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176 pages, Kindle Edition
First published July 17, 2025
brown shrimp tumbling in the wash of water far away, awaiting his return, if not today then some day after, when the money’s all been spent in the account on bills and debts and stuff to eat and smoke and Lord knows what his ma does with it, but he knows this much: the town feels smaller than it did when he rode through it last, the outer world seems fuller and less difficult to reach. He’s added something to it now – it mightn’t be much cop or good enough to get the admiration of the crowd down at the Fisher’s Rest, but he can say he made it on his own, and there’ll be more to come.
This little snippet of the coastline he relies on for his livelihood does not belong to him or anybody, but it’s always there, preceding him, outlasting him for sure, and he can recognise his loyalty to the ghosts who walk along it – he can even manage to respect himself for being steadfast to the work – but there’s no meaning in it any more. It doesn’t matter to the sea who visits it, or to the shrimp who scrapes them from the sand. A song, though – well, a song belongs to someone. To whoever dreamed it up. Yesterday it wasn’t even born, and now it’s in the world. He can’t go on ignoring what he’s best at, and it isn’t shanking in his grandpa’s cart.
The sea is so withdrawn it’s nothing but a promise you’d be mad to put your faith in; it’s the same old promise every ebb tide and he won’t be chasing it this morning.
At first light we wake
to gulls in the shallows
tack up our horses pack up the cart
The pier is bright
with lamps still burning
once we’ve arrived
we’re so nearly departed
Lord, give me life enough to do this again,
to rise with the tide in the morning at Longferry
Let me go home with the whiskets full of the shrimp
Bury me here in these waters
so I can be a seascraper
a seascraper forever
He settles in the cart again and clucks his tongue until the horse is wading in the sea, knee-deep. As far as he can tell, they’ve got about two hours before the water rises. He might coax four decent passes from the horse – at best, four stints of trawling in the shallows, roughly thirty minutes at a go. He’ll let it rest out of the water while he sorts the catch. There’s always lumps of coal and twists of kelp to riddle out and toss aside. A lot of tiny crabs and jellyfish and baby plaice: no good to anyone.
‘You’d only have to sit there with your horse and look the part.’
‘In that case, you can pay me by the hour.’
‘Ha! You got it.’ Edgar’s thumping laugh reverberates. ‘We can negotiate your fee. I’ll get your agent on the phone tomorrow. Hope he’s realistic, though – the financing for this one is a little shaky. All the studios are chicken-shit and someone’s got to stump up or it won’t get distribution.
When you’re young, you think life is a string of choices. It’s either you choose this door or the other door, or jump out of the window. You don’t realise that most of what’ll happen to you is because of other people’s choices. There’s a door already opened for you, so you walk straight through it, and you wonder how you wound up on the fire escape. That’s life, I’m telling you.
There’s a haze of bacon grease inside the kitchen when he steps back in. His ma stands at the stove, barefooted in a dressing gown that seems to shrink a little every time she washes it. There’s only half an inch of height between them and just under sixteen years. She's moving like a crab between the gas hob and the breadboard on the worktop, where two slabs of a loaf are lying thinly margarined.If you’re reading inattentively, you might let the fact that the mother got pregnant just after turning 15 slip right past you. This is a short novel but the way it’s written rewards careful reading, so it seems longer.
This little snippet of coastline he relies on for his living does not belong to him or anybody, but it’s always there, preceding him, outlasting him for sure, and he can recognize his loyalty to the ghosts who walk along it – he can even manage to respect himself for being steadfast to the work – but there’s no meaning to it anymore. It doesn’t matter to the sea who visits it, or to the shrimp who scrapes them from the sand.Many thanks to Scribner for making me among the 0.5% of entrants to win this book in a Goodreads Giveaway. There was no pressure from them to write a review, I read and reviewed this for my own enjoyment.
"Lord, it's a hard life, son, I know that it is,
to rise with the tide in the morning at Longferry
Let me go home with the whiskets full of shrimp
Bury me here in these waters so I can be
a seascraper
a seascraper
a seascraper
a seascraper forever"