I’m just working on the final edits of my new book, Birdlands, out early next year. Unlike most of my books, this had a particular point of origin. I was in the small town of Galashiels, not far from Edinburgh. I’d been at the festival, and had a murderous hangover. Anyway, this was my journal entry for what followed.
After my event in Galashiels, I grabbed a couple of sandwiches, and limped back through the mizzle to the single-platform station. I'd just about made it through the session, despite my hangover which had elements in it of both the Gothic and the Biblical; my nervous system had been replaced by a twisting network of tendrils formed from equal parts anxiety, sleeplessness and heartburn.
At the station I sat on a metal bench and contemplated my woes. Then a jackdaw flopped down close to me. I could see at once that it was in a bad way. There was something wrong with its beak. I looked more closely, and saw that the upper mandible was bent, and partly folded back on itself. It gave the bird a wretched, and yet faintly comic appearance, which triggered a wave of pity. I took out one of the sandwiches (a roll, actually), tore off some of the bread and threw it down. The jackdaw hopped forward and snapped it up. And I saw that at least it could still feed. It was very close by now, and I could see that it was in awful general condition. I fed most of the roll to it. And then another bird landed clumsily close to us. This was a carrion crow, much bigger, of course than the jackdaw. But this crow was, if anything, in even worse shape. Rather than a sleek black murder machine, this one was immensely shabby, patches of skin showing through the feathers, and it walked with a heavy limp. It stood patiently next to the jackdaw, and I shared the rest of the roll between them.
I felt a certain communion with the two unfortunate birds. It was almost as if we were three characters in a lost Samuel Beckett play. Toto, Stump and Herman.
Toto (taking out a ball of string string from his pocket): Is there an end to it?
Stump: Crap!
Herman paces forwards, as if to speak, but then shrugs and steps back again.
Toto (finding a broken pencil behind his ear): There is no point.
Stump: Crap!
Anyway, I heard the train approach, and I stood up. Stump and Herman slowly followed me a few paces down the platform. I looked back at them, and they looked up at me. I thought about waiting for the next train in half an hour. But I had business in Edinburgh …
The train arrived and I stepped through the door as it sighed open. Stump and Herman were still there, looking at me through the doorway. I thought about waving, but that would have been absurd. But I think all three of us knew that we’d never see each other again.
I had one roll left. And, the thing is, I didn’t have a book with me, and it’s an established fact that a sandwich can take the place of a book, on a short train journey.
And I was very hungry.
So it was with a heavy heart that I tore the roll in two, and tossed both halves through the door as it closed. As the train pulled away I looked back, and saw a great crowd of crows and jackdaws descend on the roll, like a black mouth.
That all happened several years ago. Birdlands is a story about three birds - a pigeon with stumps where her feet should be, a crow with a broken wing and a jackdaw with a badly deformed beak who go on a journey to try to find Dump, a sort of bird heaven. It’s a bit like Wayership Down about birds, rewritten by Beckett. I think It’s the best thing I’ve ever written.
When is this published - I can't wait to read it!