Artist, writer.
Anthea Nicholson began writing fiction later in life, coming from the profession of a visual artist. She took an MA in creative writing at Bath Spa University, 2005 and was then writer in residence for a year on a Dartmoor sheep farm. Further distractions included building a dwelling and reclaiming wildlife habitat on the outskirts of Tbilisi with her Georgian partner.
She is also based in Bristol, England and lives somewhat haphazardly between the two places. “The Banner of the Passing Clouds”, published by Granta Books, 2013, is Anthea Nicholson's debut novel. She is currently working on the next one.
Anthea Nicholson's participation in Tbilisi International Literature Festival is supported by British Council in Georgia.
The Banner of The Passing Clouds
(Extract from the Novel)
He followed the refugee woman into the store. The city
was full of refugees now and those that found a private
shelter like this were fortunate. They had made a home
of the corrugated barn. Straw mattresses were laid on pallets,
there was a rickety table, three-legged stools, a tin
stove to cook on, their few clothes hanging on nails, a
paper icon of Saint George hooked onto a splinter of wood
from an upright support.
He said a greeting to the two men sitting at the table and
they thanked him for the water. He could not refuse when
the woman asked him to sit and eat with them. She set
the bucket to warm on the stove and brought a dish of
beans and some dry bread. The men left the table and she
sat with a sigh and rubbed her leg. He spooned out some
beans and tore a crust of bread and ate as she watched
him. When he was finished he thanked her and went to
leave but she said, No, stay. And she leaned toward him
and thumped her chest and said, I was a teacher. Things
were good, we had a fine home. Look at him, my husband,
a worthless drunk now but he was famous not so long
ago.
She turned to the man who was her husband and he
grinned foolishly and nodded.
His friend slapped him on the back saying, Aye, you were
famous not so long ago. Why not show our visitor? Come
on man, stand up and do your best.
The man looked puzzled for a moment but then he stood,
took a small breath and began to sing. His wife covered
her face and kneaded her brow. The voice rose high and
tender as the man sang of a small industrial town and how
he must leave and not return to the beloved vines he had
planted in his garden there.