Short Story Winners - 2025

We’re delighted to announce our 2025 Robert Bucke Short Story Competition winner, Mike Morris, for his brilliantly observed story Competitive Singles.

You can now read Mike’s winning story, along with the captivating entries from our two talented runners-up — Valerie Quinlivan (On the Greensward) and Elaine Waterhouse (Never Forget).

Competitive Singles by Mike Morris - 2025 winner

Competitive Singles at Frinton Tennis Club

There are few places I like better than Frinton Tennis Club. I have been a member off and on since I was a teenager, over 30 years.

The thatched clubhouse, beautifully prepared grass courts, the wooden dance floor in the ballroom and the black and white photographs of endless summers hark back to a more genteel age.

And the one thing that is a feature of all the best clubs - healthy competition both on and off the court.

Not that I am at all competitive of course.

I divorced several years ago from John but had heard on the grapevine that he was engaged to a lady called Elody who I had seen at the club but had not met.

Elody was several years younger than me.

She and John had surprisingly invited me to a dinner to celebrate this happy event. Some of their friends from the club - who were obviously my old friends too - John’s work colleagues and Elody’s immediate family.

John had phoned a couple of weeks previously to invite me.

He was a bit sheepish and not sure of the protocol and whether I would be OK with it all but apparently Elody was keen to meet me.

If Elody was keen then fine by me – free food and drink and a chat to some old friends. I was a member of the Tennis Club after all.

Besides, the divorce had been very amicable. By that stage neither of us loved the other, the children were off our hands and after nearly 30 years we both felt it was time to move on before ill health and lethargy trapped us long term.

From what I’d seen Elody was undoubtedly attractive - in a small, slightly rounded, bottle-blonde way.

Mind you, where John would have said she was bubbly I perhaps would have said simpering, where John would extol her tactile nature, I might have ventured clingy and in John’s eyes her charming innocence might , for me, verge on a sort of bland idiocy.

Who was I to judge. John was a nice, charming man and I really didn’t begrudge him his relationship with her as much as be slightly surprised by it.

John and I had played doubles with some success in our younger years and there was a photograph of me competing in the Ladies Singles back in the day on the clubhouse wall somewhere.

I had been a competent player, solid ground strokes quite athletic around the court. The photographer had, rather unkindly, caught me looking extremely competitive. Determined jaw and steely blue eyes forcing a cross court volley. Though obviously not in the picture I remember it nicked the line for game.

Elody, of course, was a non-playing social member.

After the dinner and speeches in which John graciously acknowledged my presence and quietly corrected Elody after her apology for the temperature of the Gazpacho, she made her way over to speak to me.

‘I don’t think we’ve met yet’ she said. With a slightly patronising tilt of the head and wan smile she held out her hand to shake mine ostentatiously displaying a very large diamond and sapphire engagement ring.

‘It was John’s mother’s you know’.

I did of course know it was John’s mother’s as he had once given the ring to me.

John had asked for the ring back after our divorce and for some reason this had rankled. Maybe I felt I had earned it.

No matter. The ring had deserved a proper clean before I returned it to him. One of the sapphires looked as though it was working loose so I took it to Jones the Jewellers in Colchester to have it looked at.

‘The value is in the cut and the size of the stones, the setting itself is pretty poor but the stones are good and reasonably valuable – but of course the true value of these things is in the emotional attachment to them’ Mr Jones had ventured.

‘Of course’ I said. ‘Exactly how much might the stones be worth?’

Jones peered closely at them through his eyepiece and measured them. ‘The diamond maybe £6,000 and the two sapphires £1500 each. I can re-fix the sapphire but the setting is almost worthless. You could always replace the stones with paste and use them in something more appropriate to their value’

‘We see a lot of these things – rather good stones in rather poor settings’

I remembered his phrase as I circulated chatting to the random collection of John’s boring colleagues, Elody’s relations and the one or two of John’s and my old friends who had clearly jumped ship to his and Elody’s circle.

Around ten-thirty I went to politely thank my hosts and leave.

‘Congratulations Elody’ I said ‘it is a lovely ring you should have it valued’ then ‘but of course the true value is in your emotional attachment to it’.

Elody seemed a bit discomfited and pulled John closer, pathetically nuzzling his neck.

Maybe it was just the obvious ease with which I had chatted and laughed with what were once my, but were now her, friends.

Or just an urge to protect her territory.

Who knows. Who cares.

As I made my way out of the dining room, past the bar and to the exit I noticed the photograph of a much younger me on the wall.

I stopped and as I peered at it I could see, reflected in the glass of the frame, an older version of the young woman in the photograph with the same strong determined jaw and steely eyes.

I smiled at my reflection and could not but admire how the light caught a large diamond pendant and a pair of beautiful sapphire earrings that I had recently commissioned from Jones of Colchester especially for the occasion.

Sometimes, much like Elody’s soup, small acts of revenge are dishes best served cold.

Never Forget by Elaine Waterhouse

“Haven’t seen you in a while, Mrs Stevens!”

Gothic lettering scrolls around the driver’s neck from his unbuttoned collar. Should she know his name? All young men look alike nowadays, tattoos no longer a distinguishing mark.

“September. Ben’s back at school.” Catherine doesn’t think he’s flirting with her, but it does no harm to remind him of her responsibilities. “Almost thirteen. And Gerald’s at work. A chance to run errands.”

The lad nods briefly, glancing over her shoulder. Perhaps a queue is forming.

“Connaught Street, please.”

An engine-hiss has no sooner announced their imminent departure than a jolt signals inevitable delay. The doors clatter and a tall man in a red scarf hauls himself onto the bus, his physique evidently not in keeping with the speed at which he has just run. Fifty perhaps. He nods his gratitude, then makes his way along the aisle, steadying himself on the headrests.

She’s not aware that she’s watching him until he beams a smile in her direction. She responds by shaking her head – a man of his age really should be more organised – then terminates the exchange by turning to the window.

Small puffs mosaic the blue above the trees. Mackerel sky, her mother would say. Not long wet and not long dry. She pats the brolly in her bag. She’s prepared for everything.

***

She stares at Woolworths. Which is not Woolworths. The building is unmistakeable, yet those etched bay windows, once crammed with crockery and cushions are now promoting 3 for 2 on vitamins. When did that happen? Catherine has a soft spot for Boots, but doubts that she’ll succeed in finding pick ’n’ mix for Ben. Still, it’s a good offer. No harm in making the most of it.

It's just as she emerges back out onto the street that the handle of her favourite Asda avocado tote gives way. Sixty-six multivitamin-tubes tumble in every possible direction across the pavement. She swallows a curse and is bending for the nearest escapee when a hand steadies her.

It’s the scarf-man from the bus.

“Here.” He proffers her bag, neatly repacked. Yet not her bag – the empty shell is still hanging limply on her arm.

“You have the avocado one too?” Ridiculous thing to say. Embarrassment talking.

“Always carry one. Never know when you might need it. My mother taught me that.” He coughs. “I’m taking a coffee to the beach. Want to join me?”

Going for coffee with strange middle-aged men who talk about their mothers is not normally something to which Catherine would agree. But this one looks decent enough. Handsome, at a pinch. A bit like Gerald, now she comes to think of it. Which reminds her.

She waggles her ring-finger. “You know I’m married?”

His smile softens. “I know. It’s just coffee.”

***

“You know, this is my favourite bench.” She wicks warmth from the paper cup as the wind whips at her coat, tipping the knobbly shopping-bag sideways. The clouds have morphed into lumbering monsters and on the horizon, a dark vertical band sucks at the canopy, uniting cloud and sea. Rain on the way.

“Mine too. Best view of the beach.”

He’s right. She used to picnic just here with Ben, before the bench arrived. Sitting on the grass bank meant avoiding sand in their lunch. Her son, who just wanted to get on with his sandcastles, disapproved.

“But they’re sandwiches. They’re meant to have sand in them.”

How old was he then? Five? Six? Years ago, but she sees him with startling clarity – curls peppered with sand, improbably long lashes, sun-burnished freckles across his cheeks. When turrets, moats and her approval were everything. Whereas now – what mattered to Ben now? Bikes? Football? Surely she must remember. She’s his mother, for goodness’ sake.

“Are you OK?”

A man is sitting beside her. The breeze ices the dampness on her cheek and she brushes it roughly, sitting a little straighter. What must he think of her?

“Fine, thank you. Just the wind in my eyes.” His gaze is kind, his scarf strangely familiar. “I’d best be off to catch my bus. Looks like rain.”

On cue, a huge droplet erupts onto her bag. She slips the clasp, extracts an umbrella, hesitates, then holds it out to her neighbour. “Always carry a spare. Never know when you might need it.”

To her surprise, he accepts. “Thanks. I’m heading that way too.”

She nods to the oddly-shaped bag between them. “Don’t forget your shopping.”

It’s then she notices the plaque on the back-rest.

In memory of Gerald Stevens who loved this view.

“Well, what a coincidence! That’s my surname too.”

The scarf-man pauses, strokes his hand over the brass and smiles. “Let’s go, Mrs Stevens.”

***

The light is fading as they make their way from the bus-stop to Willow Haven. A woman greets them at the doorway.

“Well, Catherine, you had us worried. Let’s get you a cup of tea.” She raises her eyebrows at the scarf-man. “Coming in?”

Fifteen minutes later in Wisteria Room, Catherine stirs her cup.

“It’s kind of you to walk me back, dear. I’m so sorry – I never asked your name.”

He sets down his tea, leans forward and places his hand over hers.

“I’m Ben. Mum, it’s me.”

She snatches away. But there’s something about his eyes. She stares, then raises a hand to trace his curls peppered with grey, his lashes magnified through glasses, his freckles beneath stubble.

“Ben.” Barely a whisper. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He presses her hand against his cheek. “I thought you might not remember. Might get upset. I didn’t want to spoil your day.”

“My darling boy, how could I ever forget you?”

They sit in this moment – seconds, minutes or hours. Neither of them keeps count. Only when the oversized clock on the mantlepiece strikes seven does Ben rise. At the door, he turns to watch his mother stirring her empty teacup.

“Thanks, Mum,” he says softly. “See you tomorrow.”

On the Greensward by Valerie Quinlivan

Sybil’s self-sufficiency was the basis of her contentment. Across the road from her flat was the grassland which she trod for her twice-daily walk. Her goal was always the first turreted building, distant but well before Connaught Avenue and the possible vulgarities of shoppers. The level green stretching before her contrasted with the changing blues and greens and violets of the sea below to her left. If she looked at all at this gentle beauty, she remained untouched by it.

Happy picnickers, children playing, offended her sense of propriety. She remembered with satisfaction her rebuke, years ago, to a young woman running towards her in the early morning,

‘No jogging on the Greensward!’

Sybil knew she had plenty of resources within herself, one of which was a tidy mind. A careful selection of programmes was marked out at the beginning of the week in the ‘Radio’. There was also her extensive reading, mainly biographies, and her complex geometric tapestry works.

Sybil ignored other walkers. But one was on the Greensward every day. He had caught her irritated attention because he was often standing stock-still, very upright, apparently absorbed in the rolling hiss of outgoing tide; or the misty horizon, pierced by the city of windmills. Sybil gave a disgusted snort at the latter brutish invasion of the horizon.

The man was nearer his eighties than she was, Sybil thought; always dressed in a neatly pressed, long-sleeved white shirt, narrow cotton trousers and a black-banded panama hat. Today she watched him walking, very deliberately, ahead of her. Sybil allowed herself a tight smile of amusement at the recollection of a phrase from years ago.

‘Spindle-shanks’, her Irish uncle would have called him; he had no buttocks to speak of. Uncle Joe would have termed her, in turn, ‘a fine figure of a woman’, implying ‘stout’. But Sybil was pleased with her authoritative portliness.

Sybil was not without imagination, and this man did engage it. Like her, she thought. Not a recluse, but solitary. Content with solitude. A thoughtful turn of mind, obviously, the way he stood and looked beyond things, wrapped in his thoughts. ‘We’re both intelligent and reserved’, she reflected. ‘Maybe I’ll address him – briefly – and if he responds…’

He had turned slowly towards a steep descent down to the Esplanade. Sybil was disconcerted. Never her intended route. However, she followed. He was standing stock still at the top of the steps, gazing away from her. His thin shoulders like a coat hanger under his shirt. He turned a little and she saw the pallor of his face.

She took a step nearer at the same moment that he turned fully towards her. She saw, with horror, that his face streamed with tears, unchecked down the furrows of his cheeks.

‘I thought you would speak to me’, he said. ‘I’ve seen you, and I felt you also had a loss, a grief, like me. My dear wife…But you are stoic…’ The tears flowed unabated.

Sybil was ferocious in her dismay and disappointment. ‘Get a grip’, her voice was hoarse with anger. ‘Have some control. You are making a display, an exhibition, of yourself’.

He flinched away from her in shock, then made a little bow.

‘Madame, my apologies. Misunderstanding. Sorry to have annoyed you.’ He turned back over the grass and walked, a little unsteadily, but very upright, away from her.

Sybil gazed after him in unaccustomed turmoil. She hurried home, but there her normal sense of containment abandoned her. She methodically prepared her supper and ate without the usual accompaniment of the evening news. Unable to settle, she poured a tot of the excellent single malt she rarely allowed herself. Then another.

‘Just a poor old widower with no inner resources’, she thought. ‘Not at all like me.’

Surprisingly, she slept almost at once. When she woke, it was only 4am, barely light. But what woke her were her own racking sobs, noisy and messy, her nose running and her shoulders shaking. She clambered clumsily out of bed to get one of her large white handkerchiefs.

What was the source of this shameful display? She had not cried since she was a little girl. ‘Up you get. Brave girls don’t cry.’ Consoling hugs were not her parents’ way. Although they had been proud of her achievements and her determined character.

But that harrowed face running with tears had not really been undignified, she thought grudgingly; if he could be brought to that dismal state by the loss of a partner, he was obviously not ‘his own man’. But he had not been convulsed and hiccupping as she had, for no reason that she could tell.

An unaccustomed feeling of shame crept up on her as she thought of her harsh words – to a stranger, too. ‘He will think me cruel. I shouldn’t care, but I do’.

Something had broken in her; through the cracks and crevices of her normal carapace.

‘I will find him and apologise, explain…Explain what? No, just say I’m sorry. The possibility of rejection was there, but she determined to confront it.

Sybil showered and had her breakfast. When at last it was a suitable time to go out, she opened the door to the morning. Girding herself, she went across the road. Only a couple with a dog could be seen. When they drew near, she saw they were middle-aged and comfortable looking.

‘Morning’, called the man, as they approached.

The woman straightened from throwing a stick for the dog.

‘Lovely morning. Isn’t the Greensward gorgeous?’

‘Indeed’, said Sybil, with an unpractised smile, ‘it is gorgeous’. She saw the man in the distance.