Weardale writer's tale of a Chinese grandmother impresses short story judges

For more than ten years Gillian Wales, then manager of Bishop Auckland Town Hall, and Bishop Auckland author Wendy Robertson ran a popular National Short Story Competition.

Two years ago, joined by 2012 Costa Short Story Prize winner Avril Joy, they formed Room To Write, a new community organisation dedicated to encouraging new writers to improve their skills through conferences and focused workshops.

As part of this initiative, they launched their inaugural Short Story Competition, and the winner is Christine Powell, from Stanhope, with Diagonal Flight, her tale of a woman from Hong Kong transplanted to a village in County Durham.

Christine was awarded her £200 prize at a reception in Durham last week.

What the judges said...

Diagonal Flight is a beautifully crafted story. We were impressed by its original viewpoint and fine writing. It focuses on the particular and at the same time reveals universal truths applicable to us all.

Win's life and character shine through. This great character study is a slice of life that tells all, especially how it is to be a woman from Hong Kong living in a "damp northern village in South Durham". As well as this it tells some fundamental truths about what it is to be a grandmother.

The tale is full of movement and energy which made it stand out among the entries - the tai Chi, the boy running, the jackdaws sidestepping, the methodist minister striding... all these come to mind. We loved the way the movement of Tai Chi is picked up and echoed in the life she observes around her – it is clever, but it feels effortless.

For us Diagonal Flight has perfect pitch and flow - nothing jars, nothing disappoints.

Diagonal Flight by Christine Powell

Win slides her arms into the red silk jacket, pulls on a pair of black twill trousers, eases her feet into her best brocade slippers. Today, she is Chan Jing Wei: Chinese grandmother.

There is a note from the daughter-in-law on the kitchen table, instructions to leave the charity bag by the front door when she goes out. Win makes tea in her special blue and white porcelain beaker, carefully replaces the lid and carries it into the front room.

This hour in the morning, when she has the house to herself, is her Tai Chi Chuan time. She stands a few steps back from the bay window, roots her weight over her feet, focuses on the roof of the house opposite, breathes down to the tan tien and adopts the first chi kung stance. Wuji. Before beginning the form she permits herself a sip of tea. Hei sai. Ward off. Roll back. A pair of jackdaws sidestep coquettishly across the slates. Diagonal flying. Each new year find a mate, build a nest, rear your young, teach them to fly.

She taught her son to fly; he headed west, found himself a post at a British university and a round-eyed English bride. When he insisted she should come to live with them in this damp, northern village, she could find no reason not to. So, for the last eighteen years she has been Nana Win, Mrs. Chan, John’s widowed mother from Hong Kong; she has worn faded black sweatshirts and polyester jogging bottoms; she has been housekeeper and baby-sitter and she has attended English language classes, for the grandchildren. Now they, too, are learning to fly.

Thomas is training to be a Quantity Surveyor. Laura, Monkey child, restless and clever, ‘designs things’. On a fleeting visit home last summer, she said: ‘I think I should learn Cantonese. You could teach me, Nana Win!’ Win was gratified but non-committal.

White crane spreads wings. A small red-haired boy wearing old-fashioned spectacles with heavy black rims, an enormous rucksack on his back, races past the window. He has no bus to catch, the primary school is only a hundred yards away, but every morning he runs, arms pumping, up to the school gate. Kick with the right leg. The Methodist minister strides through the puddles with her labrador.

The family once had a dog, a Border Terrier cross called Bobo. Bobo used to sit at her feet, staring. ‘I do not like dogs. You will not jump on to my knee,’ she said, repeatedly, and the grandchildren wailed, repeatedly, ‘Nana Win! You are soooo cruel to Bobo!’ She did not connect with their response to the dog’s death. She had never wept unreservedly in that way, not even when Déshi died, leaving her alone with their young son.

Perhaps she left Jiang Liu (as he then was) too much in the care of the crèches set up by her European employers in the big Central District hotels, but the pay allowed her to educate him well. He has always treated her well in return, although just now he is away, at a conference in London, and last night, New Year’s Eve, neglected to call her. There is still a part of her that fears this departure from routine is an inauspicious omen.

Practice completed, she looks out the zodiac banners. The daughter-in-law gave up a lunch hour to find them in one of the Chinese supermarkets in Newcastle, so Win shouldn’t be ungrateful, but they are mass-produced images on cheap material, not what she had hoped for. The banners go into a jute tote bag advertising YUE HWA CHINESE PRODUCTS. Her cousin, still cleaning the big houses in Pok Fu Lam, emails that the big store on Nathan Road is long gone. She drops the brocade slippers into the bag and puts on her wellingtons.

Mr. Craggs from next door is putting his charity bag out as she leaves. Mr. Craggs has milky grey-green eyes like the South China Sea. His wife is in hospital, his sack is full of clothes she will never wear again. Nor will she be home for his seventy-second birthday.

‘This is your year,’ says Win, ‘the year of the Horse!’

‘I look forward to galloping away into the sunset,’ he says. ‘Once I’ve had the knee operation. You look very smart this morning, Win.’

‘I’m going to the school, to talk about about Chinese New Year.’

There seem to be a great many children jammed into one classroom. Win smiles at the rows of upturned faces, like little pink peas on a shelf. ‘Kung hei Fat Choy! Happy new year! My Chinese name is Jing Wei. I was born a very long time ago, in 1940, so I am a Dragon. I think that you are all probably Pigs, Dogs or Rats!’

The children giggle, some rowdy boys on the back row start a snorting contest. The class teacher hands out calendars downloaded from the internet and a lively buzz fills the room as the children search for the animal of their birth year. A shriek of laughter erupts from the back row: ‘Look! Raymond’s a pig! Oink oink!’.

Everyone turns round; Win’s red-haired running boy bangs his fist on the desk top. ‘I’m not a pig! You’re pigs!’ The teacher hurries over, calms them all down.

‘Now, I want you all to listen very carefully to Mrs. Chan.’ A classroom assistant hangs the zodiac banners around the room; the smallest children in the front row fidget, waggle their feet, yawn, pull at their clothing, but most of the older ones pay attention as Win explains the animal symbols, taking particular care to stress the kindness and honesty of the Pig.

Then there is a special display. The year six pupils dance in procession around the school hall with a fantastical, green and gold papier-mâché horse’s head accompanied by their own composition on tin whistles, cymbals and drums. Win tells them she is very happy that they should honour her culture in this way.

As the hall empties, she feels an urgent tug at her left sleeve. It is Raymond.

‘Miss, can I be a dragon? Like you?’

‘The Pig is a good animal, Raymond.’

Raymond sighs heavily, she fears there may be tears. ‘But I don’t want to be a pig.’

‘You have the heart of the Dragon, I can tell.’

‘Miss, you know how you have a English name and a Chinese name?’ Win nods, solemnly. ‘Can I have a Chinese name?’

‘I think that is possible.’ She nods again, ‘how about Dewei?’ It is the name she would have chosen for her grandson.

‘Dewei! Does that mean dragon?’

‘It does.’ Win finds the dragon banner and presents it to him.

‘Wow! Cool!’ He throws it round his shoulders and rushes out to the playground.

As she walks home, she chides herself. Since when, Jing Wei, did you lie to children? The answer, of course, is, like all adults, she has always told small lies to children. To preserve happiness and harmony. As she replaces the silk jacket on its hanger, she notices a greasy stain on the sleeve, from Raymond’s fingers.

She barely has time to make a cup of tea before her son arrives home. It is Friday afternoon, the conference finished early and he has a New Year gift for her, a turquoise scarf bought from a booth on King’s Cross Station. ‘We’ll celebrate tonight,’ he says, ‘while Deborah is at choir practice.’

‘Jiang Liu, I have not been a good grandmother.’ She drapes the scarf over her arm, holds it up to the light. ‘I did not try enough to teach Tommy and Laura about their Chinese heritage.’

He frowns, ‘but they were born over here.’

On Monday morning, snow falls. Wet, soft flakes like small birds spiralling down to earth. Win breathes in, feels the chi sinking to the tan tien point and her joints open. Raymond is late. Perhaps he isn’t going to school today. Perhaps his mother is keeping him at home because of the weather. Perhaps he is unwell. She begins to feel anxious.

But no, there he is, a small, dark figure charging through the blizzard. He has tied the dragon banner to his rucksack, it streams out behind him. As he draws level with her window, he leaps into the air one arm stretched out in front, the other behind making a diagonal line. It is a trick of the light and the snowfall but, just for an instant, he seems to be suspended there, like an arrow in flight or a superhero. He lands, waves, carries on running. Win removes the lid from her blue and white china beaker, sips her tea, watches the snow float slowly past the bay window.