[John Whitworth]

Competition
Saturday, 4th June 2011

Lucy Vickery presents this week's Competition

In Competition No. 2698 you were invited to submit a short story that begins, ‘Of course he knew — no man better — that he hadn’t a ghost of a chance, he hadn’t an earthly.’ and ends ‘And Reginald came slowly across the lawn.’ The given words are the first and last sentences of ‘Mr and Mrs Dove’ by Katherine Mansfield, superlative writer of short fiction and object of Virginia Woolf’s envy: ‘I was jealous of her writing — the only writing I have ever been jealous of.’
Chris O’Carroll revisits Mansfield’s story and conjures up a parallel universe in which a semi-emancipated Reggie dreams of putting the symbolic doves to death. His fellow winners, printed below, earn £25 each. The bonus fiver is G.M. Davis’s.

Of course he knew — no man better — that he hadn’t a ghost of a chance, he hadn’t an earthly. Even his thoughts came in archaic clichés. But chin up, he told himself. Steady the Buffs. Samuel Beckett had won the Nobel. Did he go to town on fancy lingo? The thing was, to thine own self be true.
It took Reginald 40 years and many rebuffs, but when Off To The Races was awarded the Literature prize for what the Nobel Committee termed ‘a distinctive, uncompromising retro-rhetoric boldly fashioned to encode the universal enigma of human existence’ he was, as he told the media, ‘quite bucked up’.
It was the first outdoor ceremony as the planet warmed and shrivelled. The eminent assembly sweated politely. The citation was solemnly read. A strong English voice said, ‘Draw it mild, you’ll have me blushing.’ And Reginald came slowly across the lawn.

G M. Davis

Of course he knew — no man better — that he hadn’t a ghost of a chance, he hadn’t an earthly. He also knew that a conspicuous dash into the dense shrubbery towards the cliff edge to save Madeleine’s wretched beast would put him in pole position for her favours. Moreover, if by mischance he really did encounter Reginald — stupid name for a pekinese, he thought — and Reginald were to slip through his fingers on to the rocks below, then he, Hector, would not only be minus his most aggressive competitor, but would be first in line for the post of chief consoler.
All that could be heard from the veranda was much trampling of undergrowth indicative of high endeavour, but then a fierce bark was followed by a gradually diminishing howl. Then silence. A shriek of ‘Reginald!’ escaped from Madeleine’s throat.
And Reginald came slowly across the lawn.
Noel Petty

Of course he knew — no man better — that he hadn’t a ghost of a chance, he hadn’t an earthly. As always Reginald feared that this was to be another non-starter but, summoning courage, he tiptoed up to the door and listened. All was silent but Reginald knew that the miscreant must be in there. The time had come to attempt the impossible. Turning the key, he opened the door and stepped into the gloom where, slumped in the midst of chaotic squalor, the old fellow lay, out for the count. Knowing he must be coaxed back to life, Reginald dragged him into the open and tried to revive him. Eventually, after frantic attempts and much to his annual springtime amazement, the obstinate wretch, wheezing and spluttering, roared into action. The ancient mower was ready to go. The long grass trembled. And Reginald came slowly across the lawn.
Alan Millard

Of course he knew — no man better — that he hadn’t a ghost of a chance, he hadn’t an earthly. Still, doing in the mater with her own dreadful garden shears had bucked him up no end. Opening Colonel Proctor’s gate, he reflected that he wouldn’t need shears for Anne’s doves. For a dreamlike moment, Anne was with him on the fruit farm in Rhodesia. Her gold-brown lashes fluttered as he wrung the birds’ necks with quick, masterful gestures. ‘You pluck them, my darling’, he commanded. ‘I’ll choose the fresh fruits for the cook to stew with them.’ There she was with her birds on the veranda. ‘Reggie!’ she called as he came through the gate. Was that an undertone of laughter he heard? Perhaps she wouldn’t laugh at him today. Again her cooing, dovelike voice called his name. And Reginald came slowly across the lawn.
Chris O’Carroll

Of course he knew — no man better — that he hadn’t a ghost of a chance, he hadn’t an earthly. An apt epithet. His relationship with the soil had always been antipathetic, befitting someone whose fingers were far from green. But what had started with a slightly risqué joke about his neighbour’s obsession with growing giant marrows ended in the issue of a challenge that was going to cost him a handsome donation to the village Flower and Produce Show committee. To say nothing of his feelings as he waited for the judging of what his wife called ‘an embarrassingly undersized, suggestively shaped courgette.’ Actually she’d been surprised he’d grown anything. And annoyed when he could have spent the time mowing the meadow that had once been a lawn. Looking over the untrimmed side of the hedge, he saw a moving wheelbarrow containing an obscenely large green object. And Reginald came slowly across the lawn.
Gillian Ewing

Of course he knew — no man better — that he hadn’t a ghost of a chance, he hadn’t an earthly. They trusted him and sat in silent expectation of a miracle. He should never have offered to help the old lady and her sister. Reginald Horace Darlington belonged to another world. Amor vincit omnia, they say, but not this. Then he realised he was communicating his negative thoughts, his doubts and his hopelessness to the sisters. They started to cry. ‘You must be patient,’ he said quietly. ‘It is a long way to the other world. Give me some time.’ They sat up attentively and watched him, as though his thoughts were on full view. Thankfully they weren’t. He was about to concede that resurrections were a little beyond his capabilities when the sisters rose and stared out of the window. And Reginald came slowly across the lawn.
Frank McDonald