This is an article I wrote for 'Writing Magazine' exploring how I created the chimpanzee characters for my novel, ‘The Angel of St Piran.’
‘Never work with children or animals,’ That was WC Field’s
advice. They will upstage you. They will forget their lines. They will
misbehave on set. But this advice was aimed at actors. It can’t apply to
writers. Can it?
Let’s dispose of children first. We all know they are
notoriously tough. Unless you live with a ten-year old, it can be fiendishly
difficult to write convincing dialogue for
children this age. "You know what a stroke to me such a suspicion
would be," says little ten-year-old Miles, torturously, in Henry James’
‘The Turn of the Screw.’ Well maybe Miles was unnaturally precocious.
Animals, of course, are easier. We don’t have to create
dialogue for them. Or do we?
Well of course we do. Talking animals are an absolute staple of literature, and not just for children. Don’t ask me to list examples. Oh, all right then. Animal Farm, Wind in the Willows, Watership Down, The Jungle Book, Black Beauty… and that Norwegian book they made into ‘The Sheep Detectives.’ And how about, ‘Pidge,’ a 2024 debut novel by Kathryn Lomer which won all sorts of critical acclaim despite the fact that it features a talking magpie. And I bet you can name dozens more. In fact I’ve just thought of, ‘The Labrador Pact,’ by Matt Haig which I haven’t read yet, but I really want to because, as I understand it, the tale is told by a family labrador (ok not strictly a talking labrador, but one who is capable nonetheless of telling a story) who has to obey the rules set out for the breed in the Labrador Pact, which sounds so delicious I’m almost ordering it already. But then I do have a soft spot for labradors.
The rules for talking animals in literature are fairly
binary. Either it’s a children’s book (in which case the animals really
talk). Or it’s an allegory (in which case the animals are representations of
people, or they are metaphorical vehicles to enable the telling of a human
story, or they exist in some kind of metaphysical dream). Take your pick.
But what if animals really could talk? In my novel, ‘The
Angel of St Piran,’ Angel Restorick is a primatologist who lives in an
African forest, with a study group of wild chimpanzees. After some months in
the forest, Angel convinces herself that the apes can talk. Sort of. They are
not forming sentences. They don’t use adjectives or nouns or grammar. But Angel
believes they can communicate intent and describe situations with a complex
combination of noises, facial expressions, gestures, and movements, and she
believes she can understand them, and even talk back. This communication is the
essential heart of the story. For Angel’s forest is invaded by four super-rich
trophy hunters who have come to bag themselves a chimpanzee. Only by mobilising
the chimps can Angel keep the animals safe from the hunters – and who knows –
maybe settle some scores.
So how did I create the chimpanzee characters to populate
this novel? Reader – I cheated. For several years in the 1980s and 90s my wife
Sue was a council member of Chester Zoo. Chester is home to Europe’s biggest group
of chimpanzees (currently around 22 individuals). One day a week, while Sue was
busy in the zoo doing whatever she needed to do, I would park myself by the
chimps and watch them. I grew to know them all – their personalities, their
liaisons, their predilections. And they were utterly fascinating. So
fascinating in fact that I’ve borrowed them for the novel. Boris was the most
famous of Chester’s chimps. He was famous before he even came to Chester. He
had been discovered as an infant in a New York pet shop by the writer Hester
Mundis, who raised him in her Brooklyn apartment, and he became the subject of
a book with the wonderful title, ‘No, he’s not a monkey, he’s a Chimp and
he’s my Son.’ Boris was the alpha male all the time I was watching chimps
at the zoo. He was charismatic, intelligent, and sociable. But his role was
coveted by at least three other males. Wilson was a wiry, contemplative
creature, quite strategic in his relationship with Boris. He worked hard to earn
the alpha’s trust and to act as the second in command. Contrast him with Nicky
and Bolden, two large and boisterous chimps with very little cunning or
imagination but with plenty of strength and quick tempers. Bolden was broody
and temperamental. Nicky was over-excitable and full of energy. These two had
just one strategy to win the top job. They would fight for it. These
personalities were a gift to me while writing ‘The Angel of St Piran.’ There
were strong characters too among the female chimps. Meg was in her mid-thirties,
one of the oldest chimps in the world at that time. She was the matriarch of
the group, and it was usually she, not Boris who kept the youngsters under
control. A younger female, Heidi, was loved by all the young chimps. And by all
the adults too. In my story Meg and Heidi merge to become Hootha, and Boris becomes
Gaffa, and this helped me to picture them while I was writing.
Animals are people, really. That’s probably the only lesson
you need to know about creating animal characters. Keep them faithful to the
behaviour of their species, and after that, have fun with them. There is no
reason why they shouldn’t be capricious, cantankerous, conspiratorial, resourceful,
or caring. Or all of these things. Or none. Just make them real and we will
believe in them. Well, I surely will.
