Nick Baker’s hidden Britain
The silverfish
Funny what you can associate with the good old times, isn’t it? Just the sight of the mercurial wriggling form of a silverfish is enough to take me back to my childhood – exploring my nan’s cupboards or moving to a new house, with all the exotic, exciting possibilities that went with it.
I used to love tracking down these insects in the damp, dark crevices and recesses found in broom cupboards and under sinks. The light of my torch would send them scuttling into cracks, behind paint flakes and under the curling and peeling wallpaper. I recall vividly going around the basins and bathtubs first thing in the morning to see if any silverfish had fallen in and got trapped during their nocturnal wanderings – their quicksilver nature further enhanced by their speed.
The conditions they thrive in are much rarer now in our modern, hermetically sealed, centrally heated homes. They are prone to desiccation and prefer a high air humidity of round 85 per cent. And as the last part of their scientific name, Lepisma saccharina, suggests, they are associated with sugars – particularly those polysaccharides found in wallpaper paste, paper and book bindings – a penchant that historically made them a real pest. Heavy infestation can cause considerable damage. But, for me, they are icons of a simpler, slower time, when books and wallpaper were present in most homes, and central heating was a luxury. As a group, they take us back much further than the 1970s, of course. Their distinctive form, topped with long, thread-like antennae and tailed with three very distinctive wispy cerci has remained unchanged for millions of years. Their bodies, ringed with segments, are covered by the most beautiful of argent scales. Very much like those found on the wing of a butterfly or moth, they form a loose tessellation. Look through a magnifying glass, and each is broad and grooved, reminding me of translucent scallop shells. It’s these scales that the insects will slough off readily, if something tries to catch them, making them slippery creatures to grasp, whether by a predatory spider or centipede or curious naturalist.
Despite their simple body plan, weird jaws, sensory bristles and crude clusters of black eyes, they have a complex seduction process.
Finding a mate
Males and females meet face-on and caress each other with their antennae before backing away and then coming face-to-face again. This escalates to a kisschase with the female leading the male on a merry dance. Eventually, the final phase is a side-to-side cuddle with the male vibrating his antennae and cerci until he reaches a crescendo of excitement and deposits a silk-encased packet of sperm, which is then picked up by the female. The small number of eggs are secreted away in a crevice, where they hatch, a couple of weeks later, into tiny images of the adults.
Slow to mature (with over 60 moults) and with females producing fewer than 100 eggs in their life, their populations build slowly. Another factor that probably makes these ancient but fascinating insects a rarer sight in our rapidly changing world.