Read the winning entries in Worthing lockdown writing competition

Head judge Judy Upton said: “From emotional diaries to witty murder mysteries, amateur and professional writers across Sussex put pen to paper to explore their feelings about the lockdown and to share their love of the written word. I was hugely impressed by the breadth of subject matter and the truth, emotion and detail in all of these lockdown tales.”

First prize was won by Covid and Mrs Arbuthnot by Patricia Feinberg Stoner from Rustington; second by The Big Shop by Julia Macfarlane from Bognor Regis; and third by New Normal by Esther Reynolds from Staplefield.

Competition organiser Melody Bridges said: “The competition entries were carefully read by a panel of readers, as well as assessed by the head judge without their names so that the authors’ identities have not been revealed – until now!”

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COVID AND MISS ARBUTHNOT by Patricia Feinberg Stoner

The day Miss Arbuthnot discovered social media the entire village groaned.

Enid Arbuthnot was the queen of curtain twitchers. Her cottage at the north side of the village green was ideally placed to give her a clear view of the activities of her neighbours. And she watched. She watched as Miss Jones trotted home with a carrier bag sagging under the weight of what were unmistakeably gin bottles. She watched as Colonel Brewster-Smythe gazed resolutely in the other direction while his decrepit beagle squatted to leave an offering on the grass. She watched as little Micky Beresford filched an apple from the greengrocer’s stall when he thought nobody was looking.

And Miss Arbuthnot did more than just watch: she wrote. No weekly postbag at the Gorehampton Gazette was complete without one or more missives from the lady. Reaching for her bottle of green ink, specially chosen so her letters would stand out, she would chronicle the misdeeds of her fellow villagers.

‘Children have been seen feeding bread to ducks on the pond. The RSPB specifically states that bread is bad for ducks.’

‘That new woman at Number 32 needs to wash her net curtains, they are a disgrace.’

And every week the letters editor at the Gazette would sigh and wonder if it was time to publish yet another letter from Miss Arbuthnot, or if he could get away with it for one more week. You had to strike a balance between keeping the old biddy happy and boring the pants off your readers.

And then Miss Arbuthnot discovered Facebook.

Everybody blamed the vicar: well-meaning soul that he was, the Reverend Cedric had put a small paragraph in the parish newsletter extolling the virtues of The Gorehampton Village Pump. It was a Facebook page newly set up by Professor Mainwaring, with moderators Clarissa Mainwaring, Jenny Stokes and James Montague. Here, enthused the vicar, you will find all the news that is relevant to our little community. Has Miss Jones’ poodle gone missing again? Has a bunch of keys been found on the Green? Is someone looking for a window cleaner? Ask your question, share your news, air your views. Log on and you’ll discover a quick and easy way to keep in touch with all things pertinent to Gorehampton.

Miss Arbuthnot despised Facebook on principle. ‘I don’t ‘do’ the Internet,’ she would say to anyone who would listen. ‘It’s full of trolls and people who want to steal your bank details. I don’t see the need for it.’

On the other hand, Miss Arbuthnot was a committed reader of the parish newsletter. Anything the Reverend Cedric wrote must be, well, gospel. And if the vicar thought that Facebook, and in particular The Village Pump, was a Good Thing, it must be so. And so, for the first time in her life, Enid Arbuthnot went online.

There were difficulties. She almost gave up when Facebook wanted to know her email address. Miss Arbuthnot didn’t ‘do’ email. But then she noticed that there was an alternative: she could set up the account using her phone number. After much tooth-sucking she decided to risk it in the interests of communication.

Navigating her way to The Gorehampton Village Pump, Miss A gave a gasp of delight. Here was the platform she had been waiting for. The breathless waiting for Thursday, when the Gazette came out; the frequent disappointment when her views didn’t feature on the letters page - these were things of the past. Now all she had to do was type - laboriously, with two fingers – press Enter and, as if by magic, there it was on the page!

Twice or thrice daily the villagers were treated to Miss Arbuthnot’s opinions on everything from the freshness of the bread at Denny’s Bakery to the briefness of the shorts on Mrs Jenkins (‘At her age she should know better’). Strangely, only about a third of her posts actually appeared on the Pump page. When she complained to Professor Mainwaring he would explain kindly: ‘It’s the Internet, dear Miss A. You know how unreliable it is, things get lost.’ Miss Arbuthnot understood completely.

Winter passed, and with the advent of March came Lockdown. Covid 19 had reached the UK and the little village of Gorehampton on Sea was taking its precautions. People were nervously self-isolating and, inevitably, relying more and more heavily on social media to maintain some semblance of normal life. At the very end of March this alarming announcement appeared on the Gorehampton Village Pump.

‘Scientists now suspect that the spread of Coronavirus is due to excessive use of virtual communications. All screens, including computer screens, may have been infected. We strongly urge our community to wear protective masks and gloves when visiting the Pump.’

Miss Arbuthnot wasn’t surprised. She knew all about computer viruses. She immediately closed her laptop, and closed it remained for the duration. And, just to be on the safe side, she turned her television to the wall.

‘You are very wicked,’ scolded Clarissa Manwaring. ‘You know some people are going to take this seriously.’

‘Just a harmless April Fool joke,’ replied her husband. ‘We all need a laugh in these trying times.’

‘But it’s not April Fool,’ she objected. ‘Today is the 31st of March.

‘Ah well,’ said the Prof airily, ‘It’s bound to be the first somewhere. International date line and all that.’

Covid 19 raged through the UK for weeks. Thousands died. The Queen addressed the nation, confusing some people who wondered if it was time to order a turkey and look out the decorations. People queued politely at Tesco and searched online for flour and flowers. The Prime Minister went into in intensive care and the nation held its breath; he recovered and life, of a sorts, went on. By early June there were signs of the green shoots of recovery and by September it was all over.

Of Miss Arbuthnot there was no sign. Parish council meetings proceeded smoothly without her lobbying. Duck feeding went un-tutted and the ears of the Women’s Institute were spared her enthusiastic but tuneless rendering of Jerusalem. Even the Village Pump noticed her absence.

‘Don’t you think someone ought to tell her it’s all over,’ said Clarissa Mainwaring, one morning over breakfast. ‘I know she’s a tiresome old busybody, but we can’t have her in lockdown forever.’

‘Can’t we?’ said her husband. ‘Oh well, I suppose we can’t. I’ll tell her. Eventually.’

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The Big Shop by Julia Macfarlane

It’s the Big Shop tomorrow and therefore the scariest day of the week. Once a week, I don the disposable gloves and the DIY face-mask and head into Sainsbury’s. Not that I dispose of my gloves afterwards, they are too precious for that. Mine will be washed and hung out to dry as carefully as if they were diamond-studded, before going back in my bag for next time.

But for now, to prep myself for the next step in the Big Shop, me and the dog are setting out for our afternoon walk. This needs just as much planning – for a start, who gets the low-tide walk, the best walk – me or Colin? I won today. Low tide will be about half past four and if I set off now – four o’clock - we can walk through the trees to get to the beach.

“Harness on, Charlie!” Charlies bounces up and is dressed with about the same difficulty as I recall wriggling toddlers and winter coats. Next, a fleece for me, check the pockets – poo bags, yes, dog treats, yes. Front door key – check. Mobile phone pushed into pocket with key. Homemade face-mask slung around neck, to be pulled up quickly when walking in joggers’ wakes, or if someone gets too close. And finally, my ancient Sony MP3 player and trailing earbuds to stop my brain overflowing with the stress. Listen to the music, listen to the words. Although, don’t dance to the beat or sing along, not outside. Keep the insanity this side of the front door, please.

Lead and ball-thrower in hand we leave the house. The sky is Bognor blue, not a flight trail in sight. Check the alley is clear to ensure we don’t have to pass anyone, and stride through as fast as possible. Into the trees, or the woodland walk as our estate agent optimistically called it a decade ago. We sniggered at the time – a woodland walk! It’s a line of trees either side of a footpath between houses. But I have come to appreciate these huge trees, marking an old path to the beach, since long before our housing estate invaded a farmer’s fields.

I can name them all: jigsaw-leaved turkey oak followed by a waving sycamore, and a horse chestnut with an under-canopy of elder - frothy white bouquets competing with thick pink-frosted candles. Tiny, purple violets edge the path. Queen Anne’s Lace is everywhere and around a bend, the stink of Alexanders’ green umbels. Maybe by mid-winter I will be glad to fill my belly with these pungent medieval pot-herbs. A woodpecker’s drumming directs my view upwards, there he is, red head pounding away his love call. Nature carrying on, heedless of the disaster sweeping over humanity, is strangely comforting. I am blessed to live here and I know it.

The music on my player is on random and Peggy Lee makes way for a Prodigy track. The contrasts make me smile and snap me out of scary thoughts about where the world is heading. The phone rings. I pull it out and tuck my earbuds into my T-shirt top, where the beat continues to vibrate – like a late-night hotel disco several rooms away.

“Hello? Hi, Mam, how’s it going?”

What news can she possibly have; my sisters and I locked her down two weeks before the rest of the country and none of us can believe she has actually complied. She is on Week Nine, bless her, and the strain has been getting to her in the last few days.

“I’ve been out for a little walk.” She has been threatening this for days, building up her excuses as to why it is necessary: cramp in her legs, fear of fear-of-going-outside kicking in, everybody else is going out, etcetera, etcetera. I have sent her homemade facemasks knowing she will go out, because at 89 she is more obstinate and illogical than your average teenager ever was.

“Tut, tut, Mam, what will Evelyn say when I dob you in?” I chide her. I promised myself at the beginning that I will not tell Mam off no matter what she does, scared that my bullying, aggressive words might be the last time I speak to her; so I will accept that she has gone out against our authority and just try to make sure she stayed as safe as possible.

“ Get lost with your dobbing me in,” she jokes back. “I’ll tell her when I see her.” This said, with a hint of defiance. Evelyn is the only one of us living close enough to Mam to visit her during the lockdown but you cross her at your peril - she is the Miss Trunchbull in our family – and she is not even the eldest.

“Did you wear your mask?” I ask.

“No!” Mam snorts. “I was only going around the block. I wore my cream scarf, just in case.”

“OK, that’s good enough, I suppose. Did you meet anybody?”

“No, not a soul, but I went past the doctor’s so I popped in to see if I could have some more batteries for my hearing aids.”