Edinburgh-based writer Cherise Saywell has won this year’s BBC national short story award for a “tender” and “taut” story about a young boy caught in the midst of domestic violence.
Saywell was announced as the winner of the £15,000 award, run in collaboration with the University of Cambridge, at a ceremony held at BBC Broadcasting House on Tuesday evening.
Set in an isolated Australian town inspired by the place where Saywell grew up, the story follows a boy nicknamed Ditto as he grapples with what to do when his mother is threatened, eventually finding the courage to use a public telephone box to call the police.
“Taut and beautifully crafted, tender and deeply rooted in one dusk evening and one small town, Saywell’s story writing is assured and true and we are absolutely delighted that Ditto is this year’s winner,” said Di Speirs, chair of the judging panel.
Saywell, who was born and raised in Australia and has lived in Scotland since 1996, said she wanted to explore “how children experience violence, when they have no words for the things they are experiencing”.
“They feel love and fear and responsibility all at the same time, but have no name for what’s happening around them,” she said.
Saywell is the author of two novels, Desert Fish and Twitcher. Her short fiction has won the Pindrop short story award, the Mslexia short story prize and the VS Pritchett prize, and she has also been shortlisted for the Bristol prize and Asham award. She works for the Royal Literary Fund.
Saywell beat an all-female shortlist that included Irish writer Caoilinn Hughes, Lucy Caldwell, who won the award in 2021, biographer and novelist Laura Beatty, and Merryn Glover. Each of the authors shortlisted for the short story award receives £600. Their stories appear in an anthology published by Comma Press, and are available to listen to on BBC Sounds.
“Full of vivid descriptions, mounting tensions, and a compelling character, Ditto is a moving reminder of how much life a short story can hold and what’s simmering beneath the surface. It really is beautifully told,” said Dr Yvonne Battle-Felton, academic director for creative writing at the University of Cambridge.
Speirs was joined on the judging panel by 2022 winner Saba Sams and two former shortlisted writers, Tahmima Anam and Will Eaves, and Costa best first novel award winner, Andrew Michael Hurley.
The BBC national short story award is one of the UK’s major prizes for a single short story. Previous winners include Sarah Hall, Jonathan Buckley, Lucy Caldwell, Ingrid Persaud and Saba Sams. Last year’s award was won by Colwill Brown for You Cannot Thread a Moving Needle.
The winner of the young writer’s award, open to 14 to 18-year-olds, was also announced at the ceremony. Eloise Barrett, a 17-year-old sixth former from Birmingham, won for Bloodshed in Rafah, a “heartwrenching” story about the reality of a childhood affected by war.
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Ditto
After he made the call, Ditto ran from the public phone booth at the top of the street, past all seven houses, including his own, until he reached the place where the road ran out – the dead end, his father called it. He slowed there, as if he’d arrived somewhere he was expected. Beyond him, concealed by the night, was a sort of no man’s land – scrub and then a rocky embankment, and after that the railroad tracks. The sun was gone nearly an hour and lights had come on in houses and along the streets. Beneath Ditto’s sandshoes, the bitumen was gritty and loose, so he shifted his feet with great care, picked his way beyond the verge to where there was a patch of lantana. Crouching, he tucked himself into it and put his hand to his watch. It was his best thing, won in a competition. He slid his finger over the button that would illuminate its face but did not press for fear that this small light might reveal him. Instead, tensing his muscles, he listened to the night for a brief, frightened moment, then plugged his ears with his fingers and looked east, in the direction from where the police car would approach, if it came at all. The train would emerge from the same patch of blackness at 7.32pm. It passed by every night at the same time, on its way to Sydney.
“Twenty minutes,” the woman had told him at the booth. It was the last thing she’d said before she left him there. “Twenty minutes, I reckon, if you call now and say what I told you. They’ll turn up before the train goes past.”
The first thing she’d said (after she’d rapped on the glass door) was his birth name, not “Ditto”. “Your mother’s Lonnie, right?”
Ditto hadn’t replied right away. He knew the woman lived directly opposite the phone booth, but he’d never seen her speak to his mother, not on the street, nor in the corner shop, nor anywhere else. He was aware it looked as if he was up to no good, mucking about in the booth. It could be a novelty, especially if you didn’t have a phone at home, and sometimes even if you did. There were numbers you could dial, some for free, just for the fun of it. Indeed, an automated voice had been chanting in his ear – at the third stroke, it will be … Only, he’d not been mucking about. It was none of her business anyway. He’d adjusted his stance and stared at the dial, willing her to walk away. Instead, she’d hoisted the door open, and he’d almost dropped the receiver; in his panic, he’d banged his head on the glass. But then she’d put her hands up, palms out, and something about the way she did that made him want to fall into her arms. It was an awful feeling.
“Shhh,” she’d said, as if he was a wild thing trapped in that cramped space. “Shhh.” He’d remained perfectly still, clutching the receiver in his left hand, holding it away from his face, the automated voice now an articulated buzz – at the third stroke … at the third stroke …. She’d have heard it. Oh, the shame, and something else, indecipherable, a knot of it deep inside himself, a wave of heat rising from his neck and into his face; he’d looked away from those eyes of hers – had he not, they might have burned through his skin and exposed the ugly inside of him.
“She gave it to you, didn’t she,” the woman had said, indicating his now-closed fist, the coin. “Your mother.” He’d watched his feet, pulling the receiver to his chest, saying nothing. But she was unperturbed. “I’ve seen you here. I’ve seen you here plenty of times with a coin in your hand.” She’d pointed at the phone. “But I don’t reckon you make the call.”
Hunched in the lantana, Ditto’s stomach grew tight now, thinking of it, and his mouth watered like it had in that moment, when he was certain he would be sick.
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A full audio recording of Ditto is available on BBC Sounds.
• In the UK, call the national domestic abuse helpline on 0808 2000 247, or visit Women’s Aid. In the US, the domestic violence hotline is 1-800-799-SAFE (7233). In Australia, the national family violence counselling service is on 1800 737 732. Other international helplines may be found via www.befrienders.org. Use the following endnote if a story is about suicide after domestic abuse or a murder/suicide: In the UK, Samaritans can be contacted on freephone 116 123 and the domestic abuse helpline is 0808 2000 247. In the US, the suicide prevention lifeline is 988 and the domestic violence hotline is 1-800-799-SAFE (7233). In Australia, the crisis support service Lifeline is on 13 11 14 and the national family violence counselling service is on 1800 737 732. Other international helplines can be found via www.befrienders.org
