over muddy carriageways and rutted country lanes to arrive at this place.

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Trilby Kent is 26 years-old and a graduate of Oxford University and the LSE. She has written for the Canadian national press as well as for publications in Belgium, England and the US. Her short stories have appeared in Mslexia and The African American Review. Her first children’s novel will be published in 2009 by McClelland&Stewart. She teaches creative writing and is a founding member of books blog VulpesLibris.

TWO TONGUES KATHRYN LANE Sitting in the staff room in the morning, I am desperately trying to mark my way through a pile of Year 9 books which I dragged all the way home last night, dumped in a corner, and dragged back untouched here this morning. I hurriedly take bites of muffin and scalding swigs of coffee, as the clock shows my dwindling `free time’. The volume of the variegated babble around me rises and so does my stress level. Busy though my hands are I’ve acquired the brand new nervous habit of worrying at the ring on the fourth finger of my left hand with my thumb. The habit is new because the ring has only been on my finger since Guy proposed last night. No one’s noticed -- why would they?

I pick up Brad Booth’s exercise book from the pile and flick through it in a fruitless search for the homework.

The bell rings and I want to scream. But at least, thank goodness, I have my sixth form first thing, that is, the ones who have chosen to study French beyond the age of sixteen. They are almost human.

I walk from the staff room to my classroom, register my form, and then I spend some precious minutes alone in the silent empty room. I use the time to wade through more fourth-form books while the sixth formers dribble in.

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COMPETITION “ THE FOLLOWING STORIES ARE FROM THE WINNER AND THE RUNNERS UP OF THE BTA /ANGLO PLATINUM SHORT STORY COMPETITION. A selection of the winners from the 2008 BTA/ Anglo Platinum short story competition- permission rights have been made possible by Beulah Thumbadoo info @ www.angloplatshortstory.com Illustrations by Emily Atkins

FINDING JOE CYNTHIA JELE – 1ST PLACE WINNER I woke up that summer morning to the warm air blowing lazily out of the portable fan by my bedside. It was only seven but the sweltering heat made sleeping beyond that time impossible. Several warnings of heatstroke were reported on the news weather; citizens were advised to stay indoors and avoid heavy physical labour during daytime.

Newspaper headlines ran wild with heat related fatalities: Two more deaths attributed to heatstroke, One year old dies from heat exposure. Mother in custody, Farm workers hospitalized after workinq in above 35 deqree temperatures in Limpopo. As the result of the severe hot weather, the two local schools let out two weeks early as neither was equipped with air conditioners or fans.

I switched off the fan and lay staring outside the window, contemplating what to do with the day ahead. There wasn’t much to do for a fifteen year old at Mandulq, a small stopover railway town of several thousand residents in the KwaZulu-Natal midlands. The town square-a line of shops consisting of Cheap-A-Lot supermarket, Discount Mart Clothing Store, J & J Fish & Chips, Grand Bottle Store & Tavern, a host of shops operated by foreigners, and a one pump gas station-provided the only source of employment and entertainment for the citizens of Mandulo. The railway line was once the largest source of employment, however after a bigger and more accessible line was built 36

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COMPETITION

Billboard Smile RUMBI KATEDZA – 2ND PLACE WINNER The breathless opulence and sheer majesty of the “solid stone palace mesmerised her. Countless people welcomed her as she entered. The young, bright-eyed girl had travelled long and far to get here, and now she realised it had been worth the journey. She had found something better than anything she ever could have imagined. She had found paradise...

For Netsai, Harare was a bustling metropolis that welcomed the exodus of people in search of fortune and a chance for survival. She squeezed her way off the rickety old bus as it came to a grinding halt at Mbare Bus Terminus. Several touts offered to carry her tattered plastic bag full of her worldly belongings, while others stuck bunches of bananas and roasted mealies in her face, in the hopes of relieving her of any money she might have come to spend in the big city.

She clutched her bag close to her chest and searched the crowded area for the landmark billboard her schoolmate Dadirai had written about in the many letters she had sent since leaving the mission school they had attended together. For months they had communicated about the day Netsai would catch the bus to Harare.

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COMPETITION

The Deal MARTHA EVANS – 3RD PLACE WINNER The restaurant, with its red-velvet carpet and whiteuniformed waiters, had remnants of grandeur. It had once been the smartest place in town, and with Beira looking more like Beirut these days it probably still was. Sonja couldn’t help noticing how the venue fell just short of posh. The cutlery was silver, but the napkins were paper.

The chandelier, though genuine crystal, was missing a light bulb, and there was a general air of damp.

“Well this is quite something!” She looked around the room and gave a slight flourish with her wrists. It wasn’t a complete lie.

“Good choice, Sonja,” her colleague Don backed her up. “Shall we?” He ushered the group to a table in the middle of the room.

Sonja had done her research, choosing the expensive Pique-Nique over the popular but more informal Johnny’s Place - the two restaurants listed in the Brandt Guide to Mozambique. This was, after all, a business meeting, and wooing, whether romantic or corporate, required the same ingredients: alcohol, candlelight and money.

“Sonja le Roux.” She held out her hand confidently to the three Mozambican men and introduced Don before trying out a bit of Portuguese: “Como se chama?”

The Mozambicans replied in English, grasping Sonja’s hand and nodding politely. She made a mental note of their names as everybody took their seats.

An elderly waiter, who looked as though he’d worked in the restaurant all his life, welcomed them with a series of submissive bows and placed some toothpicks and a bowl of hard green olives on the table.

Sonja smiled as she opened the conversation. “Beira is a very interesting city.”

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ANGLO AMERICAN CASE STUDY: Anglo American is one of the world’s leading mining companies with operations in over 40 countries. As a major producer of platinum, iron ore, coal and base metals and the owner of Tarmac in the UK, our products are essential for the world’s economy. Our many awardwinning sustainable development programmes make us an acknowledged leader in responsible mining. So, for example, we were the first major employer in Africa to introduce a large-scale, free HIV counselling, testing and anti-retroviral treatment programme for our employees.

Today our HIV programmes are the largest run by any company, and in 2008 we set a new benchmark by extending free testing and treatment to the dependents of our employees.

We have also led the way in small business development programmes, which are designed to enable local people to benefit from the many business opportunities created by modern mining. Anglo’s South African support for black entrepreneurs started in the late 1980s, and today we support over 200 businesses that currently sustain 10,000 jobs. New programmes in South America have created a further 3,000 jobs. We are also pioneering environmental innovation. Anglo’s coal mines in South Africa, for example, have pioneered technologies that enable polluted mine water to be treated to drinking water standards in an area where potable water is scarce. As a result, we now supply 20% of the drinking water in the city of Witbank.

Through initiatives such as these, and through dozens of others around the world, our goal is to leave a lasting positive legacy for the communities in which we operate.

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EVENTS February 5 Claire Tomalin, on Samuel Pepys, at St Olave’s Church, EC3R 7NB, 3pm; call 020 7488 4318 for ticket details Obama and the Empire of Liberty: featuring Cambridge historian David Reynolds at the LSE Hong Kong Theatre, 6.30pm 9 Feb–4 March Imagine: Children’s Literature Festival at the Southbank Centre 10 The Interesting Bits About Love and History, featuring Justin Pollard, author of The Interesting Bits: The History You Might Have Missed, at Waterstone’s Notting Hill Gate, 7pm 12 Litro Live! Sebastian Horsley, Richard Milward, Lavinia Greenlaw and Eugene Skeef perform at the Café at Foyles, 6pm Single Nation: Explore the culture of singlehood with Guardian and Observer columnists Emily Hill and Kathryn Flett, marital therapist and author of The Single Trap Andrew G Marshall, and Whatever Makes You Happy author William Sutcliffe; ICA, 7pm Suzanne Portnoy – Live and Unleashed: The sex blogger and erotic writer of The Butcher, the Baker, the Candlestick Maker reads from her memoirs and previews her upcoming live show, Waterstone’s Notting Hill Gate, 7pm Readings from Dickens Love Scenes, at the Dickens Museum – to which we say, Dickens wrote love scenes? Call the museum for ticket details.

14 The Satanic Verses: Twenty Years On; Nadeem Aslam, Hani Kureishi and Geoffrey Robertson read from and discuss the Salman Rushdie novel at the National Theatre, 12.30pm Valentine storytelling: Family event featuring the Babylonian love story of Tammuz and Ishtar, at the British Museum, 12, 1.30 and 3pm 16 Words on Monday: North and South, featuring British poets in conversation about the geographical divisions in UK poetry. Curated by Poet in the City; Kings Place, 7pm 17 How to Make Good Decisions and Be Right All the Time, talk by author Iain King, at the London Review Bookshop, 7pm Susie Orbach, discusses her latest book, Bodies, at the Southbank Centre, 7.45pm 18 Too Little, Too Late: The Politics of Climate Change, book launch and talk with MP Colin Challen, Housmans, 7pm Ladies, Libertines and Lovers, featuring writers Ian Kelly and Hallie Rubenhold, Waterstone’s Notting Hill Gate, 7pm Ruth Padel, great-great-granddaughter of Charles Darwin, reads from Darwin: A Life in Poems and discusses her poetry collection with Esther Freud, great-granddaughter of Sigmund; Southbank Centre, 7.45pm 19 Allan Ginsberg: a tribute commemorating the 30th anniversary of the Beat poet’s performance at Royal Albert Hall, at the National Portrait Gallery, in association with Poet in the City and Jewish Book Week, 6.30pm

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EVENTS 21 Feb– 1 March Jewish Book Week: line-up includes Simon Schama, Alain de Botton, Jonathan Miller, Eva Hoffman, Amos Oz and Lisa Jardine, during a week-long festival of events at the Royal National Hotel 23 Josephine Hart Poetry Hour: Philip Larkin, British Library, 6.30pm 24 Alastair Crooke, discussing Resistance: The Essence of the Islamist Revolution, at the London Review Bookshop, 7pm 25 Apples and Snakes presents Ty at the Soho Theatre, 8pm LSE Space for Thought Literary Weekend, with 27 Feb–1 March a line-up that includes Iain Sinclair, Will Self, Victoria Glendinning, Michael Holroyd, Patrick Ness, Meg Rosoff, Mohsin Hamid, Antony Gormley, Martin Rowson and Hans Ulrich Obrist; times and venues on LSE campus vary

March 5 World Book Day Mingle, singles’ event at the British Library, featuring the ‘speed book club’, 7pm Jill Dawson, reading from and discussing her novel The Great Lover; Southbank Centre, 7.45pm 11 ‘A Building for Now and the Future: The British Library After 10 Years’, talk & discussion at the British Library, 6.30pm Dickens and the Beers of Dickens’s Day: Beer tasting at the Dickens Museum; call museum for ticket details 14 Shape of the Dance: to mark publication of a collection of poet Michael Donaghy’s collected essays and interviews, with a discussion of his literary and artistic criticism alongside his poetry; Southbank Centre, 4pm 16 The Divided Self: Poetry and Mental Distress, part of the Words on Monday series at King’s Place and curated by Poet in the City, 7pm; 17 Iain Sinclair, Hackney, That Rose-Red Empire: an evening of readings and film inspired by Sinclair’s new book, Southbank Centre, 7.45pm READ/WRITE Visit www.litro.co.uk to: >> Access the entire LITRO archive online – the issues are laid out for easy printing on A4 paper. >> Sign up to eLITRO – monthly LITRO stories straight to your inbox. >> Find out how you can submit your own writing to the magazine. >> Complete and up-to-date event listings, including links to event websites. >>To list an event in Litro, please e-mail eventseditor@litro.co.uk.

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