Such Stuff: A Story-Maker's Inspiration

  “About a hundred and fifty years ago, they say there were just twenty or thirty people living on Samson – Woodcocks and Webbers mostly. A poor living they had, couldn’t grow much except a few potatoes. Lived off limpets mostly. That’s what turned their skin yellow. Did a bit of fishing. But it was a struggle to survive over there. Well, one morning after a stormy night they woke up and saw this ship stuck fast on the sandbank. They rowed out to her and climbed on board. There were a couple of French soldiers on board. The men of Samson took them prisoner – we were at war with France at the time. Then they waited until the tide floated the ship off the sandbank, and set sail for the mainland. They were going to sail her to Plymouth and sell her. What luck! She’d make the island’s fortune! Off they sailed into the sunset, leaving the women and children behind.

  Well, that ship never reached the mainland. She went down on the Wolf Rock off Land’s End. All the men of Samson were drowned, all the French soldiers. So this lucky ship that was to make everything right on Samson, bring them money to repair the houses, build a proper fishing boat, turned out to be nothing but a curse. With all the men drowned, just the women and old folk and children were left on Samson. They tried to survive but they couldn’t. Just three years later, the last of the women left with her little boy, who was deaf, made deaf by the curse, she always said. As she pushed the little rowing boat off Samson, her little boy at the oars, she spat on the sand and cursed the place. She brought the boy to Bryher, and because he was deaf, he didn’t like mixing with the other children. They’d tease him. He preferred the birds. He’d feed them. Wherever there were birds flying, the islanders on Bryher always knew he wouldn’t be far away. When he grew up they called him, ‘the Birdman’.” There was a long silence when she’d finished. “Oh, yes, there’s ghosts on Samson all right, the ghosts of all those poor drowned men.”

  But it wasn’t just that story, that happening, that enabled me to write the story so quickly; it was the islands themselves. I got to know both Samson and Bryher after that as well as I knew the countryside around my home in Devon. I came to know all the beaches and cliffs, Timmy’s Hill, Watch Hill, Hell Bay, Green Bay, Rushy Bay, and the strange pool where the swans come in and land every day. I began my story in that pool, with these swans. There, the children wanted to sail their toy sailing boats, but the swans threaten them, and they are forced to sail them off Rushy Bay, opposite Samson Island, where no one is ever supposed to go. Set foot on that place, you’re cursed for ever! they are told. Never go there. Well, one day they do. And that’s where the Birdman comes in, and the cottages and the ghosts.

  But what about the whales? you’re thinking. Well, whales are washed up on the shores of Scilly – pilot whales mostly – and so are leatherback turtles.

  It was the leatherback turtles that were a key ingredient in writing The Wreck of the Zanzibar, also set on Bryher and Samson. The waters round Scilly are notoriously difficult to navigate. There are dozens of wrecks, and a story to go with each one. And there are gigs (small boats for rowing or sailing), a gig for each island – used these days for racing, but in times gone by used to row out to rescue people from the wrecks, to claim salvage too. But only men were allowed to row in these gigs. There had been, I discovered, a wreck off Samson over a hundred years ago, in which the Bryher gig had rescued several cows. So I had a washed-up leatherback turtle, a girl determined to row out in a gig when it wasn’t allowed and a great cow rescue off Samson: the ingredients of The Wreck of the Zanzibar. In that sense, a book is much like a cake. You can’t make a good cake without the right ingredients. I had the right ones, just had to mix them and bake. If you see what I am saying!

  I digress, but digressing is fun. Quite a lot of writing is digressing, I find!

  Back to Why the Whales Came. The whales in the story are not pilot whales but narwhals. This is because I once came across a narwhal’s tusk in a museum in Paris, a tusk of ivory that was part of the treasure of some long-ago king. These tusks were once thought to have come from unicorns. They were very valuable; they still are. Unicorns and narwhals have fascinated me ever since. (I have written a story called I Believe in Unicorns, more on that later). I discovered that the last narwhals found in British waters had been washed up in the Thames estuary in the mid-twentieth century. Someone had cut off their horns. This was a crime, I thought, a crime against nature itself, the kind of crime that brings a curse down on those who commit it. So, I thought, have narwhals come to Samson, have the islanders, who are struggling for survival, kill them and take their horns. Then they wake up the next morning to find a ship stuck on the sandbank, all of this watched and witnessed by a small boy, a deaf boy, that last boy to leave Samson, who grows up later on Bryher, who becomes the Birdman, his life blighted by the curse of Samson. I had my story. Now all I had to do was write it.

  WHY THE WHALES CAME

  The fire was our only comfort throughout the long and dreadful hours of the night. Each new settling of the burning embers sent an explosion of sparks high into the sky until all that was left was a perfect circle of glowing embers. Only fear kept us awake, fear of the unknown out there in the dark around us, and fear that one of us might fall asleep and leave the other to face the night alone. Every rustle behind us in the heather, the sudden squawking of a disturbed gull, even the soft groaning of a seal in the bay somewhere below us kept us both taut with terror. We talked all night long, as much as anything to keep out the noises of the night around us. I sought endless reassurances from Daniel and he did indeed seem to have an answer for everything. It was just that sometimes I found it difficult to believe him.

  “You think the Birdman’s here then?” I asked. “How do you know it was him that lit the fire?”

  “Well, he’s the only one who ever comes to Samson, isn’t he?” Daniel replied. “And someone built this fire, didn’t he? It has to be him, stands to reason. And remember you were the one that said you heard Prince barking just after we landed. They’re here somewhere, got to be. Soon as it’s light, we’ll find the house he stays in – the only house on the island with its roof on still – that’s what he told us, remember? All we’ve got to do is find it and he’ll be there. He can’t leave the island in this fog any more than we can, can he? Don’t worry, Gracie.”

  “But I still don’t see why he lit this fire,” I went on. “Not unless he’s signalling to someone out at sea. P’raps that’s it, Daniel. P’raps that’s what he’s up to. He could be, couldn’t he, Daniel? I mean that’s what those smugglers and wreckers used to do in the old days, isn’t it? That’s what I heard.”

  “A smuggler?” Daniel laughed. “The Birdman a smuggler? Don’t be silly.”

  “Could be,” I said. “Why not?”

  “Gracie,” Daniel said. “If you were a smuggler and you were signalling to a ship out there, would you do it in thick fog?”

  “All right then,” I went on. “If you know so much then, you tell me why he’s gone and built a fire in the middle of nowhere?”

  “Who knows?” Daniel shrugged his shoulders. “P’raps he’s frightened of the dark. I know that’s what I’d do if I found myself alone here in the middle of the night. Anyway, it’s his island, isn’t it? I mean he lived here, didn’t he? He can do what he likes. He can build fires anywhere he likes. You still don’t trust him, do you, Gracie? Not after all he’s done for us, you still don’t trust him.”

  “And what if he isn’t here at all?” I said. “What if we don’t find him in the morning? I mean you’d think Prince would have heard us by now and come and found us, wouldn’t you?”

  “He’s here, Gracie, honest he is. You’ll see.”

  “But what if those stories are true?” I said, lowering my voice to a whisper. “What if all Father told me is really true and Samson does have a curse on it, like Charlie Webber told him. What’s going to happen to us then? You’ve only got to set foot on the island and you’ll be cursed for ever. That’s what he said. That’s what happened to Charlie Web
ber.”

  “Tommyrot,” said Daniel. “It’s all tommyrot. Everyone knows it’s just stories.”

  “Then why doesn’t anyone else ever land on Samson if it’s all stories?”

  “They’re just scared, that’s all,” Daniel said. “Just scared.”

  “Well so am I,” I said. “It’s this place, Daniel, it doesn’t feel right. And it’s not just the dark either. I’m not the one who’s scared of the dark, am I? There’s ghosts here, Daniel. I can feel them all around us. The Birdman told us, didn’t he? And one of them’s his own father. That’s what he said, didn’t he?”

  “Just imagining things I expect,” said Daniel. “I mean if you were alone on this island for long you’d begin to imagine things wouldn’t you? And after all he is old, isn’t he? Anyway he never said he’d seen a ghost, did he?”

  “No, but…”

  “Well then,” Daniel said. “Listen, Gracie, you ever seen a ghost? Have you?”

  “No.”

  “So if you’ve never seen one, how do you know they exist? You don’t do you?”

  “P’raps not, but…”

  “Well then, if you’ve never seen them and you don’t believe they exist, you know he was just imagining things. Must have been, mustn’t he? And all those stories your father told you about curses and houses burning down and the scarlet fever, they’re just stories, Gracie. I mean everyone thinks the Birdman’s mad, don’t they?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, is he?”

  “No.”

  “And Big Tim said you’d catch his madness if you touched him. Well you’ve touched him, haven’t you, and have you gone mad?”

  “No.”

  “Well then. Stands to reason, it’s all just stories like I said. I mean, you can’t believe in anything you can’t see, can you? Well can you?”

  “Anyway p’raps we’ve got nothing to worry about,” I said. “P’raps we’re not on Samson at all.” But I knew full well we were. I could feel it. I could feel the ghosts watching us. They were out there in the darkness. I knew they were. I huddled closer to the fire hugging my knees, and prayed and prayed.

  THE WRECK OF THE ZANZIBAR

  She told me to dig out a bowl in the sand, right under the turtle’s chin, and then she shook out her net. He looked mildly interested for a moment and then looked away. It was no good. Granny May was looking out to sea, shielding her eyes against the glare of the sun.

  “I wonder,” she murmured. “I wonder. I shan’t be long.” And she was gone, down to the sea. She was wading out up to her ankles, then up to her knees, her shrimping net scooping through the water around her. I stayed behind with the turtle and threw more stones at the gulls. When she came back, her net was bulging with jellyfish, blue jellyfish. She emptied them into the turtle’s sandy bowl. At once he was at them like a vulture, snapping, crunching, swallowing, until there wasn’t a tentacle left.

  “He’s smiling,” she said. “I think he likes them. I think perhaps he’d like some more.”

  “I’ll do it,” I said. I picked up the net and rushed off down into the sea. They were not difficult to find. I’ve never liked jellyfish, not since I was stung on my neck when I was little and came out in a burning weal that lasted for months. So I kept a wary eye around me. I scooped up twelve big ones in as many minutes. He ate those and then lifted his head, asking for more. We took it in turns after that, Granny May and me, until at last he seemed to have had enough and left a half-chewed jellyfish lying there, the shrimps still hopping all around it. I crouched down and looked my turtle in the eye.

  “Feel better now?” I asked, and I wondered if turtles burp when they’ve eaten too fast. He didn’t burp, but he did move. The flippers dug deeper. He shifted – just a little at first. And then he was scooping himself slowly forward, inching his way through the sand. I went loony. I was cavorting up and down like a wild thing, and Granny May was just the same. The two of us whistled and whooped to keep him moving, but we knew soon enough that we didn’t need to. Every step he took was stronger, his neck reaching forward purposefully. Nothing would stop him now. As he neared the sea, the sand was tide-ribbed and wet, and he moved even faster, faster, past the rock pools and across the muddy sand where the lugworms leave their curly casts. His flippers were under the water now. He was half walking, half swimming. Then he dipped his snout into the sea and let the water run over his head and down his neck. He was going, and suddenly I didn’t want him to. I was alongside him, bending over him.

  “You don’t have to go,” I said.

  “He wants to,” said Granny May. “He has to.”

  He was in deeper water now, and with a few powerful strokes he was gone, cruising out through the turquoise water of the shallows to the deep blue beyond. The last I saw of him he was a dark shadow under the sea making out towards Samson.

  I suddenly felt alone. Granny May knew it I think, because she put her arm around me and kissed the top of my head.

  Life on Samson

  Tiny Samson is now the largest uninhabited island on the Scillies. People lived on this mile-long island from about 2500 BC until 1855. Its last inhabitants, about forty people, lived in sturdy but basic cottages on a narrow strip of land between the island’s two hills.

  It is not known if the last families left voluntarily. Their landlord, Augustus Smith, had bought all the Scilly islands in 1834. Giving himself the grandiose title of “Lord Proprietor”, he set about changing the islanders’ way of life. He built a new quay on St Mary’s Island, arranged for tree planting to protect agricultural land and built schools on the larger islands. However, he was not universally popular. He expelled people who could not find a local job and “cleared” other smaller islands. It could be that the Webber and Woodcock families, who were fishermen, were forced to leave Samson to enable Augustus Smith’s plan to turn the island into a deer park. There is also a theory that a number of the island’s men drowned in an attempt to rescue the crew of a ship wrecked on nearby rocks. Perhaps those who were left could no longer sustain their lives on the island.

  In the event, the deer found Samson even more inhospitable than the earlier human inhabitants. At low spring tides, you can walk from Samson to the neighbouring island of Bryher. The deer did just that – at the first opportunity they escaped at low tide to other islands!

  Today, Samson is managed by the Isles of Scilly Wildlife Trust and is a nesting site for over a thousand black-backed gulls, and masses of kittiwakes, terns, oystercatchers and ringed plovers. The only signs of its human past are some prehistoric graves and a few crumbling walls of old granite cottages, with their limpet shell middens on the doorstep, along with barns and boat sheds. Some claim that the ruins hold spirits and ghosts of past occupants.

  In Why the Whales Came, the children are told that Samson was cursed because the islanders had slaughtered a group of beached whales. In those days, the quantity of food represented by a beached whale would have been seen by the hard-working and impoverished islanders as a godsend. Oil from the whale was used for heating and soap, bones were used for furniture and fencing and nothing was wasted.

  Nowadays, twenty-three different species of cetacean (marine mammal) can be seen in British waters, but each year there are about 700 cases of whales and dolphins being stranded on our beaches. The numbers have increased by about 25 per cent in the last twenty years. Autopsies have shown that many of these animals have been injured by fishing nets. Most die before they reach shore, or before anyone can get to them to help, but there have been remarkable rescues.

  We don’t know why cetaceans lose their way and become stranded, but we do know that whales and dolphins use the Earth’s magnetic field to navigate and find food. Sometimes they appear to misread the magnetic lines, and get lost. Another theory blames noise pollution such as underwater drilling and offshore wind farms.

  The whale’s own sonar system is thought to be badly affected by the sonar used by navy vessels. So our submarines, while detecting shi
ps and other subs, may be interfering with the whale’s sonar.

  Many whale species are very social animals. They frequently travel in large family groups with a dominant leader. If the leader falls ill, or is confused and swims into shallow water, all the others often follow and the whole group may be beached together.

  In the Thames, in 2006, there was the first sighting of a northern bottlenose whale, an endangered species since records began a century ago. This four-tonne, five-metre individual was probably separated from her pod in the Thames estuary. Thousands of Londoners thronged the Embankment to watch as a massive rescue attempt got underway. The whale was towed to a barge, which planned to carry the confused animal back out into the North Sea and to freedom. Sadly, the whale rapidly became disorientated and distressed. Eventually, it was decided that a vet should put her down to prevent her suffering any more. Michael’s story This Morning I Met a Whale was inspired by this event.

  My Friend Walter

  THE DREAM

  For about ten years before I came to live in Devon, I was a classroom teacher in junior schools. I was, if nothing else, a rather enthusiastic teacher, over-enthusiastic, some might say – and did. I loved to make my lessons lively, engaging. I had so many memories of my life as a small schoolboy, when I was mostly either bored or frightened by my teachers. So, as a teacher, I was determined to banish all fear and boredom from my classroom, for I knew that children could so easily come to dread their lessons, even be put off education for life. I had come perilously close to this myself. I know that above all a teacher has to always encourage the best in the child, has never to reinforce a sense of failure, has to pass on a passion for the subject, has to create an atmosphere in which creativity itself and the joy of discovery are all-important. In everything, I believed the child should feel supported and their efforts appreciated. So, when I taught, the children in my class knew I meant it, that I cared about the subject and about them. No one was treated as a success or failure, but rather as individuals who were trying the best they could – it was my job to help inspire them to do so.