The Red Jag and Other Stories [Paperback]

A collection of powerful, witty short stories set in multi-cultural Britain. One of Ray French's strong points is his ability to create believable, nuanced people from all kinds of backgrounds. He has a natural flair for dialogue and plot, and a lively sense of the comic as well as the tragic aspects of the ethnic tensions within society. The main themes of belonging and exile and parent/child relationships run through all the stories, making the book a coherent and intriguing read.

I lived in Cardiff for many years before I even realised I was an Indian, the white man's bad medicine had affected me so much.

In a dead end Welsh town, a lonely boy falls under the spell of a newcomer, who claims he is a Native American. A soldier on leave from Northern Ireland discovers that life back in the Valleys is more dangerous than patrolling Belfast. A second-rate cabaret singer is haunted by the thirty-year-old memory of a meeting with Paul Robeson which, instead of inspiring him, destroyed his idealism.

There was a man ahead washing his car, a red jag. It was the kind of car Steve McQueen would drive. As we drew closer I slowed down to get a better look. It was the most beautiful car I'd ever seen.

In the title story, the red jag is a symbol of glamour to the boy, but when his father clashes with the owner he initiates a chain of events that will shatter his relationship with his son.

Thirteen stories characterised by strong narratives full of twists and turns, memorable characters, surreal humour and dark, unsettling undercurrents.

Ray French was born in Newport, South Wales, to Irish parents, from County Wexford. After studying at Leicester and Lancaster Universities he worked in the book trade, the theatre, with people with disabilities, and as a cartoonist. He currently works in Camden Town Library and Camden Information Services and lives in London with his partner and their daughter. Several of his stories have been used on Radio 4's Short Story slot.

from the story Life on the Reservation

It was an absolutely brilliant idea. It took all day. First I helped Red Cloud and Pretty Hawk dig the pits, then mix the cement. He filled the pits with concrete, then fixed an iron bar into each one. Some of the people who lived in the treehouses had gathered round to watch by then, wondering what we were doing. 'When I see them coming, I'll jump in here and handcuff myself to that bar', said Red Cloud, and Pretty Hawk will do the same in there. Pretty Hawk smiled at everyone. She was a lot older than mam, but she looked really nice. They daren't try and cut through it, there's not enough room in there to swing a cat, they'd end up chopping my arm off. They'll have to dig around behind the concrete. When I did this in Crynant, it took them three days to get me out. 'Nice one', said Mole. He and Ratty had been digging tunnels all day, he was still wearing his miner's helmet with the floppy ears on the side. They had enough food and drink down there to last them for weeks.Everyone helped each other out here, no one argued. On the reservation, they didn't know how to do anything except argue all day and get drunk down the pub. But here, everyone stuck together. The white man would never win.

Dad sat at home all day, drinking and watching TV. He never stopped complaining; everyone on it annoyed him. 'Not this moron again.' 'How many times have they shown this now?' '...I could have done better myself.' He never turned it off though. The white man's rubbish was rotting his brain. When the adverts were on, he turned the sound down and read his book, Banzai You Bastards!, about the way the Japanese tortured people during the war.Him and mam hardly talked to each other at all now. If one of them came in the room, the other one would leave. Lyndon was too young to realise what was going on. Helen was just a baby. I was the only one who could do anything about it. I tried talking to mam first, she'd listen, dad never listened. 'Go away, I'm busy.' She wasn't busy, she was standing on the back doorstep, smoking. She'd been crying. 'Mam, what's wrong?' 'Nothing, go and play.' I stayed where I was. I wanted to show her I understood, that I could see what was going on. That there was no need to pretend with me the way she did with Lyndon. 'You've no idea how much I've got on my plate.' She was always going on about how much she had on her plate. It didn't make any sense. 'We'll never be happy, trying to live like white people.' She lost her temper. 'For God's sake Kevin. Why can't you be like other kids?' I didn't expect that. 'I don't know what you're on about half the time, I really don't. God knows where you get it from.' Her bottom lip started to tremble. She rubbed her forehead with the tips of her fingers. 'You make me nervous, the way you hang around, watching me all the time. I don't know what you want from me. Why do you always have to look so bloody disapproving?' 'Mam, we have to leave the reservation...' She frowned, screwed her eyes shut. 'What are you on about now? God, is there nowhere in this house I can get any peace?' It was going wrong. This wasn't how I'd imagined it. 'Stop that!' I was kicking the door jamb. I couldn't help it. She was making me nervous. As soon as she told me to stop it, I started kicking it even harder. I didn't mean to. 'Between you and your father I'll end up in St Woolos.' St Woolos was the mental home out on the edge of town. Mam said it was where they put people who couldn't cope. Dad said it was full of men who'd been driven mad by their wives. 'It couldn't be any worse than this.' She went and locked herself in the bathroom. I was the only one who could see what was happening.

Once our lands stretched far to the east, all the way to the sea. But gradually the settlers pushed us back. We'd lost our colouring, become pale and weak, through being penned in for so long on the reservation. In our dreams, we were brave warriors but when we woke, or sobered up, we wept at what we'd become.

One minute it was a sunny afternoon, the next the streets were filling with thick black smoke. I ran inside, choking. A pounding noise started. Thok! Thok! Thok!