Booker honours Beryl

A posthumous competition in tribute to Beryl Bainbridge's novels.

The novelist Beryl Bainbridge, who died last July aged 77, was shortlisted for the Booker Prize five times during her career -- but never won. Now the Booker Foundation has created a special prize in her honour -- the Man Booker Best of Beryl. Via an online poll on the Man Booker website, the public are invited to vote for their favourite novel from the five shortlisted titles -- The Dressmaker (1973); The Bottle Factory Outing (1974); An Awfully Big Adventure (1990); Every Man for Himself (1996) and Master Georgie (1998). The winning novel, announced in mid April, will receive the new accolade.

No author has ever been shortlisted so many times for the prize, leading the press to nickname her "the Booker bridesmaid", though she won numerous other literary awards.

Bainbridge wrote occasionally for the New Statesman, largely to the magazine's Diary column. Here is an excerpt from 2003, in which she describes "the day a florist's van caused mayhem", resulting in a crash and unfortunate mouth injuries:

On Saturday I went out to dinner. My host is always so generous with the whisky that I felt I must buy him a bottle. Coming down the alleyway near my home, I met mad Dickie. He's an educated man and kindly, but he does like his heroin or whatever it is and is sometimes a little the worse for wear. He insisted on escorting me to the off-licence, which was nice of him, but we were in Camden Town and no sooner had we emerged on to the High Street than several of his fellow sufferers greeted him with delight. They came into the off-licence with me; we were all cut and bruised about the face. I shall never be able to go to that particular shop again.

Born in Liverpool, Bainbridge started her career as an actress and began writing after the birth of her three children. She won the Whitbread Prize twice as well as the David Cohen and James Tait Black Memorial Prize. In 2000 she was made a dame.

Show Hide image

"The Anatolian Fertility Goddess": a poem by Fiona Pitt-Kethley

Across the Golden Horn in Karakoy. . . 

Across the Golden Horn in Karakoy,
a maze of ancient, crooked, cobbled streets
contains the brothels of old Istanbul.
A vendor at the bottom of the hill
sells macho-hot green chilli sandwiches.
A cudgel-wielding policeman guards the gate.
 
One year, dressed as a man, I went inside
(women and drunks are not allowed in there).
I mingled with the mass of customers,
in shirt, grey trousers, heavy walking boots.
A thick tweed jacket flattened out my breasts.
A khaki forage cap concealed my hair.
 
The night was young, the queues at doors were short.
Far down the street a crowd of men stood round
and watched a woman dancing in a house.
Her sixty, sixty, sixty figure poured inside
a flesh-tone, skin-tight, Lycra leotard,
quivered like milk-jelly on a shaken plate.
 
I’ve seen her type before in small museums –
primeval blobs of roughly sculpted stone –
the earliest form of goddess known to man.


Fiona Pitt-Kethley is a British poet, novelist and journalist living in Spain. Her Selected Poems was published in 2008 by Salt.

This article first appeared in the 26 May 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit odd squad