Over a beach lined with sandy dunes and steep flowery cliffs, lives a squabble of seagulls.
Anyone who knows a seagull, knows that summer is their favourite season, just when the school holidays start and the sun glitters off the sea, because that’s when the tourists come in hoards. They stumble over the sand with armfuls of beach balls and towels and windbreakers and perhaps a child or two - and a hot pasty held just by the tips of their fingers. Or a cone of salty fish and chips balanced in the crook of an arm. Or perhaps a handful of those lovely whippy ice creams, all drippy and slippy by the time they reach the sand, with a chocolate flake sliding just so. No respectable seagull could ever resist a swoop and a snatch - and a steal. And why would they? Why should they? In the summer, the stealing is oh-so-easy. The next snack - and the next victim - is never far away.
In the winter though, it’s a different story. The beach is often quiet and, although the seagulls swoop and soar and look absolutely magnificent, there are far fewer people to notice the startling white of their wings against the stormy grey sky. Unfortunately, local people on the coast are far more seagull-savvy than the tourists. Locals smuggle their food in tight fists, under coats, hidden in carrier bags. Even the babies and toddlers know just how to dodge and dive the seagulls’ attempts. Winter tourists become an even more valuable target but they are so few that the seagulls outnumber them, and for each bird that manages to capture a sausage roll from numb, gloved tourist hands, there are many more who resort to pecking through bins or searching for cold, dropped chips on the streets. In the long, bleak seaside winters, the chance of scoring a good fresh snack is next to nothing. Pickings are bare and the seagulls are hungry.
Except one. One seagull never seemed to be hungry - or at least not for long.
“It ain’t right.” Said Squawk, as the figure of his irritation disappeared over the waves with a cheerful flutter of his wing in the squabble’s direction. “I ain’t never seen him in a bin, not once all winter.”
“He don’t ruffle so much as a feather.” Shirk ducked his head back into his feathers, hunkering down against the wind. It was cold on the cliffs today. “Ain’t even practicing his dive attacks, look, he’s just swanning about on the thermals.”
“He don’t act like he should.” Said Scratch, pecking at a pebble to distract from the rumble in his tummy.
“He’s lazy, that’s what.” Squawk decided. “Not even keeping a watch on the takeaways over the lunch hours. I ain’t seen him even scoping out the high street, have you?”
“It’s food.” Squeal chipped in. “He’s always got it.”
“It’s winter, you idiot.” Squawk contested. “None of us have got it.”
“He has.” Squeal snapped. “He’s got it by the beakload. He never goes without. I’m telling you he’s got a stash.”
“A stash?”
Squawk paused, and the other seagulls waited for his verdict on this idea. After scoring five bags of fresh doughnuts from the local fairground two years ago, Squawk had taken his place as the leader of the squabble. He even shared the last bag, which was uncharacteristically generous.
“You could ask him.”
Scheme was a quiet seagull. It was rare that he shared his wisdom and, in the midst of the rabble, most of them forgot he was there. Now they skittered in surprise and wheeled to face him.
“What? Ask him?” Squawk had never liked Scheme. It was nothing to do with being intimidated, or thinking Scheme would be a better leader than he was, or being worried the others might think so too. He was just a very unlikeable seagull. “He ain’t exactly gonna tell us if he’s got a secret stash.”
Scheme opened his one working eye and looked around the group from his haunch. He did not appear very impressed. But perhaps he was just hungry, as they were a very impressive bunch.
The next time the squabble saw Suave, he looked as happy as usual. “Evening, gang.” He cawed lightly, settling on a bench a few feet away to shake the day’s mist from his wing feathers.
The gang were crowded round a bin, one of those big square street bins on wheels. The wind had caught the lid and blown it open. A rare happening, and one that meant the squabble could swoop inside and grab the day’s chip papers and takeaway cartons. Squawk was supervising closely as the others swooped in and out of the bin, shaking the contents over the street to see what tidbits they could find.
“Beautiful view. I never tire of it.” He commented after a moment, looking out at the darkening horizon, the moon rising low over the sea. The others were deeply involved in their search and didn’t seem to notice him.
“We’ll be here all night.” The sound of Scheme’s voice alerted them to something amiss, either that or Squawk’s sharp attention. “You can join us. If we find anything, you’re welcome to share it.”
The idea of the seagulls harmoniously sharing their findings together was optimistic. Squawk, the squabble knew, was up to something.
“I’ve already eaten,” Suave replied, as he always did, “but thank you ever so much for the offer. Good luck.”
The squabble stared after his departure for a moment, jealousy ruffling their feathers.
“Already eaten.” Mimicked Squeal, furiously, waiting for Suave to have soared away to the clifftops out of earshot. He shot a glance at their leader. “But what has he eaten, I’d like to know.”
Squawk was still looking after Suave. That seagull had a secret. He knew something. He had something. Suddenly Squawk was sure of it. And he was the bird about to put things right.
So the next morning, just before dawn, Squawk set off to the little inset cove where he knew Suave liked to sleep at night. All the way there, he practiced exactly what he was going to say. He practiced just how he would catch Suave unaware. Perhaps he’d even use this element of surprise to find him red-taloned with his secret stash!
But, sadly for Squawk, Suave wasn’t the one about to be surprised.
“Right then flapper, tell me where the stash is! Suave! Suave…?”
Squawk’s loud caw echoed around the cove. There was no stash. In fact, there was no Suave. It was completely empty. Squawk careered round the cove and back out to the open beach. But the sun had not even risen yet. The squabble were all sound asleep. Hardly any of the potential targets - sorry, humans - had left their homes yet. Where could Suave have gone? And why had he left so early?
Squawk returned to the surfacing squabble, who were awaiting his triumphant return with hungry tummies. They were ready for breakfast, and they had no doubt that their merciless leader would direct them straight to Suave’s delicious secret stash. At long last, that seagull would have to swipe that smug, suave look off his beak.
Unfortunately for them, Squawk instead directed them just back to the same slim pickings as the day before.
“I’ll get ‘im.” He vowed, over another dried out crust from an old sandwich packet. “I can promise you that.”
But another day passed with no sighting of Suave. And another. The cove remained empty at all hours. With each passing day, the secret stash they imagined got bigger, juicier, tastier. By the end of the week, the squabble had decided that Shirk imagined fresh prawns, Squeal the oiliest sardines and Scratch was dreaming of cracking open fine lobsters. And all of them were convinced he’d have enough chips to last a year and never go cold.
But where? And where was Suave, to ask?
Finally, at the beginning of spring, when all thought of the secret stash had fizzled away, Suave appeared. His silhouette curved towards the gawping gulls, his shadow falling dark against the sunny sky, and settled on the sand. Scratch dropped the remains of an ice cream cone and Shirk quickly took the chance to pinch it.
“Morning, fellows.” Suave landed casually on the back of a bench and cast a glance around the sunlit sand. The waves were glittering with reflections of the sun, and a little sailing boat was bobbing in the distance. An easy smile came across his beak.
“Not seen you for a while.” Scheme interjected, as Squawk puffed up his chest and readied himself for the fight. “Been busy?”
“Oh no.” Suave shuttled along the bench, happily. “Just the usual.”
Compared to the rest of the squabble, who were skinny and mottled, his feathers were snow white, dove grey and silky smooth. His eyes, after the long winter, were brighter if anything.
“I’ve a thought we should consider. All of us, together.” Scheme wondered, his voice idle and quiet and relaxed, but his eyes sharp. “Winter’s been tough this year. I think next year we should emigrate -”
“No!” Cawed Shirk, covering his head with his wings at the thought. “Anything but that! It’s so far! So much flying…”
“Think of it, Shirk.” Instructed Scheme in a stern voice. “It’s a journey yes, but if we stay here we’ll starve one of these winters. North Africa, where our ancestors went. It’s a land of plenty, so the legend goes, warm all winter through with more fresh food than we could eat. Another winter on this beach and none of us will be left to tell the tale.”
“Sounds great, boys.” Agreed Suave, prepared to fly off. “I hope you enjoy it. A change of scenery could be just the ticket.”
“Will we count you in then, Suave?” Asked Scheme, cocking his head.
“In?” His wings were lifting.
“You’ll come too?”
“Oh.” He lowered them, gently. “Why, no. I don’t think I will.”
“I thought you said the change of scenery would do us all good?”
“He didn’t say all. He said us.” Squawk interrupted, crossly. “Some gulls round here have already got it pretty good, eh Suave?”
“Pardon me?” Suave fixed a calm gaze upon Squawk, who puffed his chest more and began to swagger.
“You. I’m saying,” He jerked his neck in Suave’s direction. “You’ve got it pretty good here. And it’s about time you tell us where you’re keeping it.”
Suave raised a gully eyebrow. “Might I ask what ‘it’ is?”
By now the other seagulls were getting excited. They’d clustered round Squawk, and the group were strutting about the ground, glaring at Suave above them on the bench. Of course he could fly off any moment, but if he did, they’d chase him. He wouldn’t get off lightly this time. There was no escape. Scheme, from the sidelines, looked on, intrigued.
“Secret stash!” The gulls screeched. “Secret stash!”
“Secret stash?” Echoed Suave, slightly out of time but still heard over the cacophony.
“It’s time to confess!” Squawked Squawk. “The game’s up! Tell us once and for all - where is it?”
There was a pause. The other gulls quietened down and anticipation filled the air. At last, after all this waiting, all this wondering, finally they’d find the food!
But then… “I have no stash.”
The gulls stared. They started to riot.
“I have no stash.” Suave repeated, louder over their screeches.
Squawk hopped menacingly towards the others to quieten them. They skittered away, and he flew up to perch beside Suave. Suave didn’t move, not even when Squawk thrust his head again towards him, so they were almost beak to beak.
“And you’d tell us, would you?” He hissed. “If you did.”
Suave saw the hunger in Squawk’s eyes. “Yes,” he said evenly. “I would if you asked.”
“And I’m asking.”
“Yes.”
“And you really don’t have one.”
“I really don’t.”
“Might not be a stash.” Scheme again, stealing the show. Squawk frowned across at him, but all eyes turned back to Suave, who was still sitting calmly on the bench. “Doesn’t mean he hasn’t got a secret. He’s getting fed somehow. And we want to know how.”
At this, Suave smiled round at the birds. “Now that, I thought you’d never ask.”
“Tell us!” The squabble cawed together, crowding again around the bottom of the bench. Squawk hopped up onto the seat. “Tell us your secret!”
“Well have you ever tried…” Suave paused dramatically, and every seagull in the squabble was waiting for his next word. The word that would solve the mystery, make everything make sense, mean they’d never have to suffer through the winter again. “Smiling?”
The gulls were rarely so quiet for so long. No bird knew what to say, not even Squeal, not even Squawk. Smiling was not a word, or action, they understood.
“Like this?” Scheme managed at last, and he pulled his beak open to show his gaping pink throat inside.
“Not… quite.” Suave blinked. “More like -”
“This?” Scratch offered, stretching his neck out and squeezing his beak together very hard.
“Uh… no…” Suave looked down at the perplexed gulls. “It doesn’t really matter about…” he gestured to his face with his wing. “It’s more about your manner.”
“You’re a Master Stealer.” Muttered Squawk, then he said it again louder. “I’ve heard of them before - back when I was a chick. There was talk of one then - a bird that got into a chippy and ate the whole tray. He’d get into everywhere. There wasn’t a shop on the seafront he’d not got inside. Ate the whole lot…”
“No.” Suave cut off Squawk’s dream, before all the gulls fell into raptures with him. “No stealing. Absolutely no stealing. Never. You have to be polite. Make friends with the humans. Start off by bowing, like this.”
Suave swept his head down gracefully, bobbing it low before rising expectantly. The gulls stared again. All this talk of smiling, all this nonsense about not stealing. Making friends with targets - sorry, humans. Even gulls making friends with each other was hard enough.
“What kind of a seagull are you?” Squeal eyed him, beadily.
“One with a full stomach.” That was enough to keep the gulls’ attention. “You’re right that I don’t go hungry, or at least not for long. And you’re right that I have my ways of getting food: the bakery for breakfast, the Italian by the harbour, the pasty shop on the high street at closing time and the holiday cottage with the pretty garden and the view over the beach. But it was never a secret, you just didn’t seem interested. If anything, it seemed that you preferred to carry on the way you’d always been, stealing from people and scratching in the bins -”
“But that’s who we are!” Cried Scratch, confused. “That’s what seagulls do.”
“Not this seagull.” Said Suave, proudly. “And what I do works. And if you want, I’ll teach you. Before you know it, you could all be friends with humans. You could all have full stomachs - and never have to steal again.”
The seagulls looked at one another doubtfully. They liked stealing. It was all they knew. The thrill of the spot, of the swoop, of the chase - and then the prize at the end. They used to laugh and caw at the humans in their victories, as the targets raised their fists and angry voices after them. Seagulls were the bad guys of the bird kingdom. It’s all they’d ever known.
And now, to think of bowing to the targets, to think of befriending them, begging rather than stealing…
“It’s quite nice.” Suave added, looking back out at the little boat. “Humans aren’t all bad once you get to know them.”
“They shoo us.” Sniffed Squeal, holding a grudge.
“One called me vermin once.” Muttered Scratch.
“That’s pigeons.” Squawk corrected.
“Exactly.”
“Well it’s up to you.” Suave spread his wings. “I’ll be up by the lookout tower at three tomorrow. After the lesson, we’ll see what we can do about dinner.”
And so began Suave’s School for Polite Seagulls. Every day, he taught the birds lessons in seagull etiquette, human relationship management, vocal coaching and feather grooming. The weeks passed and, soon, the squabble became a civilisation. As winter approached, the gulls were not afraid - nor were they checking their passports - and neither were the locals as they ducked out to get their lunch. Now, they were friends. And the seagulls never stole, not even a bite. There was simply no need.
Word spread, and soon several Schools sprung up throughout towns and cities all over the country, with more and more seagulls signing up to learn Suave’s way of doing things. The student seagulls don’t always get it right, of course, but they try, and if you keep a careful watch of every one you meet, you might just come across a very Polite Seagull yourself. Who knows, perhaps you’ll even become friends.
Comments