Summer 2021
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Editorial Fifteen years ago I worked for the first time with a group of enthusiastic sixth formers on the inaugural issue of the new-look Piccalilli, a magazine that was to combine high-quality creative writing with reviews, articles on literary matters and superb artwork in an attractive, well-designed format, professionally printed. On rare occasions an issue has not come together successfully, but over these fifteen years we have usually brought out two magazines annually, in summer and winter editions. We have included searching interviews with dozens of visiting poets; insightful and challenging reviews of theatre at the College and further afield; engaging pieces of travel writing; clever, perceptive translations; and extraordinary poetry and fiction from all year groups. Each year has seen a new editorial team convene, and it has been tremendously rewarding to work with these dedicated, energetic students and brilliant editors in bringing the magazine together, witnessing how these teams together make decisions, solve problems, promote innovation, defend their views, and compromise. Each meeting is a seminar in co-operation, conversation and commitment. This summer I oversee my final issue; as always, it has been a pleasure and a privilege to work on Piccalilli. MJP
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Christopher Friis
Magpie Little magpie; widow warner, harlequin bird, feathered black and white mime calls out to the wood in a smoker’s rattle or a jackal’s cough. Mischief and weddings, the warning of a sickly spring or just soft blue eggs in the grass, you have been marked: Harbinger. There is the bird which knows its own self in the mirror. You hold the knowledge in that black beady eye, and no wonder we thought you could reveal the trauma we would have to swallow. Humanity in feathers and emerald and indigo, so smart, and chasing everything that glitters to eat tinfoil and make their insides shine. The oracles’ bird of choice. Sung in nursery rhyme by the old wiccan, wise women who knew you like they knew their own blood, talked to you as they gathered their herbs at dusk, left a shining scrap on the path. The children of the children of the children of the women who taught how to count and predict the next bend on the road, still whisper-chant in our exhales as the bus weaves between hedgerows with a glimpse of the slick black and white and your peacock-ore gloss. Their fear doesn’t faze me, just adds to the beauty, the aurora-toned glimmer and winged freedom I crave. I won’t shrink if you come to my window but leave it wide open. Come little thief, tell me my fate. Fleur Halstead
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A Family Affair: A Play for Voices An Extract Jasmine I’m not hungry. I push the food round my plate on the edge of my knife. I didn’t have lunch either, but I’m still not hungry. I can’t think of anything else, only how I’m going to break the news to them. I didn’t get in. I wasn’t expecting to, but they were. They thought that I was fine, sailing through my exams, coming out with solid grades and then off to a good uni. I mean, what gives them any right to assume anything about me? They don’t know me. They pretend to know me, my life, my issues. I start to imagine their responses to the news. Dad will shout at me. Actually, Dad very rarely shouts, only when Annabelle gets paint on the stairs, or when work goes badly. I look at him now. He’s obliviously eating the food, head down, so that the faint grey streaks are starting to show through his dark hair. He looks happy, I guess. Well, he doesn’t look sad. I wouldn’t quite say happy. There are ladders of wrinkles on his forehead, more than there used to be. There’s a smudge of grease on his right cheek, put there after he attempted to fix Sophia’s bike this evening. His chin is greying and could do with a shave, and his eyes are dull, not as bright as they once were. In all honesty, he looks more tired than happy. Mum would definitely scream at me. She has no issue doing that. Almost poetically on cue, Annabelle and Sophia start yelling at each other. Annabelle’s reedy voice screams ‘I didn’t take it!’ while Soph takes her usual sarcastic line, retorting ‘Oh, right, so I guess it walked out of my room and into your purse.’ It’s actually a nice distraction from my pressing dilemma, so I sit back and watch for a bit. It’s hilarious, watching Annabelle’s piggy face turn an unnatural red, and seeing Sophia lose that ‘cool, unbothered girl’ act. Mum’s voice echoes out over their screams. We all stare at her shocked. She looks like a mad woman, her hair is flung out in all directions as she jerks her head from left to right, screaming insults at the girls. She finishes yelling and stands there, daring us to speak. Sophia looks at her for a good minute, with such an odd expression on her face, I thought she was about to cry. Then she stands up, flips the chair and storms out of the room. Secretly, I am quite pleased with her. Chair flipping was always a speciality of mine and I’m glad to see I’ve passed on my knowledge. We all now sit in silence. I try to stop awkwardly gazing at mum, so I look outside. It’s pitch black, so there’s nothing I’m going to see outside. A glimpse of white distracts me I can just make out Sophia’s face up on the roof. Now, it hits me. My plan. If I tell them I didn’t get into college, I’ll be out on my own too. Not just on the roof, but in the world. When she wants to be, Mum is merciless. Today it was Sophia who let her down. If I can avoid letting her down, I will. And in this particular situation, I can. It’s not lying, it’s just…not telling. What’s wrong with that? Maddy Smith
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Kai Jackson
Hate The turnkey perceived that I was speaking to deaf ears. The patient beast lay loose, stabled on some straw; chest heaving as veins popped from his neck. They wore suits, he’d said, not police uniforms. My mother says ‘Hate is a strong word.’ It all started when I heard the screeching of the rubbish lorry and there I was, running downstairs, rage boiling through me. My nerves of steel quavered as I waited in the fresh breeze for them to come. I repeated the same five words over and over: ‘May cause drowsiness or dizziness’. In the distance, a murder of crows flew overhead, and the town throbbed with the song of death. Lara Rusinov
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The Story of a Waitress Extract from a short story A grey-haired couple left, muttering their thanks and leaving nothing but a few pound coins in the plastic cheque basket. It was that awkward time of day; too late for lunch, too early for supper, and the restaurant was completely empty - apart from Olivia and Tony. Early darkness clung to the windows, exaggerating the bright white lighting. Olivia wiped down the checked red and white tablecloths and plastic chairs, tugging down her ketchup-stained apron over her uniform short black skirt. She glanced at the time and sighed; there was still one hour left of her shift. Four men walked in. The tallest led, his dark hair and thick shoulders towering over his body, his stomach muscles exaggerated by the tight t-shirt he wore, though it was December. The others followed, all of them young, their tracksuits tight and dirty. Olivia pointed them towards a table and waited until they’d sat down to start walking over to them. ‘Looks like we’ve got ourselves a pretty waitress, boys,’ the biggest said, smirking at her. They laughed, tilting their heads towards her as she asked for their order. ‘Four beers, four large fries, two cheeseburgers, two hamburgers and a drink for you, my darlin. How ‘bout that?’ the biggest one said, snarling at her. She ignored him, forcing down the urge to scream at them. She’d learnt this made things worse, learnt not to grant customers like these what they wanted, except for their food. She wrote down their order on her notepad and walked away. Olivia noticed Tony watching them from behind the counter, his face tainted by amusement. She took them their beers in silence. When she’d finally been called by the chef, who told her that their food was ready, she carried the oily plates of food towards their table, dreading having to speak to them again. She raised her head high in an attempt to be defiant, an attempt to show them she didn’t care what they thought of her. ‘Any sauces?’ she said, stepping back as she said it. They sniggered. Ten more minutes.
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She brought the men the bill they’d demanded, ignoring their comments as she waited for them to fumble inside their wallets and shove greasy banknotes on top of the receipt. As they stood up to leave, one of them held out his hand and handed her a fiver, reaching around her front to slide his hand down her lower back. She jumped, her heart racing as she pulled away from him, trying not to notice his twisted smile and dark eyes gazing at her chest. Tony stood there, picking at his nails whilst he watched the scene in front of him. They left. ‘Wipe their table down and then you can go, sweetheart,’ Tony said, winking at her whilst rifling through the day’s cash intake. Olivia followed his instructions and got her stuff from the back, going into the bathroom to change into trousers and a hoodie, shoving her mini skirt into her handbag. She left through the back door, feeling dirty and irritated, giving the next shift’s waitress a sympathetic smile. Remembering the darkness, she rummaged for her keys and held them between her fingers. She pulled her sleeve over the gold bracelet Ewan had bought her. Peckham’s streets were quiet, the windows of tower blocks lit up with couples opening bottles of wine whilst mums struggled to get their young children into tepid baths, and teenagers shuffled around the parks, cheap cider fizzing in their hands. London prepared for a late night. But Olivia thought only of the men in the restaurant, longing for the moment of getting through the door into their flat. Two more streets and she’d be there. As she turned onto the gum-covered pavements and flat blocks that made up Cicely Road, still in the midst of thought, she became conscious of someone walking behind her. Fear crept up inside of her, warning her not to turn around and see what was there - who was there. She started walking faster, trying to reassure herself as she felt nervousness chew at her insides, terrified that they were shadowing her pace. Summoning bravery, she turned around to look at the person behind her and see the male silhouette who stood out against the yellow streetlamps. Walk faster. Her stomach twisted as she began to walk as quickly as she possibly could, until her fear overcame any present embarrassment, and she broke into a run. She ran until she reached the entrance to her flat building and flung open its squeaky wooden door, running up the distressed
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how could anyone do that to my girlfriend? Who were they, I swear I’m gonna find them and - ’ Ewan said.
carpet that covered the stairs, pulling herself upwards using the flaking banister. At number 33, she breathed, then desperately thumped at the door, her hands too shaky to use the keys she’d thought might save her.
‘I don’t know them,’ she said, feeling hopeless.
When Ewan had finally opened it, the tears that had been welling up inside Olivia were rushing down her face, unstoppable. Everything that she’d suppressed shattered inside.
‘I just,’ he paused, ‘cannot believe they’d do that to you. Not to my gorgeous girlfriend.’ He stopped talking again and she guessed he was wondering what else he could say.
‘What’s wrong, babe? Come and sit down.’ Ewan pulled her towards him, walking her to the sofa and stroking her back. ‘It’s ok, babe, please don’t cry.’
‘Look, babe, it happens to so many women, I think we’ve just got to forget about it now.’
She hated that she was crying, that she’d been made to feel weak by those men. She hated that although she’d pulled down her apron and changed her clothes and held her keys as a weapon, she’d still been scared by men, humiliated by them. Yet all she could say, through huge wet sobs, was; ‘I got….touched…by a customer…. at work and… then…someone….followed me home.’
‘Let’s do something to cheer you up, yeah?’ he said, ‘I said I’d meet Jack and Tommy at eight at The Nag’s Head, so why don’t you come a bit later and we can go get a drink somewhere? I’m sorry I have to go now, leaving you like this’. ‘No, honestly, it’s fine.’ She meant it; she wanted to be alone for a bit. Ewan hugged her and pulled on his trainers, grabbing his faux leather wallet before leaving.
Dorothy Johnstone
‘They what?! How could anyone do that to you,
‘I know,’ she said, resting her dark hair on his chest.
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Olivia lay on the sofa, gazing at the messy kitchen counter with the remnants of her mascara staining her cheeks black. She inhaled and walked towards the staircase, glancing over at the door to check it was locked. She went to the bathroom and took off her makeup, imagining the damp cotton pad erasing the day she had had, trying to resist the thoughts that blamed herself for everything that had happened. She didn’t feel like seeing Jack and Tommy, but she knew that it would be good for her to get out of the house. After her shower, she shrugged on a baggy t-shirt and jeans and dried her hair, putting on makeup so that she looked nice for Ewan’s friends. She knew how much he liked to show her off. She grabbed her coat and handbag and left, double locking the door behind her.
to hear Ewan’s response. She waited for him to finish his sip of Guinness, foam remains fizzing on the sides of his mouth. ‘Don’t talk about my girlfriend like that,’ he said. Olivia exhaled in relief, still dreading what he might say next. She almost moved. ‘She’s a good girlfriend,’ he continued, ‘and besides I don’t have anywhere to live. At the end of the day, a girlfriend’s a girlfriend, like it’s just someone to live and sleep with. She was upset earlier actually, some blokes in her restaurant were harassing her or something. To be honest it was bound to happen at some point, all boys should be allowed to with those skirts; I just can’t believe they touched my girlfriend.’ His friends paused.
* The Nag’s Head was busy; people spilled out of its doors and onto the pavement, their laughter interrupting the street’s silence. The low growling voices of men were easily louder than those of the women, the clinking of beer pints louder than the chink of gin glasses. Olivia moved through the smokers and into the pub. The room’s air was warmed by the amount of people, the smell of ale and sweat mingling with concoctions of cheap colognes. Olivia scanned the packed room for Ewan and, once she had seen him, began to push her way through the room towards him. As Olivia got closer, she could hear his conversation and see him, though he had not noticed her yet. Hidden behind two greying men, she stopped in her path as she watched them gaze at a girl at the other side of the room. The woman had high cheek bones and wore bright red lipstick, her blonde hair cascading down over a black low-cut top. She looked to be engrossed in a conversation with two male friends. Olivia stayed still whilst her ears synced with the conversation her boyfriend was having with his friends. ‘Yeah, she’s really hot, especially for a blonde,’ Ewan said; ‘you know how I’m not usually into them. To be honest, though, she looks a bit too easy, with the top and the high heels and that’. His friends rolled their eyes and laughed. Jack patted him on the back. ‘So how’s Olivia, then?’ Tommy asked, ‘Still good? Still in love with you? You know, Ewan, you could do better than her. She’s not exactly a good laugh.’ Olivia felt hot tears welling up behind her eyes. She couldn’t move out of her position yet; she had
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‘Yeah, that’s not on mate,’ Jack said, taking another sip of his beer. Ewan leaned on the wooden bar, unmoved by what he had said. Olivia stood there perplexed, unmoving. How could he say that? Did he genuinely feel like that? She didn’t want to see his friends after that; she was too embarrassed. She hoped he would see her leaving and follow her outside, or that he would come home soon so that she could confront him. She had to. She retraced her steps and walked slowly back towards their flat. Ten minutes later, she felt his hand on her shoulder and spun around to see him there. He jumped back at her furious expression, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion. ‘Hey, babe,’ Ewan said, ‘are you alright? I thought you were going to come in and say hi to the boys?’ She didn’t reply. ‘D’you want to come inside and see them both or should we go over to that bar you like. We could get cocktails?’ His voice was unwavering. She shrugged, staring at him in disbelief. ‘I think it would best if we go home,’ she said, her voice cold and serious as she turned away from him and started walking towards their house. ‘Ok babe, of course, if you’re still upset. I’ll quickly go and say goodbye and then I’ll catch up with you.’ She heard his feet running along the pavement back towards the pub. When Ewan had caught up with her again, he reached for her hand and squeezed it, gently. Emily Edgington
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Alara Fuchs
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Take the King An extract from a stage-play Characters Anthony Eve Nick
Did everyone like the food? Was it nice?
Anthony
Yeah, very nice.
(Turning to face Nick)
Author’s Note Punctuation is used to indicate delivery, not to conform to the rules of grammar. A stroke (/) marks a point of interruption in overlapping dialogue. Words in square brackets [] are not spoken but have been included in the text to clarify meaning. A familiar suburban kitchen – the kind that seems to have tumbled off the pages of a brochure, and still good as new.
Nicky? Go on./ Eve
/I tried a different recipe – with sauce. Is it too salty? Was it too salty?
Anthony
Please Nicky-boy. For me? Come on.
Eve
Nick just do as he says. (Apologetically) It will be fun.
(She begins washing up)
There is a rectangular kitchen table A conjoined marble tabletop, stainless stove and sink behind.
Nick (Taking his own plate and comparatively few beer bottles to the dishwasher)
A series of cabinets to the left.
Dad, I am kind of tired and –
A door to the right.
Anthony
And I’m not?
Anthony sits on the left side of the table, Nick on the right side and at its centre, Eve.
Nick
Not now - I want to get an early night. Another night, Dad.
Anthony is fifty-two, solidly built with a tentatively receding hairline. He is wearing a simple but expensive business suit and speaks with a slightly forced pronunciation that leans closer to an estuary accent than he seems to think.
Anthony
Oh, Nick after all I do for you/
Nick
Really? That again?
Anthony
Yes, actually Nick that again.
Eve is forty-nine, still maintaining a façade of bohemian elegance that has been chipped away at by the last twenty years of marriage.
Eve
(Grabs Nick by the forearm as the stands by the dishwasher)
Nick, eighteen and only just, is wearing sixth-form uniform: polyester trousers, unbuttoned shirt and a half-undone, intentionally short tie.
(Quietly) Nick don’t provoke him not now. Play his game and go to bed.
Nick shrugs off Eve and walks back to the table.
Anthony
Oh, come on humour me, Nicky-boy. I will go easy. [I] promise.
Eve
Come on Nick. Please?
They have just finished dinner. Anthony Oh, come on Nicky. Indulge your old man. Eve (Rises from the table. She gathers her plate, Anthony’s plate and the several beer bottles that have gathered around him)
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Nick Yeah, sure. Fine.
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Anthony Right’eo, be a good boy and go fetch it. Nick selects from the cabinet a briefcase-sized ivory box and lays it at the centre of the kitchen table. He takes his seat opposite Anthony. Anthony
(Rubbing his palms together)
Let the fun begin.
(Theatrically opening the box and shaking out a set of ivory chess pieces. He folds the box flat out on the table)
I tell you what kiddo, you’re a man now so let’s go fetch you and me a man’s drink, shall we? Eve, sweetheart, go grab the cognac for me and your son.
What do you say?
Nick
Thank you.
Anthony
Good boy.
Nick places the final piece down by Anthony. It is the king. Anthony
Time for you to take your shot at the king. Eh?
Nick
Yeah - Shall we?
Nick, playing as white, makes the first move. They continue to play throughout the scene and only key moments (the taking of a piece etc.) are pointed out, with a move number (all odd numbers are Nick, all even numbers are Anthony), in stage directions. A complete guide to the game move-bymove is attached in the appendix. Anthony (Matching Nick’s move)
Eve goes to the cabinet and pulls out a bottle of cognac and two small glasses.
Same stakes as usual?
Nick
(Laying out the chess pieces)
Nick
(Continues playing at a low intensity)
Really dad, I am alright.
Yeah, sure. Same stakes as usual.
Eve lays the glasses and bottle down by Anthony. He lays a hand on her backside and she flinches almost imperceptibly. Nick winces.
Anthony reaches into his pocket and pulls out five scrunched twenty-pound notes, placing them at the centre of the tale.
Anthony Nonsense.
Anthony
Eve
(Glancing round)
One Hundred Pounds if you win Nicky-boy.
Just have a tipple Nick.
Nick
I am alright.
Anthony Oh Nicky, please do stop being such a square. Nick I am alright, and I am not being a square.
(Move-5 take as a white pawn)
Nick
(Move-6 takes a black pawn)
I know dad.
Anthony
One Hundred Pounds to kill the king.
Nick
It’s been that way since I was eight.
Anthony
Please Nick have a tipple, will you?
Anthony A Hundred Pounds is an awful lot of money.
Eve
Just a tipple?
Nick
To an eight-year-old an awful lot.
Nick
Yep. Fine. Just a tipple.
Anthony
Lot of money, a hundred pounds.
Anthony
(Pouring out two generous glasses)
Nick
Yeah, lot of money.
There’s my boy. See Evie, sweetheart, there he is.
Anthony You never quite won it though, have you?
(Leaning over the table, placing the glass with a thud in front of Nick)
Max Baldock
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Slit The opening of a short story Chapter One ‘Alizarin blood coats the cobble crimson; clotting their jagged valleys Amazing work, Ivan.’ Doctor Johan Dressel with lumps of cartilage and flesh. slipped his surgeon gloves off. ‘How you do Strands of her blonde hair stains dark these things? – you’re so,’ he paused, pink from the draining of her neck. ‘steady!’ His deep German accent bellowed He stands over her. His ruby tipped down the glossy white walled hallway; the blade ringing quietly from every spit reflections of their physiques outlined by the of rain which flicked it. A large green sun as they walked. Ivan didn’t turn to face neon sign flickers on, casting the Dressel but instead kept his pleased gaze on the lagoon. From this distance it looked like bloody pool into a glistening brown. it was being cradled; rows of red painted The sign spells, “Guten Tag!” cottages perched on its pebbled embankments. The lagoon’s shape reminded him of a raindrop. Dressel continued ‘They must have taught you well in Russia.’ ‘I was taught at Oxford.’ ‘Oh yes – of course, my apologies Doctor Nost.’ Dressel mumbled. ‘Not to worry, Johan, you are old.’ Ivan turned and patted him on the shoulder. ‘Your knowledge and experience are far better than mine.’ ‘It’s not my memory,’ Johan said, ‘Your voice – you sound too English.’ They continued to walk. ‘I could help you with that.’ ‘What.’ ‘Your accent – and vocabulary.’ ‘No no no please I am fine – ’ ‘I assure you, when I have free time – ’ ‘Nein, we are too busy all the time.’
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‘Oh, come on…’ Ivan halted. A coastal breeze hummed against the window. ‘How about right now?’ Johan stopped and turned to face him.
her. Her face dark.
‘No, just a little something.’
‘My son…’ Her voice was like leaves made of rusted steel; rustling out a retch whenever she breathed. Ivan ran over and asked if she needed help. She looked up and her pupils expanded, ‘Why did you save him and not my son.’ I froze.
‘What.’
‘He was – ’
‘Just a word.’
‘He came in first, didn’t he?’
‘I know most English words.’
‘Yes but – ’
‘Ok then, what’s that?’ He pointed at the lagoon.
‘Why. He was first.’ She looked down at the girl. ‘Poor baby.’ She looked back at me.
‘The sea.’
‘I’m – ’
‘No, beneath it.’
I couldn’t say anything: my throat thawed in the icy atmosphere. She started to sob with even more dryness. Her raspy breathing increased in speed. She shouted a noise so crazed it punted my head. Well, it felt like that because she had pushed me. Really hard. My clipboard went flying and I toppled into Johan. She then sat on the pristine floor, sprinkled in gem-like patterns. Knees in her eyes, she started crying. Her granddaughter still stood there. Unmoving.
‘A lesson in the hallway?’
‘Ah, Lagune.’ ‘No, in English Johan,’ Ivan chuckled. ‘Lagoonuh.’ ‘No ‘uh,’ Johan.’ ‘Then it is basically the same!’ Johan’s thick grey eyebrows raised. ‘Genau, mein Freund how wise you are!’ Ivan laughed.
Harrison Locke
‘You bastard.’ Johan’s stern brown eyes squinted at the lagoon but the corner of his mouth was twitching to smile. ‘There will be a day when your genius fails’. Ivan calmed himself. ‘Okay, okay.’ As he exhaled he looked down at his clipboard ‘Who’s next? A wail skimmed off the walls. Johan and I rushed down the hall and around the corner. The sunlight failed to lighten the corridor: an old lady sobbed with her head against the wall. A small girl stood next to
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Christopher Friis Piccalilli June 2021_Single Pages.indd 12
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A Pandemic of Hate This is an extract from Naomi Hughan’s ‘long read’ piece of journalism which investigates recent aggression against Asians. It was a dry, mild evening on the 16th of March in Atlanta, Georgia. Xiaojie Tan was busy working in her business Young’s Asian Spa. She had just started her shift at this spa in Atlanta after a long shift at her other business Wang’s Feet and Body Massage in Kennesaw, Georgia. She was tired from her long day at work and still had a busy night full of customers before she could go home, but she was excited for her 50th birthday party, which her daughter had organised for her to happen the next day. Daoyou Feng was working with Xiaojie that night, she was a quiet woman but was a loyal employee to Xiaojie and they had become friends. One of the customers at Young’s Asian Spa that night was Delaina Ashley Yaun who was due to have a couples massage with her husband. She was so excited as she had been so busy recently with her 8-month-old baby girl and her teenage son, so she finally had some time to relax. Hyun Jung Grant was working that night at Golden Spa. She had worked there after being a teacher in Korea and immigrating to America with her two sons as a single mother. Suncha Kim was working with Hyun that night, she had two or three other jobs on top of that so she could provide for her grandchildren. Soon Chung Park had been cooking for the ladies at Golden Spa as she did most evenings, it would only be a few hours before they could all sit down and have a meal together. Yong Ae Yue was working at The Aromatherapy Spa. She only had a few more massage appointments to complete before she could go home and sing to her Korean Karaoke and cook for her sons. Little did these women know that they would be victims of the largest Asian terrorist hate crime in the United States in the 21st century. Eight people died after being brutally shot that night. Authorities are investigating as to whether these attacks in Georgia were racially motivated, however with six of the eight victims being of Asian heritage, and the attacks happening in Asian dominated areas and Asian spas it is clear these attacks were a product of racial discrimination. Attacks like these have been happening all over the western world since March 2020. As there has been a rise in hatred towards Asians due to the Coronavirus. The stigma towards Asian people did not begin with virus as it has always existed. Yet this stigma has been enhanced by the pandemic as people felt the need to retaliate against Asian people, as they couldn’t handle the struggles of sitting in bed all day and watching TV. The Coronavirus has fuelled racism, xenophobia, Sinophobia, discrimination and prejudice towards Asian people. The violent crimes and racial comments attacking Asians are perfect examples of people scapegoating their frustrations onto a group which already faces extreme criticism and constant normalised racism. It is evident from attitudes that
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have been expressed towards Asians before the pandemic that there has always been this falsified stigma about them. However, during the pandemic, violence and open hatred towards Asians flourished. ….. My Grandma grew up in Jamaica, where many Chinese had been imported as labourers in the mid 19th to early 20th century to replace the African Slaves. Many also immigrated to the Caribbean before the Chinese Civil war and Cultural Revolution. Chinese Jamaicans were the second largest Chinese population in the Caribbean with approximately 12,000 Chinese residents. By 1963 the Chinese Jamaicans owned 95% of supermarkets and other goods stores such as launderettes and betting parlours, they had a ‘virtual monopoly’ on retail in Jamacia. This angered some politicians such as Jamaican Prime Minister Michael Manley who encouraged ethnic discrimination against the Chinese as he wanted to “Keep Jamaica for the Jamaicans.” This is ironic as he is a White Jamaican, and most definitely not an indigenous Carib who the British massacred to build plantations in the 1600s. In 1970 Chinese people made up a total of 7% of the population, yet by 1982 it had shrunk to only 2%, and this coincides with Manley’s first term as Prime Minister. Jamaica was her home where she had lived her whole life, and she was tossed out because of the colour of her skin. Throughout her life, my grandmother and other friends of Asian descent have been discriminated against. At the beginning of the pandemic, my grandmother went to the hairdresser because she didn’t want anyone to think she was old with her white hair, which is a challenging task to achieve when you are an 88-year-old woman. On her way to the salon, she was the victim of judging glares and occasional racial comments that people whispered to one another. These incidents that have made my grandmother uncomfortable have always been the case for her as an Eastern woman living in the West, yet this time it was different. This time people had ‘something’ to blame her for. Yixin Cao claims that since the Coronavirus many people have been coming up to her and her friends asking them if they have eaten bats? She also said that “Some of my Asian friends in Australia now are afraid to speak in their mother tongue in public for fear that some extreme racists may take destructive actions against Asians.” Occurrences such as these grew and as the lockdown ended. This is another reason people of Asian heritage are reluctant to go back out and face the world after lockdown; they live in fear of the discrimination and hate they would receive. When I was younger, I did not embrace my Asian roots. Perhaps this was because I lived in Asia and wanted to be a unique, foreign westerner. When
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coming back to England at first, I wanted to stand out and truly show my Asian heritage as I was a bit of an attention seeker and liked to stand out from the crowd. However, as I started school in England it was made clear to me (at the time) that being Asian was not something I should want people to know about or should be proud of. Perhaps this is because I went to a predominantly white prep school where children would grow up to be exact replicas of their parents and grandparents; nevertheless, this idea that being Asian is not something one should be proud of should not exist in any school. Even from an early age Asian people have a false reputation for being nerdy, anti-social and weird, which is not helped by the little portrayal of Asians in the media and in cinematic culture. There were no Asian children at my prep school in England and I am sure that many of the children did not know any Asian people, yet there was this naive idea that Asians should have a stigma around them. This false portrayal of Asians is something that needs to be tackled as it creates room for bullying and humiliation, yet it has not tried to be tackled until these once ‘innocent’ comments have turned violent, because once again it is not considered ‘true racism’. I have experienced first-hand instances of racism which has been normalised. As I do not look Asian, people assume that I am just another brick in the white-washed prejudice wall, this has meant that
some people have said things in front of me which I am sure they would not say in China town. Although I am predominantly white, these comments about Asian people resonate strongly with me. There has always been a hatred towards Asians that has gone under the radar purely because racism towards Asians is not ‘real’ racism, as Asian skin is simply not dark enough to attract attention. This has allowed for daily derogatory comments and remarks about all kinds of Asian customs, cultures, and language. With the angst towards the current crisis, what were once previous comments have escalated into hate crimes and violence. At the start of the pandemic, before it had hit the west, I remember I was walking with a group of girls, and one said: “Honestly, I wouldn’t really mind if the coronavirus killed all the Chinese people.” Taken aback, I asked why she would not. Her response was “Well, I just think that there are too many of them and they are all the same, plus, I think that we just don’t need any more Asian invasion.” Angry and embarrassed I asked why the hell would she say something like that. At this point she remembered that my grandma was Chinese; “Oh, not you though, or like your family, but you know, like the weird Asians, like the Chinese people who just ruin our lives by taking our jobs and giving us Corona.”
Naomi Hughan
Ella Warner
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Bitter Fog outside, snow on the streets and grime on the roofs, but the bare boughs of trees without leaves experience the rite of spring. We are not free. Russia expels yet another round of diplomats. The Prittstick on my desk declares: Quick, easy, clean, washable. I read:
Josephine was quite an intelligent girl, poking her nose in, writing things down in a black book, pretending to find out a lot. In the kitchen, the cohorts of bustling pots and pans have commenced their daily tasks. My mother is laboriously cooking a shepherd’s pie. She says that I should respect my teachers. The wind outside is blaring its trumpet fanfare billowing the last, dead leaves into the gutters. The regular lady on the weather forecast says London will experience bright showers of rain, sudden snow flurries, and a bitter wind. Dima Montanari
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Honor Bagshaw
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The Funeral Director Extract from The Funeral: A Suite of Monologues The funeral director is a middle-aged man. He is standing outside the waiting room and observes the different people arriving for the funeral. He is agitated just watching the women sitting inside Stop shaking. Just stop. She’s sitting alone in the waiting room picking at my sofa. They always do that, pick at my sofa. Can they not? I know she is just trying to distract herself – but it’s my sofa. She is upset – I mean obviously she’s upset; this is a funeral and someone has died but I don’t know what picking at my sofa will do. I see this every day, time after time, one followed by another, a never-ending chain of coffins and tears and people, but I’m used to it. That’s a lie. Her eyes are puffy. Stained red – I could take a pretty good guess and say those tears have been streaming for at least the past twenty-four hours. I pity her – I pity all of them because here they all are having to say goodbye again probably for about the third time. I watch the car park. I’m the one people glance at and see me staring - reminding them of where they are, they look at me hurting, they look at me, at me, because it’s my fault apparently, it’s my fault they’re all here and it’s my fault for this loss. I look away from them, their eye contact is lethal and poisonous but it’s fine and I don’t mind of course, I shrug my shoulders. Death after death after death after death – all the grief and all the suffering. My palms are sweaty – they won’t rub dry on my trousers. When I started funeral directing, I was a stranger who held flowers, opened doors but mostly just listened. Now I’m a stranger whose hand people hold and say, ‘Thank you so much, we couldn’t have done this without you’. Why do they have to depend on me so much, I don’t know them, they don’t need me, it’s not fair for them I know but it’s not fair to me either, turning me into something I’m not, something I don’t want to be. Stop shaking – stop, this woman is sitting here relying on me to make today as least tearful but as beautifully emotional as possible and I’m the one contemplating how unfair my life is. So stop.
Someone once told me ‘a smile is the best way towards anything’ which is why right now as she picks herself off her seat and steps towards me I feel it is the best time to pull one out. It doesn’t work. I’ve learned there is no point in saying things like, ‘everything will be okay’, ‘don’t worry it will be fine’, because it isn’t fine and, in their minds, not everything will be okay from now – so they won’t believe you. ‘It’s okay’ I say. (he laughs) God I’m such an idiot. I am such an idiot, why did I do that? I’ll tell you why I did that it’s because I’m not thinking, my head is spinning my eyes are blurry so yes I’m going to make a few mistakes. What I do is hard, every single person is different, I find it hard to believe how many different there can be but then again not one person is the same. Will they like it if I touch them for comfort? – Will they cry every time I speak because I sound like them – talk like them – breathe like them – cough – smile – sneeze like them? or will the sound of my voice ease their pain and relax them? - there is no learning from mistakes because a mistake one day could be my liberator the next. So I obviously chose today to make a mistake and I know not to say things like that – I know it is wrong and I know it doesn’t help. But she doesn’t know that, that I didn’t mean it and it was a mistake. She’s in my face screaming ‘it’s not okay’ – ‘nothing is okay’ – ‘nothing will ever be okay’ – ‘how can it be?’ Why do I think I have the right to tell her what is and isn’t okay? – and to be honest, I don’t have the right too – so I don’t say anything, because I can’t say anything, physically can’t… can’t catch my br… I can’t… People are watching, running from outside to calm her down and apologise to me for her ‘reckless’ behaviour – but I do my job – I smile, tell them it’s fine and very common and leave them with space. Sophie Dunlop
I’m still watching this woman, this woman who is so eager to strip my whole sofa of its skin, I have to stop her. I take my hands and gently place them on hers slowing the trembling of her fingers, but she looks up at me and I know I shouldn’t have done it. Her tears stop but they left behind red rashes, rashes that burned through her skin and deep into mine. I stepped over the line, I know it. I back away but I smile. A fake smile but a smile all the same.
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Romy Katkhuda
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Birth Every man is born of a woman; every woman is born. We are not a seed unfurling in the soil, the seeking tendrils reaching up towards amber light; we come out raging, screaming with the first blood of war marked on our foreheads. Did they teach you that a person comes from nearly nothing and a woman’s body is their world for 280 aching days a woman’s back bears their growing weight. When we emerge when we break the mould that formed us they talk of Eve’s mistake a womb in flames for woman’s sin, pain for fruit and curiosity and not the wonder in a mother’s mind, that lets her take the pain and love the cause the rushing stabbing lights and red forgotten in the whisper of a baby’s drawing breath. Every woman who suffers had a mother. Every man that hates was born. Fleur Halstead
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JUDAS AT TYBURN An extract from a short story A rope. Is that too clichéd? I had to watch three YouTube videos on how to make a noose. Three – you’d think they’d block that kinda stuff. I don’t know how I ended up here. Bloody engineering works. Central Line terminating at Marble Arch. Terminating. So now I’m in the park with a rope – like a walking film noir villain. And I can still see those eyes. Tyburn. That’s what they used to call this place. Back corner of Hyde Park. The pride of London littered with the detritus of the prideful of London. There’s crap everywhere. The remains of a weekend of picnics and ‘ironic’ millennial’s barbecues, fag-ends like smoking suddenly became cool again, there’s even a vintage typewriter some spoilt oligarch’s kid chucked from the window of one of the expensive flats that line this corner of the park. A lifestyle I used to buy in to. Flats I used to be able to afford. How could that only be three years ago? A different life. A different me. So typewriter; if you’re listening, take this down. The last testament of Jude Ishmar Kariot, formerly of this Parish. Stupid. I’m talking to a typewriter like this is some bloody Bulgakov novel. And I can still see those eyes. It was the eyes that got me first. I used to live in one of those flats. Not around Hyde Park. Too yuppie for me. Too wannabe-made- in-bloodyChelsea. But still North of the River. Quiet, but fifteen minutes into Soho when I could be arsed. Are you listening to this, typewriter? This is good stuff. Degree in Financial and Asset Management from the University of Edinburgh. Two: one – thanks for asking. Then a quick rise through the ranks of Bronfman & Bronfman, partly due to my stunning actuarial prowess with short- selling and partly due to my uncle drinking in the same grotty pub that Bronfman senior used to hit every lunchtime. What difference does it make now?
I hate the cold. And the dark. I could still go. But where? How far away do you need to go? Those eyes are always going to be there. Ok, typewriter, so if I’m telling you this sordid tale, you might as well hear all the gory details. I hated my job. That job I fought so hard to get. Everyone does. That’s the truth. That’s why they pay you to do it – if it were fun, people would do it for free. But I mean really hated it. The spreadsheets, the stupid o’clock trading, the client meetings. God – the client ‘meetings.’ Never had a stomach for midday drinking, but now I was being paid to do it. Why be a broker if you don’t like booze? So that’s where this story really begins. Not in the halls of the James Clerk Maxwell Building, not in a rundown tenement building in Motherwell, but in a swanky bar underneath Centre Point. I don’t know why, but I remember the client. Some dodgy offshore pension fund, wrapped in a hedge fund, wrapped in a private equity conglomerate, wanting to short on a pharma deal. Why that took three bottles of Bolly, Tatty, or whatever muck they insisted on throwing down their throats I don’t know. He wasn’t even part of their team. Wasn’t part of that world. He just had these eyes, staring at me from across the bar for the whole meeting. Not that I’m into that sort of thing, but I guess I am sort of good looking. Or maybe I used to be. Or maybe...but it wasn’t like that. He wasn’t looking at me like that. He was looking at me like he’d always known me. Like he always would know me. No, that sounds like a line. Delete that, typewriter. Let’s go again. We must avoid cliché like the plague! Tom Phelps
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Clemmie Meadon
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Naughty Little Sister My naughty little sister scribbled with pencils and scratched until the wood was raw and the fairies were no more. She picked baby gooseberries and green blackcurrants and threw sand on flowerbeds and dug up runner-bean seeds. She now tinkers at a row of monochrome, ivory keys. Father says, “My dear, you are the euphony to my ear.” Face the facts: she is not a naughty little sister anymore. I want to be walking down the runway in couture, the platinum star singing, “Andante, andante, oh please don’t let me down.” Aoife Guinness
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Confusion It’s like being on a boat, willing the journey to go quicker. In lockdown we grew apart in our solitude, soon to grow back together again. Hurled headlong flaming into the ethereal sky. Her eyes bright like silver. Show me round the flat that stinks of sleeplessness, plans hatched in whispers of small hours. Out there a big, old Mulberry tree and field after field of green grass framed by a wood either side. Too much excitement at what’s to come. I want to submerge myself in the heavy flow of the falls. Lucy Herbert
Sleep I used to sleep on a mattress on the floor with my bed right next to me: I’d lie in a cave made with blue silk curtains and stare at the streetlights and the murky city sky, hand spilling onto the carpet like the Lady of Shallot’s hand trailed through water and dream of newness and not the memory that the real bed held. Fleur Halstead
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Amy Beckett
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The Piccalilli team: Maddie Price
Freya Høgevold
Athena Pugh
Naomi Hughan
Honor Aspbury
Maria Pia Rubinelli
Bel Chauveau
Maddy Smith
Emily Edgington Piccalilli cover by Issie Raper
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