Hatching
Contemporary fiction with a strong sense of place
When a refugee and a shallow city singleton are washed up at the same remote Norfolk sanctuary, they struggle to get past their mutual mistrust. Nothing is as it seems on Haddiscoe Island: we are inland, not at sea; Taisir is a child, not a man; Iris is found, not lost, and The Ship is not a ship.
Opening
Peter poured more tea from the thermos and checked the viewfinder. Grass stalks tilted in the light north-westerly, pale sun slowly ascended, but there was no movement at the marsh harrier nest. He leant against the rough wall of the hide as he drank.
He’d helped his Dad Eric to build it, and he’d taken countless photographs from it since. It wasn’t Eric’s idea though. It was Taran’s of course, daubed in the air with broad, inviting gestures over a pint of Wild Summer Ale. In his usual quiet way, Eric had led the work and ensured completion once Taran’s attention strayed to the next project. Because he ran the hardware shop ‘Toolbox’, local boy Eric had always been dragged into every building project in the area until Taran rolled into town and dominated his attention.
You’d never have expected the pair to get on. Lithe, long-haired Taran, Dublin-born and well-travelled, brought a mix of braggadocio and eco-awareness uncommon in this damp margin of Norfolk in the eighties. Eric played the long-suffering straight man with his slow smile. They soon became inseparable.
Their plans for the hide all started with them building the sanctuary. That began with an arm-wrestling match in The Bell. Peter, six at the time, had grown up hearing the story. Informal deals of all kinds had been done in the pub’s tiny dark rooms since time, and were always honoured; it was how landlord Chas’ grandfather had acquired the place.
There was an hour or so left of 1989, and most of the revellers were heavily lubricated when Taran entered the busy Lounge Bar. Eric was sitting with Old John the reedcutter, whose nose was already rhubarb-pink. Taran pointed at their tankards. ‘What’ll it be?’
When he returned from the bar, Old John staked a plot of land on the strength of his arm, which was prodigious. ‘Who’s gonna take it off me?’ he challenged, folding his sleeves up.
John’s wife Maddy came to hear of it pretty quick, as word of the challenge spread from one end of the bar to the other like a lit fuse. She bore down on John and tried to pull him to standing. ‘Enough, you old lush,’ she scolded.
He pulled her onto his lap instead, his wiry, scarred old forearm pinning her in place like the safety bar on a Waltzer.