A woman called Jake lives with her dog (unimaginatively, charmingly called Dog) and flock of sheep in an old farmhouse on an unnamed island off the British coast. This is how she wanted to be: isolated, alone. But this peace is shattered by something killing her sheep, 'every few nights it picks one off, leaves it in rags'.
The novel works like a jigsaw: You trace Jake's life on the British island alongside interruptions from her past, set in the desolate landscapes of Australia, in order to complete a picture of her life. Whilst Jake's life moves forward in the old farmhouse, her Australian narrative travels backwards, and you seek to work out the reasons for her escape and exile. You will find yourself hopelessly feeling protective towards Jake, but Wyld forces you to question these feelings in the final pages with pockets of Jake's distant past aligned with her present existence on the island.
Wyld uses the brutality of nature to reflect the harsh, unsettling realities of human existence. This is not a novel that upholds the beauty of nature; birdsong becomes synonymous with human pain and, in my reading, the sheep mirror Jake's condition. In the sheep of Otto's farm, especially, we can see glimpses of Jake: the flock are scarred, burnt by the sun, and Jake's scarred back is repeatedly mentioned in the text, as is the suffering and damaging heat of the Australian sun.
The shifting between two settings is surprisingly effortless; without obvious signposting, the reader finds themselves in the cold, grey and green British island and then in the sweltering heat of Australia. Wyld masterfully builds settings with subtle strokes of atmosphere and snippets of dialogue.
You will find yourself reading the final pages of All the Birds, Singing with your heart in your throat as you piece together the jigsaw of Jake's identity. It is an unsettling read, but always captivating.
Image source: sophiebroadbridgeblog.co.uk
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