by Tim Ewins
But then, the haddocks didn’t see Shakey either. They didn’t see the fishermen and they didn’t see the tourists. They didn’t know that Shakey was waiting in Fishton for a girl called Moira, they would never find out that the smallest fisherman on the boat always struggled when making small talk with girls, and they didn’t care about any of the hundreds of stories that the tourists kept within them.
And that’s a shame really, if you think about it.
* * *
Shakey wasn’t sure what to do with his time in Fishton. He knew that Moira would be there when she returned from Fiji, but he didn’t know when that would be, and he didn’t know where her parents lived.
Most days, he had watched the fishermen bring the fish in and then queued with the rest of the tourists at one of the fish shops. He’d enjoyed a game of pirate-themed mini-golf (he was only human) and chatted to several people with bells around their ankles about music.
He’d walked past the old fish factory to find that the building was empty and unused. He didn’t fully remember the old moustache’s story but seeing the building derelict made Shakey smile an insanely wide smile for some reason.
One night, in one of Fishton’s darkened pubs, Shakey had spoken to an old man wearing an England football shirt and large leather boots. The man told him several stories from his fishing days. There were stories of treacherous storms and of sea creatures that nearly sank one of the many boats he had captained. He told Shakey about impressive hauls and underhand deals with restaurants and shops that he was proud of. Before Shakey left the pub, the man with the England shirt boasted about the time he’d caught a stowaway on his boat and heroically handed him in to the police, but, as I’m sure you can tell, the man’s stories were not completely accurate.
By the end of spring, Shakey felt at home in Fishton. He loved the quaint cobbled streets, the sign that pointed to the only road in and out of town and the fun names that the fish shops had. Fishton truly was ‘A Plaice to Remember’, but no matter how much Shakey roamed the streets in the day and the pubs in the evening, he was yet to see Moira.
In an attempt to increase his search, Shakey started to participate in some of the town’s summer street folk dances so he could get a good look at who was in the crowds (or, at least, that’s what he told himself), and he applied to go to every single town hall social group, just in case. Moira wasn’t at the knitting group and she wasn’t at the scarecrow-making group. It was when Shakey sat down to discuss a fear of dust, which he didn’t actually have, to a group of impeccably clean men and women, that he realised his search was getting desperate.
The following day, Shakey decided to stop trying. He would stay in Fishton and at some point, Moira would turn up, but until then, he would relax. He rang his parents and asked if they wanted to visit him in the next couple of months (they did) and he packed a small bag with a towel, sunglasses and some headphones. He walked out of his room, down the pebbled steps into town, around the corner, past the pirate-themed mini-golf and down the slipway onto Fishton beach. He unrolled his towel onto the sand, put his headphones in and looked out to sea.
Shakey wondered what country he’d get to if he travelled directly across the North Sea from where he was sitting. Probably Norway, he thought. Maybe Sweden. He put his elbows on the sand, leaned his head back, relaxed and finally he fell asleep.
* * *
The beach was crowded when Shakey woke up. A group of gulls were circling above him in the sky and a small boy ran past him, scattering sand on his chest. Shakey stood up, dusted the sand off him and walked to the water’s edge to cool down.
The beach was alive with crowds of people sunbathing and enjoying the sea. A lady was playfully splashing her young son while he giggled and unsuccessfully tried to push the water back at her. A large woman rubbed sun-tan lotion onto her equally large husband’s hairy shoulders and then pulled a hair out from her fingers. A teenage couple sat on the beach wall eating fish and chips together, and a million stories went unnoticed by a million others.
On his way back to his towel, Shakey noticed a lady dressed in colourful baggy trousers, a white shirt, sunglasses and a wide-rimmed straw hat, standing up straight at the back of the beach. One of her hands was held up to her forehead as if she was searching for something. Then she looked to her right. After a minute or two she looked down to the floor.
Then she looked to her left. Shakey watched the lady scan the beach two more times as he walked past his towel and through the crowd of people. He passed a hundred different lives and a million unique stories as he walked to the back of the beach.
‘Um,’ Shakey started as he approached, ‘Jan?’
44
A small quail who re-occupied the tree
Sweden. 1979.
With two quails to the right of her and one on the left, the quail who used to occupy the tree listened to the same deafening noises of the garage that she had listened to every day for the past year.
Noise is good, she chirped to herself, as she did every day. Noise is forgetting.
Some days aren’t like every other day though. Some days change everything.
The raised hood above her head shook and the engine she was sitting on jolted. That had never happened before. Over the past month, the quail had watched the garage slowly empty. She’d watched as men had taken down a sign outside the garage door, and she’d noticed fewer people come into the garage every day. She had never expected them to clear out her home.
The wheels started rolling, and she saw that the three quails she shared an engine with (but had still never acknowledged) looked just as panicked as she did. As they rolled onto the street and across the road, the hood dropped and the four of them were plunged into total blackness.
A year ago, this would have been perfect. A year ago, the quail would have appreciated blackness, but today she was scared.
She could hear faint noises from outside but nothing distinguishable over the loud roar of the old, previously unused car engine. After what had felt like hours in the dark, the engine stopped.
‘I reckon there’s something jammed in there,’ a man’s voice called to another man in the car, although the quail didn’t understand. ‘I’ll have a look.’
The boot popped open and the engine flooded with light. The four quails all jumped out, a little blinded and a little clumsy.
As her eyes adjusted to the light, the quail began to make out where she was. It was St. Djurgården, her old home. Her thoughts and her memories flooded back to her in the quiet of the park, but she found that she didn’t want darkness and she didn’t long for noise.
‘Chirp,’ said another quail. It was one of the quails from the engine.
In the noise of the garage, she’d never heard him chirp. She looked back at him.
‘Chirp,’ said the quail.
Acknowledgements
It has taken me around four years to write this book and I really hope you enjoyed it. Thank you for reading.
I’ve had a lot of help whilst writing We Are Animals, long before it was finished, and even before I started. In particular, I want to thank Gemma Tordoff, Hannah and Harry Parkin (and baby Artie, although, lets be honest, Artie, you mainly dribbled) and Beth Geere for going through the chapters for me, editing them, and letting me know what you liked and what you didn’t. You have all been invaluable.
Thanks also to Mum and Dad, John Howell, Paula Ewins, my sister Katie Ewins, Mark Smith and Stan Smith (of course), Ann Trotter, Debbie and Matt Hepworth, the Giles family, Becky O’Neill, Chris Coomber, Craig Evans, Sue and Ade Clark, Emily and Luke Sessions-Glenn, Chris, Shell and Alex Pavey, Greg Cox, Ali Castriotis, Jake Cooper, Dan Hiles, Lucie Ellrich, Sara Mather and Tim Blowers. You have all changed the book in some way, and I am very grateful for that. You made it better.
Thank you to all my employers for allowing me to book a meeting room every day in my
lunch breaks to write.
Thank you to everyone at Lightning Books for deciding that this silly tale was worth publishing. Thanks, in particular to Dan and Clio for all of your time, effort and hard work on the book, as well as to Simon and Ifan.
Thank you to my wife Gemma, not just for the editing, but also for everything, always. I also want to thank my son, Indy. I can’t honestly say that you helped me write this book. The truth is that there were probably times when you hindered it (your mum could tell which chapters I’d written on only three hours sleep), but thank you anyway, for being the perfect son that you are.
Luther (*nods head).
Finally, I want to thank all my family and friends for the love and support I’ve had throughout my life with everything I’ve done. You’re all amazing.
About the author
Tim has enjoyed an eight-year stand-up career alongside his accidental career in finance.
He has previously written for DNA Mumbai, had two short stories highly commended and published in A Tail of A Mouse and When You Read This I Will Be Dead, two anthologies by Michael Terence Publishing, and enjoyed a very brief acting stint (he’s in that film Bronson, somewhere in the background).
We Are Animals is his first novel.
When not writing, he enjoys travel, reading (of course), cycling and spending time with his wife, son and dog in Bristol.
Read more about Tim and his work at https://timewins.wordpress.com/
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Follow him on Twitter @EwinsTim