创办Bluebell杂志，对我来说仍然像一个梦。
上个月，当我们在伦敦举办杂志第一期的发布会，数十名各国作者齐聚一堂的时候，我还是有点不真实感。
一个英语可能是第四语言的（对我来说，潮州话、普通话、粤语分别是我的前三语言）写作者，怎么会想去发起这么一个吃力不讨好的纸质刊物项目？
我想文学的意义在于弥补国界带来的裂缝，弥补文化差异带来的误解，消灭语言所造成的壁垒。当我们用新的语言去创作，去表达，就获得了新的人格。"创作人格"看似虚拟的，其实是这个时代的可贵资产。因为创作者愿意从肉身俗务中抽离，去让自己回归纯净，写下这些可能注定默默无闻的文字。就像我，去办这本可能在英语主流文学世界注定默默无闻的杂志。
展开剩余96%在发布会上，巴基斯坦裔的英国女作家，任教于伦敦大学Birkbeck学院的创意写作教授Rosie Dastgir读了她的这篇《The Choosing》的小说节选。这是一部略带惊悚的未来小说。她想象未来可能还有这么一场大遣散（Evacuation),像二战中一样，孩子们被从伦敦带离，被不同的寄宿家庭领养：
在一个英国小村庄里，现代生活已逐渐崩塌，人们不得不恢复起旧日的方式来维系秩序。每到“选择”的日子，村民们聚集在绿地上，从伦敦送来的孩子中挑选领养对象，这既是出于善意，也夹杂着无奈与交易的意味。前警察Frank自任安置官，操持着名单与规矩，而村中照料者Bea则在心中挣扎。当她遇到名叫Cam的女孩时，局势开始发生微妙变化……
当Rosie在朗读的时候，全场安静，像Bluebell开在山谷里一样安静。我想，这正是我所期待的，一个全球化的文学时刻。我不知道她是从何发现了Bluebell 而给我们投稿的。而这确实是一本新生文学杂志令人高兴的时刻。
李梓新
三明治创始人
Bluebell杂志创始人
The Choosing (An Excerpt)
Written by Rosie Dastgir
Edited by Maya Goel
The day of the choosing was cloudless, unruffled by winds, the first properly warm spell in May. A good sign, the weather holding: no need to provide umbrellas, and for that small mercy, Frank was grateful. The villagers began arriving in dribs and drabs after work, congregating on the green, or by the pink Plough pub and the Spar that was also a sub post office. You could barely call it a village anymore, with fewer than three hundred inhabitants gathering to wait for the Greenline bus that was ferrying the latest batch of children evacuated from London to the country. What had seemed slow and inconsequential at first, the clampdowns, the internet shuttering, had suddenly sped up and overtaken them all.
This was the second choosing, and Frank, a retired policeman, was the billeting officer, self-appointed. Nobody was quite sure how he’d landed himself the role, but Bea, the village carer, said it was because he had time on his hands, and a knack for spreadsheets and bossing folk around. Bea was a widow, her children long gone, but she took care of her older brother, Andrew, or And, as he was known by everyone – on account of his stutter, the dangling sentences he could not complete. That day, she’d left him at home, minding the teapot in its crocheted cosy on the table, rather than risk the villagers upsetting him with their looks and their questions. He was simple, that was all, or so said Plum, who worked at the Spar, using the old parlance that had once more become acceptable.
People were clustering around the spot where the bus was due, and the women were saying things like, We’ve been blessed, haven’t we! The first sunny day in ages! and Oh no don’t jinx it, the washing’s been pegged out for the first time in weeks! There was bitter laughter at this, a knowing cackle, and Bea did her best to tune out. She glanced at her watch. Nearly time. Anyone know how many kids we’re getting? This was the postman, and nobody did. Nobody except for Frank, and he was busy, manically multitasking on the green. He was in charge of the list of names, and there’d also be an official register to fill out. God only knew why it needed doing twice! They had experimented with different approaches to the choosing, from the random to the informal, though in the end it was decided to let people choose for themselves. Let folk trust their instinct, Frank said, whenever anyone asked. He and his wife Lyn were childless, no regrets there; the house, their life, had been perfect until now. Still, there were upsides to sliding back to the before times, and Frank enjoyed civic-minded activities like producing the village newsletter he penned by hand and duplicated on an old printer they’d found in the defunct school.
The sun was beginning to slip behind the chimney pots, when the distant whine of the electric bus made everyone turn to look. On warm days like these, the driver’s dusty windscreen was angled open, and the shrill clamour of children’s voices broadcast into the clear bright air as they tumbled onto the green. By now, Frank was on top of arrangements, and when the man from the ministry strode over, pudgy hand outstretched, he gave a confident smile. The villagers had discovered it was a good idea to keep the official chap sweet, and Plum came bustling out from the back of the assembled gathering with a double sized box of new laid pullet eggs from her own hens for him to take back to London – where fresh produce was scarce.
Suddenly, there was a general crescendo in chatter on the green, an auditory urgency that can sometimes swell in large gatherings. The children stood around in loose constellations, having already made a few friends with each other on the long ride from the city. Now that the mobile phones had gone, there was no choice but to interact - it was one of the benefits of purging them. How relieved the parents had been at first, until they understood that the big device cull was only the beginning. They still disagreed about when the beginning actually was, as if pinpointing the moment would somehow help them make sense of it all.
Frank stepped into action, organising the children into lines so that the villagers could make their choices more easily. Fair haired girls were very popular, as were the cheeky chopped little boys, while the adolescents held back in clusters, trying not to look gawky. The event was proceeding quickly by now, with children being sized up and chosen by elderly couples or harried young families, who walked them back to their houses in the lanes that tapered out of sight beyond the green. There were a few single people too, men and women at a variety of life stages, who pondered before making their choices. Bea hated this bit. Hated how it felt like picking sweets from the old pick ‘n’ mix in Woolworths she remembered from when she was a girl, or like choosing teams at school for PE when it was always the same poor kiddie picked last. She’d had a little boy the first time round, painfully shy, who’d unfortunately unsettled Andrew. But this time she was hoping for a girl. There’d been pressure upon Bea to put Andrew in one of the new Special Institutes on Mersea Isle, unpleasant murmurings of him being disturbed, a bit touched. She’d flatly refused.
She noticed a girl hanging around close to the bus, as if she might get on board and go back to London, which was obviously not a possibility. She had a wheelie suitcase and a backpack festooned with cute dangling keyrings, like lots of the youngsters did these days, her thin legs poking out from frayed cut-off jeans. Definitely not poor though, Bea decided, it was just the fashion, the fraying denim, the holes, though she saw too that there was something else about her, something that was clearly… different. Hard to say what, or maybe not hard. Maybe it was her striking olive looks, the mirror black gleam of her Cleopatra bob. Exotic looking, a bit tomboyish. The girl hugged her waist now, swaying slightly to and fro in a bid to seem – what? Aloof, beyond caring? She wasn’t, of course. Yearned to be taken home, like they all did, that was the cruelty of it. Bea approached her, braced to sound as friendly and cheerful as possible, as if this whole thing were entirely normal, which in a way now, it was. She introduced herself, and asked the girl’s name.
I’m Cam, she replied. Well, that’s what everyone calls me. She didn’t venture her full name: no need to tell anyone and risk questions.
Oh Cam’s a nice name for a girl信捷策路, really unusual.
Is it?
Well, I’ve not heard it before. So how old are you, Cam?
The girl hesitated. Thirteen, well, nearly fourteen, she said. Older than she looked, as people were fond of telling her.
So you’ve a birthday coming up then. That’s nice, something to look forward to.
Cam was silent. What was nice about it?
Bea flushed at her own blunder, then tried again. How would you like to come home with me? she said. She explained that she lived in a cottage with her older brother. Andrew’s very nice, a kind soul, she added, and we’re on the edge of the parkland, where you can play.
Play? Hadn’t she just asked her how old she was? The fake fun vibe of the occasion was peak cringe, Cam thought, but at least this place they’d been sent to hadn’t gone for the lame bunting and stale cup cakes, the wheezy desperation of a bouncy castle. Here it was simple, no gimmicks: just the pub and the Spar and a crowd of mostly, like, sad old people waiting around in little huddles. Not all of them were that old, to be fair. Were they sad, though? Not literally; they were actually weirdly cheerful, scarily so, trying really hard to be – what? Welcoming? Friendly? Which seemed unlikely, given the circumstances. Whatever happened, she was desperately hoping that at least she wouldn’t be stuck with someone weird or mean, or both. She didn’t want to be one of the leftovers that she’d heard them talk about on the bus. But Bea seemed OK. Friendly at least, like someone’s granny, or maybe not that old. Nobody else had chosen her, not that Cam envied the others: to be led away by total strangers to their strange homes with their unfamiliar kitchens and smells and ways. It won’t be forever, her parents had said, except it already was. Goodbyes had been hurried, anguished, muted. She was yet to receive a letter from them. She still did not know for sure where they’d gone. Sent by boat to the East Coast of America, she’d heard, but she couldn’t be sure. She thought about the violet fizzy drink they’d been offered on the bus by the blonde woman in uniform. Supposedly to stop them from throwing up on the long journey, someone said, though she knew better than to believe them. Nothing they were told was true, and she was taking no chances.
The woman was waiting. What do you say, Cam?
Alright then, I’ll come with you.
Bea went to take the handle of her suitcase, but Cam asked if they could wait a minute. No rush, the woman said. Her voice was kind.
When it was nearly done, the villagers deciding between the last few children, Frank checked the register for the man from the ministry, who waited patiently before scanning the list. A yellow light popped on in the Plough, and a couple of people were settling on the bench outside for an early evening pint. The process had gone smoothly this time, except that there was one girl left: a headache. She’d been silent on the bus when they’d repeatedly asked her her name. Nobody took any notice of her now, except for Cam. She’d sat in the seat beside her on the journey from the coast, and written her name on a scrap of paper that Cam had hidden in her pocket. When they’d stood waiting on the green, Cam had seen a family approach her with idle curiosity before drifting away. Others had done the same, giving her a wide berth, as if tuning into a silent frequency that warded them off. Clearly she was not from here, they could tell from her looks, and the weathered carrier bags she held in each hand.
It’ll be a right royal pain to have to take her back to Canvey Isle, the man from the ministry was saying to Frank, and London is out of the question! She was one of the foreign girls, which made things, well, complicated.
I’m in your capable hands, Frank, he said. You did say there’d be no issues this time? The raised inflection in his voice was jarring. To be fair, it hadn’t really been Frank’s fault what happened at the first choosing, but the whole thing had been a shambles. The rushed paperwork beneath a makeshift marquis heavily pillowed with rainwater. The confusions and the flat refusals, and those left till last paraded through the village long after dark, knocking on doors till midnight. The five-year-old child seen walking into the night with a stranger.
Fear not! declared Frank. We’ll see what can be done! This upbeat yet vague reassurance was his specialism. After all, he had the village to think of, and there were clear safeguarding concerns, not to mention his own standing. People could not be forced into taking a child they did not want. The man from the ministry tilted his face into the deepening blue sky, eyes tightly shut. Had everyone in the village actually shown up, because it seemed to him as if there’d been a drop off in numbers?
Frank held his ground. It’s a small place, he said, barely a hamlet.
Only if I’m to escort her back to Canvey Isle, said the man, there’ll be repercussions.
Frank smiled, fuming. He had his red lines.
The bus driver began yawn-checking his watch, performing impatience: this could take a bloody age, and he was eager to get going by nightfall.
But Frank was no fool, banking upon the lateness of the hour, and how at a certain point, the onus would be upon the man to take the girl away. That was his actual job, wasn’t it, and if his petty gripe at this likely outcome was infuriating, at least, thought Frank, they would not be saddled with her here.
I’m afraid we can’t help on this occasion, he said at last, chuffed at his own tough diplomacy.
Bea laid her hand on Cam’s shoulder, but she did not move. Her gaze was trained upon the male figure striding purposefully across the green to fetch the girl back. She turned to Bea and suddenly cried, We can’t go without her!
Without who? Bea was confused, and then she saw. Saw the man from the ministry chivvying the foreign girl back towards the bus, speaking in staccato bursts to make her do as she was told.
Cam’s voice rose to a pitch. She’s my sister, she was saying. Which wasn’t true, but sometimes you have to tell a little white lie, her mum once said, to stop something worse happening.
Then Bea held Cam close and spoke in a whisper. You girls got separated from each other when you got here, didn’t you?
The safety net of collusion. Cam nodded.
Before she could change her mind, Bea was hurrying across the Green, waving her arms at the startled men, shouting, wait, no, no, wait a second, there’s been a mistake!
They’re sisters, she insisted, they can’t be separated from one another, it’s not allowed. You know that, Frank, as well as this gentleman does. There are rules, she said.
The church bell rang on the half hour, and the bus driver rubbed the rear view mirror with his cuff. Bea said to Cam, your sister’s coming with us, don’t you worry.
A murmuring rippled through the straggle of villagers, but nobody dared speak up. That would come later, in the days and weeks ahead. She’d taken in two sisters, poor kiddies, because how could she rest when she’d got a spare room and perish the thought of them wanting a shelter? Or this was how she put it to the first of the villagers who arrived at her front door when word got round.
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