Night Birds on Nantucket by Joan Aiken

What a blast this book is! Scooped up from the sea, Dido Twite is spoonfed whale oil and molasses until she regains consciousness ten months later. When she wakes, she’s aghast to find herself on the other side of the world, hunting whales.

There is such love for language in this book. I kept imagining Aiken chuckling to herself at her writing desk.

But geography is soon the least of her worries: she encounters a mysterious stowaway, hears distressing cries, witnesses the First Mate destroying letters, and gets whipped up in the excitement of pursuing a strange pink whale.

Before long the mysteries reveal a dastardly plot - against which salt-tongued Dido and her new friends pitch their wits and every ounce of strength.

Two things particularly delighted me: Dido’s bang-up rummy dialogues - “Oh, now I twig your lay,” - and the details in the seafaring and whale capture scenes.

They were armed with long-handled, sharp-edged spades. Meanwhile a huge hook, lowered from the rigging, had been sunk into the whale’s side. At this point the rest of the crew all combined their strength to turn a massive windlass, while they encouraged each other by singing:

‘Oh, whaling is my only failing,

Sailing whaling’s done for me!

Life’s all bible-leaves and bailing -

Never ask me in when there’s decent folk to tea!’ (23)

Night Birds on Nantucket is the third in The Wolves Chronicles by Joan Aiken. It’s the first in the series I’ve read and it works well as a standalone. While there are a couple of references to Simon, a friend of Dido’s from the previous book, these do not detract from the story.

Dido herself is the engine of the story. From the half-drowned limpet of the first chapter she becomes a dynamo of inspiration, courage, and independence - eschewing adult assistance.

The zither gave Dido an idea. There were bundles of whalebone pieces lying about the deck, of assorted sizes and shapes. ‘I reckon they can spare me a bit,’ she said to herself. ‘I won’t bother to ask Cap’n Casket, he looks a mite cagged.’ (42)

There is such love for language in this book. I kept imagining Aiken chuckling to herself at her writing desk - and that’s a lovely image for a reader to conjure all these decades later. Highly enjoyable.

WHAT TO READ NEXT

Black Hearts in Battersea by Joan Aiken

Withering-by-Sea by Judith Rossell