A cracking good read

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This article was published 07/06/2025 (470 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

Oology: the study — and the cherishing — of bird eggs.

The Impossible Thing is largely stock mystery thriller, yet unconventionally centred on a bunch of rabid oologists, spanning decades and decades.

British mystery-writer Belinda Bauer here switches gears rather dramatically from her usual trilogy fare featuring small towns beset by far too many clever, terrifying murderers inevitably entrapped by humble heroes, and opts instead to test the limits of wrapping a “thriller” around characters — historical and contemporary — who behave in quite crazed ways because they over-value birds’ eggs, in the extreme.

The breathless opening scene of this precious egg caper plops us into the point-of-view of an apparently good-guy sniper, utterly in the middle of chasing an obviously dastardly black hat named Matthew Barr. This hook has the scant details and the onus-on-the-reader feel of a desperately clever Cold War spy caper. It chucks in murky waves of movement, absolutely nothing of dialogue nor explanations, and a big dose of our guy’s driven, nigh-maniacal inner thoughts. We quickly get our man, Matthew, and pin him down so that we might pontificate at him and his gross ideology.

And here we first encounter our oological MacGuffin.

Why have we been chasing Matthew as if the safety of the free world depended on our valorous efforts? Because Matthew had stolen some eggs.

Cut immediately to the historical set-piece as we are flung back to the 1920s. Here, we meet and follow lovely teenage Celie Sheppard and her charmingly, painfully oafish, (Of Mice and Men’s) Lennie-style friend, Robert.

These two are the opposite of dastardly — they are mismatched, quaint and endearing, with a touch of pathetic. The reader can’t help but adore them as they do the most unusual thing: hulking Robert ties one end of a heavy rope around himself and the other to a frighteningly makeshift sitting contraption for wee Celie, and he delicately, lovingly (you can see it coming from oh-so-afar) lowers her down through “The Crack,” a devilishly beckoning fissure in a blood-curdling overhang that teeters atop the cliffs that survey the chilling, blustering North Sea.

Why is sweet Robert dangling his beloved Celie’s fragile life? Because beneath that overhang nest hundreds of guillemots. At least once a year, these otherwise ordinary seabirds settle under that dramatically protective ledge to lay their eggs, one per guillemot couple. They’re beautifully coloured eggs, extraordinary in their peculiar variations of hue — no two eggs are precisely the same colour, nor sport the same intricate patterns.

These snowflake eggs therefore are ridiculously valuable and insanely coveted — by keen, studious oologists, to be sure, but also by far-too-wealthy, early 20th-century British male snobs. Dainty Celie and lumbering Robert eke their way through their harsh existence by, just once a year, poaching one of those prized eggs.

Jump back to the present and we meet two differently charming, very young men (although, again, the charm is purchased mostly by grand awkwardness): Patrick and Nick. Nick has a tag, one that just about captures this whole book: he’s known as Weird Nick. We never really learn why, but nonetheless must agree wholeheartedly — this fellow was bestowed with an apt epithet.

In any case, stashed up in the attic of Nick’s mother’s house is one of these vital eggs that a century ago Celie and Robert had so frightfully and fatefully retrieved. Immediately and inevitably it is stolen before poor Nick realizes the nature of the thing he was just about roosting on — and the prolonged chase scene is on. Two teenage buds who bonded over Call of Duty fling themselves into a real-life sortie, bumbling their way over harrowing hill and through daunting dale to get that darned egg back.

You end up with spectacularly colourful, spectacularly invaluable 1920s eggs and the conflicting quests not only for ownership of them but also for some kind of philosophical comprehension of their essential meaning driving a — let’s be honest, weirdly — gripping scramble across divergent time and rural place.

It’s a lot. Yet somehow, it works. In some spades.

In 2018, Bauer was unexpectedly longlisted for the Booker Prize for her eighth novel, Snap. Bauer’s books are hardly rarefied literature. Still, they are sporadically sprinkled with exquisite moments of diction and syntax, moments that catch one’s breath, even as they are so fleeting. One can only imagine that the sum of such moments in Snap achieved some sort of critical mass that garnered Bauer the celebratory nod. Good.

The Impossible Thing (Bauer’s 10th book) will not likely repeat the feat. (Again: it’s about frantically, irrationally chasing bird eggs.) But it oozes the charm of its quirky props and their dogged pursuers — eggs, and the oologists who adore them so.

Laurence Broadhurst teaches English and religion at St. Paul’s High School in Winnipeg.