Robert Westall: Best British short story writer since the war?

This year marks the 15th anniversary of Robert Westall's death. There should be articles and retrospectives and solemn acts of rememberance for this great Tyneside writer, but Westall made several serious mistakes that prevented this from happening. Indeed, if a British writer should ever want to be shamefully under-rated, they could do no better than to follow the 4 point Westall plan:

1. Write short stories. Lots of brilliant short stories. Nobody in the London media establishment values short stories unless they are written by blind Argentinians and have mirrors in them.

2. Don't live in London. Don't write about London. Don't mention London. ("Unless you write about the city we all live in, your work will seem so terribly parrochial darling!")

3. Specialise in not just one, but two chronically unfashionable genres; ghost stories and sci-fi.

4. Allow your work to be marketed as books for teenagers.

Number 4 was the factor that really stitched Westall up. People who would wank themselves blind over MR James' Ghost Stories would never consider Westall's work worthy of a second look because it was "for kids". This despite the fact that Westall dealt with themes of loss, sex, death, growing old, poverty and the whole twentieth century history of Britain.

When he is mentioned at all today, it is usually in reference to his war novels The Machine Gunners and Fathom Five. This was largely because they fit with the more fashionable kitchen-sink aesthetic of "regional" fiction, which was popular with the literati in the 70's and 80's, but to my mind it is not his best work.

His collections of short stories are spectacularly good (Rachel and The Angel, The Haunting of Chas MacGill), scary thoughtful and tightly written gems. I also loved his supernatural novels, particularly "The Scarecrows". They are top draw horror and sci-fi, much better than what most of his for-adults counterparts were knocking out at the time.

One story of his has stuck in my mind over the 17 years since I first read it.

It is classic McGuffin story, about a gang of bikers in their late teens who go up to reputedly haunted abbey. Obviously the reader expects the apparition of a spectral nun, but nothing of the sort happens and the lads just lark about, in a beautifully observed scene with one of the best illustrations of the complex relationship between a group of male friends I've ever seen in print.

The most charismatic of the group, Geronimo drives off separately, then the rest go home. The narrator, one of the lads, then describes how he finds out Geronimo was killed in a crash, and tells how his funeral procession was escorted by hundreds of bikers. At the end of the tale we realise it's a few years later, and the narrator explains he is getting married next year and will trade his bike for a family car. He talks about how every day he is getting further from Geronimo, and closer to the boring cardigan-wearing middle-aged men they used to laugh at. But before he sells, he will go for one last ride, sure that Geronimo will be with him, riding just outside his peripheral vision.

It is one of the most beautiful laments for the loss of a friend, and the loss of youth, that I have ever read, and it still haunts me today.

Kids' books my arse.