Cover: Tom Clohosy Cole
Historically great
I am already a huge admirer of Tanya Landman’s historical novels, most of which have been primarily for a teen readership (Buffalo Soldier, Beyond the Wall and others). However she ventured recently into a slightly younger readership with an outstanding adventure set in prehistory, Horse Boy, and now she has stuck with this level of accessibility for her new WWII evacuee story.
It has to be said that there is already a host of novels with this subject matter, including some of children’s literature’s very finest fiction. However, Tanya Landman’s is sufficiently different, and sufficiently special to more than merit its place amongst them. In fact, it is only in its early chapters that it is purely an evacuee story at all . One of the things I find so exceptional in this latest piece of her writing is the gradual way it evolves into something quite other. As it develops the background of war becomes essentially a running metaphor for a fiction about sacrifice; unwilling sacrifice, but also sacrifice that is born of love.
Pastoral idyl
The first section of the book does read like an evacuee story, although it is already distinguished by the fact that, whereas many fictional evacuees miss home and have some difficulty settling (as must many actual ones too) protagonist, Alfie, comes from a very difficult home in London and immediately loves his new rural surroundings. This means the early chapters rattle along, with the reader revelling in Alfie’s joy at discovering farm animals, the night sounds of the country side, open air freedom, cliffs and shore and, alongside them, a warm and caring new ‘family’.
‘Only a few days ago, his world had consisted of his street, the shop on the corner and his school a hundred yards away. Now it expanded into something magical that teemed with extraordinary possibilities.’ (p 94)
Meeting the past
The narrative subtly changes when Alfie somehow conjures up a boy and his ‘tribe’ from the landscape’s distant past, without really realising what is happening.
‘Suppose he’d somehow conjured them into being out of his imagination? Was such a thing possible?’ (p 104)
What he does come to realise is the joy of finding the friend he has never had before. The writing is so strong here that the reader fully shares this joy and the story segues into a sort of Stig of the Dump variant, as Alfie and his new pal (in this instance called Smidge) try to establish communication through shared activity, but without any common language.
It is all quite delightful.
And then Alfie’s connection with his new landscape and its ancient past becomes something much more real; his tale begins to mine the rootedness and resonance of special places.
‘The old ones were born, died, buried here. It’s bound to leave an impression. We forget the ancient ways but the land doesn’t. They sink into the very earth and the rocks beneath. Sometimes, if you listen, you can catch an echo.’ (p 202)
Whose the sacrifice?
In its devastating, climactic third part, the story turns into something much deeper and more troubling, a tale of ancient standing stones and their once dark, ritual use.
The clever thing is that you begin to realise that the building blocks of this narrative have been subtly built in all along: the pull on Alfie of the stone circle on the headland, the background conflict of war; the much more present conflict between the evacuees and the local children,; Alfie’s London heritage of isolation; Smidge’s worrying relationship with the significant adults of his tribe. When midwinter approaches apace and everything comes devastatingly together, we are plunged into a story that edges towards The Wicker Man rather than Carrie’s War. Without ever overstepping the bounds of suitability for its young audience, this makes for makes for emotionally powerful and deeply involving reading.
The idea of sacrifice for the common good is skilfully reflected at many of the story’s levels: the farm pig being sacrificed for bacon; Jesus (as the local vicar preaches at Alfie) being sacrificed on the cross; the soldiers being sacrificed for the country’s freedom. And it is all all brought into terrible focus in the ‘Midwinter Burning’ of the title.
More than the sum . . .
Here is storytelling at its skilful best, building cleverly through different manifestations, but ultimately revealing itself as a totally compelling whole. It draws richly on our heritage of children’s literature, but adds originality and thoughtfulness, sometimes terrifying in its jeopardy, but ultimately infused with humanity, warmth and compassion.
The cover illustration by Tom Clohosy Cole catches the looming menace of the piece perfectly, without giving too much away. This is a book that you can judge fairly accurately by its cover. Neither the exciting image, intriguing title or named author will let you down in the least.