Smugglers’ Fox by Susanna Bailey

Illustration: Keith Robinson

‘ . . . a fox appears - out of nowhere. . . Wild, wary eyes. Eyes like the ones I see in the mirror when I’m alone. Like the wild worry in me made real, there on the pavement.’ (p 46)

Set for more success

Smugglers’ Fox is the new addition to the outstanding set of MG books by Susanna Bailey. This is very much a set rather than a sequence, as each title is a stand-alone novel. However all are strongly related by both writing quality and by thematic content, each one sensitively combining  an exploration of a child’s very real issues and an emotional bond with particular animals. The publishers have also done a commendable job of making the appearance of the books match, through design of the covers, each attractively illustrated  by Keith Robinson. On top of the rich engagement of the stories themselves, this is exactly the sort of thing that encourages children to read the full set, which, in this case, would be an excellent thing. 

Authentic places

Another compelling feature of Susanna Bailey’s books, is that each one vividly evokes a particular place . This latest is set on the North Yorkshire coast, and the earlier titles on Exmoor, a remote Scottish island and in the Yorkshire Dales.

I happen to know the locations of Smugglers’ Fox well, having spent many holidays in the area, with our own children and, more recently, our grandchildren. I admit, my love for these places added another frisson of pleasure to my reading. However such personal knowledge is in no way necessary for complete enjoyment. This author  conjures each scene magically, through imagery and telling detail, yet without resorting to extensive descriptions. She takes us to Robin Hood’s Bay in a way that enables us to hear and smell the sea, to feel the slippery, wet cobbles under our feet, and to experience for ourselves the huddled houses that cling precariously to their steep drop towards the tiny harbour. 

Authentic voice

The story of  Smugglers’ Fox is about, and told by, Jonah, an almost-eleven-year-old year old boy, whose seriously neglectful mother  abandons him and his little brother to the care system. Jonah, understandably, still loves his mother deeply and dreams of her return. When he is also split from his brother, who he not only adores but also feels responsible for, he is devastated. This is compounded by being sent to a small fishing village, especially as he has a pathological fear of the sea. Too frequently he loses himself to bouts of uncontrollable ‘red-scribble’ anger. 

Jonah’s voice is caught to perfection, and often we, as readers, find ourselves sharing his emotional desolation. Susanna Bailey’s prose is not complex or poetic, or even particularly lyrical, but she has a way of choosing exactly the right words and images to convey his thoughts both tellingly and affectingly. Her narration captures Jonah’s feelings vividly, with real authenticity, and it makes her relatively simple, accessible language utterly compelling. 

‘I’m supposed to tell her how I’m feeling . . . Talk through my worries. Which I can’t, because they’re too big to fit into my mouth, too sharp to fit into words.’ (p 52-3)

Two catalysts play a key role in moving Jonah’s story (and his personal development) forward. One is his new friendship, with a local boy, Freddie, who seems to have problems of his own, even though he tries to keep them hidden. The second is the occasional appearance of a furtive fox, the Smugglers’ Fox of the title, with whom Jonah starts to feel a strong, almost metaphysical connection. These relationships too Susanna Bailey handles with a gossamer touch that makes each, in different ways, seem quite magical. Both Freddie and the fox come to glow warm in this reader’s imagination, just as they do in Jonah’s.

Who cares?

This may be fiction, with some some scenes with the fox even edging towards magical realism, but more than anything it is truthful. The young characters feel real because they show behaviours and reactions of real children. At times it is heart-rending, but Susanna Bailey knows how to begin to heal what she breaks. In Smugglers’ Fox she demonstrates remarkable understanding of the thoughts and feelings of a child torn from his family and placed into ‘care’. Through her sensitive, involving story, she helps us to understand and empathise too. Jonah, like so many children, has to learn to cope with a sadly underfunded care system, and for a long time pushes against it, wanting instead the chance to bring his own sundered little family back together. 

‘Too many people have lied to me. It’s like having bits chipped out of your bones and if they do it too much more, you might crumble into dust.’ (p 148)

However he is rescued by individuals who genuinely care (as many do, or try to) - although his own concern for others plays a huge part too, as does his identification with the brave, almost magical, fox. Adults as well as children could learn much from this affecting story about how to heal emotional wounds, and, thankfully, some will. That makes it an important addition to the children’s literature canon, as well as a  most engaging, if sometimes emotionally challenging read. 

It is particularly to Susanna Bailey’s credit that she unobtrusively includes here the possibility of adoption by a same sex couple. This is treated exactly as it should be in a book for children, not as anything remarkable, but unquestioningly as an arrangement that can provide a loving family, just like any other. Such are the little ways in which we can help our children grow into members of a more inclusive society.

More than 

Anyone seeing the covers of Susanna Bailey’s books (attractive as they are) and thinking these are ‘just’ animal stories needs to look far more closely. They are this, but much more too. Were I still teaching Primary I would most certainly want to see them all on my classroom shelves and would recommend them warmly. They are books accessible for independent enjoyment by most reasonably confident readers, as well as excellent potential novels for reading aloud. Beautifully written, they offer riches of thoughtful content and will do much to stimulate reflection and discussion at the same time as providing absorbing reading pleasure. This latest addition to the set is every bit as special as the others.

Finding Bear by Hannah Gold

Gold star partnership

What happens when you put together an outstanding children’s writer, Hannah Gold, and one of our very finest contemporary illustrators, Levi Pinfold? Well, unsurprisingly, the answer has so far been two breathtakingly beautiful books, The Last Bear and The Lost Whale. Both these titles have been popular and critical triumphs and if the first has proved even more successful than the second then I think it is probably down to polar bears being rather more endearing than whales (as long as you’re not actually faced with one in the wild).

Now, working with the same illustrator, Hannah Gold has produced a sequel to The Last Bear, Finding Bear. This has to beg the question: can the two of them pull it off again, or will a second book turn out to be second best?

Having now had the pleasure of enjoying the new book enormously, I can affirm that there is no question of this sequel being a letdown. If anything it is a stronger, more emotionally compelling story even than the first. 

Arctic beauty 

In both her  books so far Hannah Gold has established a sure-fire formula: a passionate concern for the conservation of our wonderful planet (thankfully, already shared shared by many children) with a story centred on an intense bond between a child and a particular animal (a theme with an enduring appeal to almost all children). These twin themes are very much to the fore in her new sequel, where both aspects are again  beautifully worked into a most compelling and often moving tale.

Having immersed us quickly in her protagonist, April’s desperate need to find her beloved ‘Bear’ of the previous book, Hannah Gold quickly moves her, and us, into the creature’s Artic home. Her conjuring of of this landscape is strongly evocative, both of the ice wilderness itself, and of the rather dismal, run-down remoteness of the small settlement where April and her father land up. It becomes very clear, however, that April’s passion for this landscape almost equals that of her adoration of Bear, and her close connection to its wild beauty fully communicates itself to us. Soon we are to share with her the glorious spectacle of the Northern Lights, as well as the thrill of riding a Husky dog sled across the icy wastes.

. . . and a Bear

Yet is is April’s relationship with Bear that is at the heart of this story and responsible for its irresistible emotional enthralment. The scene of April’s reunion with Bear is a true gem of children’s literature, as memorable as it is moving. April feels that once she is back with Bear broken pieces of the world have been sewn back together and the whole universe restored to where it should be. By this stage of the story, I think many readers will not be feeling very differently. April desperately wants change for herself and the planet, and her determination to play a part in achieving it is infectious.

Subsequently, there is a desperate journey fraught with excitement and jeopardy; this would not be such a good story without. However, April finds that certain others in the Arctic are warmer and more supportive human beings than she previously judged them to be. I don’t think it is too much of a spoiler to say all is well in the end, wonderfully, warmly well. With this author I would have expected nothing less.  

Real not real

Befriending a wild polar bear, riding on its back, saving him and his cub, all of this is a fantasy. Despite the stark realism of much of the story’s background , the way April’s emotional connection to Bear extends into a physical one is, of course, essentially fictitious. Some children do form very strong bonds with domestic animals, even, very rarely, with wild ones, but one between a young child and a polar bear is simply not credible, and most certainly not safe. Yet in the context of the book this is not important. The story is so compellingly told that the effect of the fictitious relationship in involving the reader is total.  This is a fiction as wonderful, wild and beautiful as they come. It is a book that will give every reader a hug as huge and soft, as white and furry as that of a (very friendly) polar bear. 

Although they sometimes like to luxuriate in fantasy, children are far more capable of distinguishing real life from fiction than some adults give them credit. Yet, April’s attitudes are infectious, not only her attitude towards Bear and his cub, but towards the world and it’s problems. We want to share the role she believes she can play in it. So. despite its fantasies, this story will, I think, do a great deal to nourish children’s real love of creatures and the wild. It will galvanise their antagonism to the pollution and consequent global warming that threatens such danger for creatures like the polar bear.

Just picture it

Levi Pinfold’s cover and, indeed, the copious artwork throughout are again breathtakingly wonderful. His images are not just beautiful and so skilfully drawn (both of which they are) but somehow heighten the intense reality of characters, animals and landscape. Sometimes the emotional impact of the images is almost unbearable (no pun intended) as in the depiction of the reunion between April and her father on page 314 where the intensity of feeling is so powerfully caught in the physical energy of her charge into embrace.

Here we have something very special, totally absorbing entertainment that is also educative in the very best and fullest sense. It is a book that really will win both hearts and minds. With Levi Pinfold’s illustrations and Harper Collin’s high production values, it is a spectacularly beautiful volume too, and that is a huge bonus - to put it mildly. 

Foxlight by Katya Balen

Cover: Barry Falls

‘In my dreams I believe and the dream makes me whole.’ (p 63)

New light

Over the past few years Katya Balen is the author who has given me the most reading pleasure, the most sheer unmagical magic, the magic of words and stories, the thoughts they share, the feelings they evoke. And that is real magic, the best magic.

She has already penned three breathtakingly brilliant novels, including the justly award-wining October, October. Since then she had added two outstanding titles to the Barrington Stoke catalogue, Birdsong and Nightjar, which show just how much depth of human experience can be communicated through a simply written, accessible story. So it was no wonder I could not resist jumping on the preview version of her new novel, Foxlight. Of course I have already preordered a copy of the published book from an independent bookseller, but an opportunity to avoid waiting any longer was irresistible.

To say I was not disappointed is a huge understatement. The cover by Barry Falls is a thing of stunning beauty, and so is the book.

Well begun . . .

Katya Balen does poignantly truthful and subtly thoughtful like no one else I know.

Orphans are not uncommon in children’s fiction, but here Katya Balen introduces her two, Fen and Rey, so vividly that 

any feeling of unoriginality is immediately dispelled. And she does this not with elaborate descriptions or extended exposition, but through telling moments of thought and speech, wrapped in an intoxicating  lyricism.

Take the opening:

‘It is Sunday evening and Rey and I are hiding in the coat cupboard. It smells like feet and boot polish and coat wax and the weather.’

and shortly after:

‘I sink back into the rails and let myself be swallowed by the scent of seasons.’

It is so simple, but simply ravishing. We luxuriate in the sensuous and it immediately it takes us into that cupboard with Fen. 

Magic painting

At the centre of Katya Balen’s new story are two orphaned girls.  Their characters, the colours of their lives, subtly emerge from the sweep of evocative words across her pages. It reminds me of the ‘magic painting’ books we had as children (sixpence from the low shelf  beneath the groceries in the corner shop). At home, a softly bristled brush washed plain tap water across the surface and brought up the colours hidden in the speckled coating of the blank pages.

The sisters are very close, but also respond very differently to their lives in the isolated ‘Light House’ orphanage where they have been since babies. They believe they were abandoned when very tiny, to the care of a wild fox, from where their ‘foster mother’ took them in and gave them names related to their strange  discovery. Both escape the routine of their  present lives by looking to the outside and by playing their own game of Imagine. Ray, withdrawn and often silent with anyone but her older sibling, imagines her missing mother and going off to find her. In contrast Fen, the story’s narrator, gazes into the surrounding countryside and pictures herself wild and free. Fen experiences everything with a staggering intensity,both the over-familiar confines of the Light House and the sparkling allure of the world beyond.

‘Thinking about the wildlands makes me feel like I’m alive more than any Imagine game ever could. . . . They call to me. They feel real and true. They’re where I belong. . .  They feel like they’re an extension of me, like my blood runs through the river and my bones have been built into trees and hilltops. It’s hard to explain. Even Rey doesn’t understand, and we share everything. Except this.’ (p 30)

She is a startlingly effective communicator both of her own thoughts and feelings, and those of others, most particularly her sister’s, and through her voice we gradually discover much about both girls.

Foxlight 

The catalyst for most of the action quickly comes in the appearance of a wild fox, to which Fen, hyperaware of the circumstances of their discovery as babies, immediately feels a strong connection.

‘I feel like I’m looking at something I have known forever and something I don’t know at all. It’s like a golden thread of light is spinning out from my chest and right into the eyes of this wild and beautiful creature and we are joined and connected by something fragile and strong and strange and familiar.’ (p 40)

The girls leave their home and, each for their own reasons, follow the fox to begin a long and difficult journey through the unknown countryside outside. Rey feels the fox will lead them to their lost mother, whilst Fen pursues her yearning for wildness and freedom.

The stream of consciousness we experience from narrator Fen is a superb example of life lived moment to moment, acutely aware and responding intensely. And yet hers is not always pure mindfulness, her moment is sometimes a ‘real’ and sometimes a constructed one, an imagined one, and her moments are influenced by the interplay of thought, feeling and experience.When she dreams of wildness and freedom, she experiences life in the Light House as dull, restrictive, yet when she is actually in the wilds, cold and hungry, she thinks of it in terms of warmth and comfort.  Through this wonderful writing, we are alive with her. Katya Balen’s is the magic of bringing us into another’s moment, sharing both Fen’s own  shifting perceptions and, through her, Rey’s

If this is a magic painting book, then it is not really like the ones of my childhood, for, when Katya Balen sweeps her watery brush over the pages again, then the colours blur and change, pastels become acids, tints become tones, only to transition again and again.

Songlines 

As the girls’ journey and the story progresses, the world in which they travel becomes stranger, provokes questions, causes unease. This strange, disturbing nature becomes gradually more apparent. Although the girls are totally credible and the countryside through which they travel is evoked with vivid realism, full of beauty and wonder, as well as of hardship and danger, there is something approaching surreal about the landscape. It is, on a deeper level, a kind of dreamscape; their journey a very English equivalent of the First Nation Australian ‘Song Walking’*. Although the girls come to believe that there were ‘wilders’ living/working here some time ago, the countryside is totally bereft of other people. Indeed apart from a handful of fellow orphans and the foster mother, back in the Light House, plus a single older male neighbour, there are no other human figures at all this geographically wide ranging landscape. In fact the only sign of human presence is a series of now neglected travellers’ huts or bothies, spread out along a mysterious route, with mouldering books and rusting tins of food left inside each. Were these where the elusive wilders stayed when they were here before? 

This is inscape as well as landscape, both a real journey and a metaphorical one, conjured with this author’s trademark sensitivity and subtlety.

Simply wonderful 

In my quest for quality MG and early YA literature, I have recently read a remarkable number of outstanding Barrington Stoke titles. This leads me to think that many writers, whatever their young audience, could learn a very great deal from the writing discipline necessary to produce accessible text.  However, this is a lesson that Katya Balen does not need. Even at the much longer length here, she captures many of the same authorial qualities. Her writing is superficially simple and direct. Yet it is richly communicative, sumptuously evocative, even, sometimes, seductively beautiful, but without every being heavy or inaccessible. Chapters are short too, which only adds to the readability, but, equally, it builds super-effectively both the emotional punch of her narrative and the credibility of her young protagonist’s voice.

Imagine 

An iterative theme at the centre of this book is that of imagining, imagining that gives hope and provokes action, but also imagining that frustrates and misleads. The girls have to learn the difference. I suppose it is a dilemma caught in the well-known lines of what is usually called the ‘serenity prayer’**. 

Imagination is a vital quality to be nurtured in young readers, not least because they need to be able to imagine a different future for the world (the wild world) if they are to play a part in changing things for the better. But this dilemma is a very real one for them, especially since many of those things most desperately in need of change, are the very ones that some adults are telling them can’t, and indeed sometimes shouldn’t, be changed. Foxlight cannot solve the problem, but it will help. 

Wilder still and wilder

It is in the wild lands that Fen and Rey find themselves and their story, that they learn to stop imagining the unhelpful things and begin imagining the right ones. They do not find everything and they do not understand very much, but they are on a path that will take them onward.  If this part of their story is about finding home, and it certainly is, then it also remains very much a story about rewilding too. This is the imagining the girls grow into, the story that will be theirs in the future, a complicated, difficult story about both people and a wilder world. But it is one in which they will be eager to help change things for the better. Let it be so for the readers of this fine and important book too.

‘Your story is not the one you tell yourself but something that shifts and shapes itself around a beautiful terrifying mess of lives and people and how I should never have been searching for just one arrow-straight path because that’s not what a story is and stories loop and turn and curve and twist but there is always something that stays the same. Something that guides you through the chaos.’ (p 196)

In Foxlight, Katya Balen helps leads us to and through the beautiful, terrifying mess, and guides towards that thing that always stays the same.

‘She sent a single firebright fox into the misty night. And then she waited. She waited for us.’ (p 151)

Notes:

*As is so magnificently explored in The Song Walker by Zillah Bethell; a book which I think has many fascinating parallels with this one, and is, in its own, different way, equally special

** The ‘serenity prayer’:

Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, 
the courage to change the things I can, 
and the wisdom to know the difference

The Skull by Jon Klassen

Simply had to 

I only very rarely review picture books here, although I have enormous admiration for many illustrators. I do buy picture books quite regularly for my grandchildren and know that there are many wonderful ones about, but my prime interest in MG and YA fiction does take up most of my reading and reviewing time.

However, there is something about this particular picture book by Jon Klassen that I find almost unspeakably wonderful and I feel compelled to try to record my thoughts about it. I also feel its appeal will be completely unrelated to age, so it could just as easily be MG or YA as anything else. But don’t underestimate children’s ability to respond too. 

I actually know Jon Klassen’s work best from his remarkably strong covers and affecting illustrations for Sara Pennypacker’s wonderful novels*. However, he has also created many deservedly acclaimed picture books of his own, not least those about a bear and a hat (or rather a bear without a hat, not to mention a hat without a bear).**

This new book really is something though.

Simply wonderful

Like all the very best picture books it is a just about perfect amalgam of words and visual images. A version of a Tyrolean Folktale, John Klassen admits in his afterword that he has altered it considerably, and I suspect the things that so excite me are more his than anyone else’s. 

You might think that a tale of a young, runaway girl finding a skull (and later a skeleton) in a strange, isolated house would be macabre, if not sinister. Actually, I find this verbal/visual text more surreal than spooky. In fact, the matched simplicity of the words and limited-palate images are if anything rather charming, and the direct, honest and, yes, warm relationship between the girl and the skull, even approaching sweet, endearing. What they find is warmth in a shared life in contrast to the chill greyness of their separate ones, and the artist’s colouring reflects this touchingly.

This little book is enigmatic. It affected me deeply. It asks many questions, but is that not what a book should do? It is also hauntingly beautiful, in a rather strange way. It is strange. But such a wonderful strange, 

The book’s compelling simplicity feels as if it is resonant with meaning, if only you knew what it was. Like good folk tales it will mean different things to different people. Like every good book (and I think this is one heck of a good book) it will be read in a different way by every reader - as long as they bring themselves to it. In this way it reminded me of another of my all time favourite (children’s) books, Dave Shelton’s A Boy and a Bear in a Boat.

Only a great artist and writer can fill simplicity with as much as Jon Klassen does here. I can see The Skull gaining the sort of popularity and status of, say, Where the Wild Things Are. It should. 

* Pax; Pax, Journey Home; Here in the Real World

** I Want My Hat Back; This Is Not My Hat; We Found A Hat

Arkspire by Jamie Littler

Illustrated by the author 

Dare I compare ?

It is a long, long time since an MG comedy/fantasy gave me such hugely enjoyable entertainment as this one from Jamie Littler - possibly not since Jonathan Stroud’s Bartimaeus books. (Pre Lockwood & Co, but warmly recommended, if you’ve never discovered them.)

If anything this deliciously thrilling new book struck me as a sort of children’s equivalent of Terry Pratchett. And I don’t quite mean Terry Pratchett when writing specifically for children (when he is just slightly atypical, although still wonderful). I mean a kids version of Terry Pratchett for adults. It’s more that the city of Arkspear, whilst in no way derivative, gave me something of the feeling of Ankh-Morpork.

Perhaps more explicitly, what I mean is that Jamie Little manages to pull off both of two somewhat different things quite brilliantly. 

A hard trick

First he creates an imaginative world (or rather an imaginative city) that is fully worthy of totally serious YA or adult fantasy. Whilst the conjuring of Arkspire draws on a number of potent fantasy tropes, these are spun with considerable original flair. He vividly evokes a divided society with an impoverished lower strata (here delightfully called ‘the Dregs’) and an elite upper city. This latter divided into five  districts, each under the thrall of a magical ‘Arcarnist’. There are serious questions, though, about the behaviour of the potentates in these inherited positions of ‘The Tempest, The Maker, The Watcher, The Enigma and The Shrouded’. Their unique magical powers allegedly protect the whole society from the malevolent outsiders, ‘The Betrayers’, but there seems to be back story to be uncovered here and it is all completely engrossing stuff. Moreover, Jamie Littler is not found wanting when it comes to writing passages of evocative description; his city just leaps into life from the page,

Then, within this fantasy creation, credibly sinister in its own terms, Jamie Littler draws (verbally and literally) a lively cast of entertaining characteristics who get up to all sorts of amusing japes and cons. Protagonist, Juniper, is a hugely likeable kick-ass rapscallion from the Dregs, who gleans a bare living as a relic thief (sorry ‘trader’), usually by way of  ‘shenanigans, sneaky-sneaks and mischief.’ She is ably supported by her cocky and ever-cheerful sidekick Thea, who makes up their gang of two, ‘The Misfits’.  This duo is soon hilariously extended by the addition of a disgruntled and grumpy demon, Cinder, who seems to have become reluctantly bonded to Juniper. Later still, they are joined by a toffee-nosed ‘minder’ in the shape of a boy called Everard Allard Amberflaw the Fourth. There are many other delightfully inventive characters too, both the terrifyingly powerful and the sweetly homely. One of my particular favourites is Thea’s ‘off-stage’ grangran, whose piquant aphorisms are frequently quoted by her granddaughter.

‘’What is life but love and sandwiches,’ as my grangran alwats says.’ (p 36)

Humorous fantasy is a hard trick to pull off. Jamie Littler’s remarkable triumph is that his highly entertaining characters and relationships do not in any way detract from the immersive credibility of his fantasy world. Each works hand in glove with the other to create a read that is as thrilling as it is amusing. Consequently, his novel is totally engrossing throughout. Nothing in his plot is predictable (least of all his protagonists) and Arkspire turns out to be a classic page-turner.

Drawing us in 

Throughout, the writing is enhanced by the author’s own hugely entertaining illustrations. Strewn across countless pages, they not only add enormously to the fun and the thrills, but also make the whole feel very approachable indeed for young readers. This is an artist who can communicate the thoughts and feelings of his characters quite brilliantly through the body language and facial expressions of his simply but so cleverly drawn figures. They complement his written dialogue and lively narration quite wonderfully.

Compelling twists

Whereas Harry P and so many other literary kids discover they have magical abilities, Juniper finds herself having to try to convince everyone that she has such powers, when in fact she hasn’t.

‘The crowds . . . were growing every day, and they all wanted one thing. They wanted to see Juniper perform magic, to prove to them all that she was what she said she was. Which was a bit of an issue.’ (p 202)

However, Juniper turns out to be a real force to be reckoned with, not a magical one. In its later stages, the novel finds remarkable depths, both in the evolving complexities of its astonishing fantasy world and in the emotional richness of its character relationships, not least that between Juniper and her ambitious twin Elodie. Once an inseparable unit, ‘Jelliper’, the sisters could now not be more different in temperament or behaviour, but retain an underlying bond that I suspect will be tested further yet.

In his final chapters, Jamie Littler shows again that he is no slouch at writing, as he cleverly tightens his story with nail-biting jeopardy. Then he hurls his readers into a climax that claws with conjured darkness and flares with sparking energy. And in the end, there are revelations that truly shock. It is as thrilling a read as any to be found - but conclusive it is not. We are told on a final page that there is more to come in 2024, and this news is as exciting as it is frustrating. It seems the next book will, in the manner of The Lord of the Rings, be not so much a sequel as a Part 2. Bring it on.

Even though it is only high summer (allegedly), come December I confidently expect to find Arkspire amongst my Books of the Year, where it will leven any more literary choices with a wild yeast of gloriously imaginative entertainment. 

Bob by Wendy Mass and Rebecca Stead, illustrated by Nicholas Gannon

Here is an old review that somehow got electronically misplaced.I came across it the other day in an offline folder and find I am rather fond of it - and the book - in a sentimental sort of way. I suppose Bob is my other Le Petit Prince. So I am putting it back.

'I'm putting two and two together, as Dad says. Except it's more like trying to add the square root of seven and thirty-one to the fifth power.' (p 100)

Picturing Bob

Bob initially attracted me (irresistibly) by virtue of its being illustrated by a children's book artist I consider to be one of the very finest around, Nicholas Gannon. He writes as well as illustrates and I have hugely admired, as well a greatly enjoyed, his own books (The Doldrums and The Doldrums and the Helmsley Curse - see my reviews from November '15 and December '17)*. Here, however, he is just the illustrator - although 'just' is far too demeaning a word. His characteristic sepia toned pictures, whole pages and occasional vignettes, are as bewitchingly brilliant as ever. (Did you spot the few subtle hints of colour on the cover?  Another characteristic of his work.) His images are often beguilingly beautiful too. My only complaint is that there aren't more of them. I know of few others illustrators who can draw you quite so magically into a world that is intriguingly caught between reality and imagination. The woodland scene on page 177 is breathtaking. 

In fact, this little volume, from US publishing imprint Fiewel and Friends, has been beautifully designed all round. Gentle brown tones in chapter headers and page footers, as well as occasional text, echo the  illustrations, and extend the sepia mood to the whole book in a way that feels completely apt. 

However, in dwelling on the art and aesthetic of Bob, I do not mean to imply any lack of enthusiasm for the story itself, which is truly special in its own right. Wendy Mass and Rebecca Stead are both deservedly renowned authors and the comparatively short book they have now penned together is as skilfully and sensitively written as we might have expected. It enchants and delights at the turn of every page. 

Telling Bob

The story is about Olivia (Livy), a ten (and a half) year-old who has come from her home in Massachusetts to visit for a while with her grandmother in Australia. The last time she was here was when she was only five. Arriving back, she rediscovers a strange 'friend' who she had completely forgotten about. Bob is not exactly human, however. Rather, he appears to be a sort of very distant cousin of E.T., or perhaps a much younger, less obstreperous, non-Scottish version of Raymond Briggs' The Man. He certainly isn't the zombie she thought him to be when she was younger. Whatever he is,  though, after five years of waiting for Livy in a dark cupboard dressed in a makeshift chicken outfit, he is certainly feeling a little neglected - and boy does he know how to play on it. 

Livy's quest to discover who (or even what) Bob is, and possibly to help him home, provides the core of the subsequent narrative. It is hard to explain more without giving too much away, but suffice to say that you may well find you have not worked out the ending anywhere near as well as you thought you had. 

The book is imaginative, intriguing and endearing. It is charming and funny in equal measure. It is sweet, in a myriad delightful ways. It truly touches at the same time as it entertains and surprises. It is a story that so beautifully captures aspects of both five and ten-year-old childhood that it chimes with much that is universal too. 

In all honesty, Bob is also verging on the sentimental. In fact, it might well have verged. But that is not always so bad a thing. After all, the same applies to Antoine de Saint-Exupery's Le Petit Prince and that is loved the world over, and, even seventy-odd years after its original publication, has sales of more than two million copies per year. The little prince's simple story and its original illustrations are treasured by countless readers as an affecting link to their lost childhood (or even to a childhood they never actually had). People like to get sentimental sometimes, and children more so (even if they don't always want to admit it). 

In fact, now that I think about it, The Little Prince is not too misleading a comparator at all. Bob could well become the twenty-first century's equivalent. 

 A listamabob

Wendy Mass and Rebecca Stead's clever writing uses quite a few numbered lists in Bob to capture the thoughts and feelings of their characters. So, with apologies to the authors,  here is what I think could very well happen to this little book into the future:

1. Parents will read it to their kids. They will all be enchanted by it. 

2. Kids will read it for themselves. They will reread it at intervals over coming years, even when they are 'too old' (way 'too old') for it. 

3. When it is time to go to college or uni, they will sneak it into their luggage along with their old teddy bear (wonky donkey, cuddly armadillo, busted action figure, smelly bit of blanket, or whatever). 

4. When they get there, they will hide Bob in the bottom of a drawer and most certainly not put it on the shelf with the two titles from the pre-course reading list that they bought dirt cheap off eBay, but haven't actually read. (They want to appear cool, after all.)

5 They will furtively take it out to read on the first night,  when they feel a bit home sick, and on several other occasions when they should be completing assignments or revising for exams. 

6. One night, after drinking far too much alcohol, they will confess to their new BFF that it is their favourite book of all time, only to discover that their soulmate thinks exactly the same.  

7. They will later shelve it with their others books as a post-ironic statement.

8. When they fall in love they will send electronic billets-doux with their feelings expressed as numbered lists, in homage to Bob. 

9. When they have a child of their own they will buy a new copy well before the kid is old enough to read, on the basis that it is a book every child should grow up with. 

10. When they become grandparents they will gift their grandchild an anniversary edition, with, of course, Nicholas Gannon's original illustrations. (It would simply not be right without.)

All this will repeat in cycles for generations to come. 

Bob is that sort of book. . . and it may, just possibly, help  us know life, the universe and ourselves a little better. . . if we find the pawn . . .and remember the liquorice.**

Unmissable for softies everywhere.

Note:

*In fact I love them far more than Marmite. 

**You'll and understand when you've read it!

The Time Tider by Sinéad O’Hart

Cover: Abigail Dela Cruz

Here is a recommendation that it has taken me far too long to write up.

Timely

Sinéad O’Hart caught my attention with her enormously promising debut children’s novel The Eye of the North. (Reviewed here in September 2017.) Since then she has written two very engaging and entertaining further titles. However her latest, The Time Tider, is her best book yet and brings her firmly into the company of our finest contemporary children’s authors. She has always had a remarkable talent for both writing and storytelling, but now she has added to this startling originality of material that will challenging the thinking and stretch the imagination of her young readers, without in any way sacrificing accessibility, or indeed excitement. Time is a fascinating subject for this book, as indeed it is for many of us, 

Vivid

Sinéad O’Hart’s language-skill is exceptional. Every location is brought alive with just the right words and phrases, unobtrusively crafted together to evoke a sensuously vivid reality. Either the author has particular places in mind or has a remarkable ability to collage scenes from garnered experience. The result allows the reader to visit each scene and makes for the most intense sense of involvement with her evolving narrative. Very much the same applies to her characters, especially here of course protagonist Mara and her father, who are drawn with real sensitivity. 

It is thrilling to see all the promise this talented writer showed in her debut so outstandingly fulfilled. There needs to be time in every child’s reading for Sinéad O’Hart. 

Fortunately we now have a further title of hers, The Silver Road, to look forward to in September.

Note:

There are also previous posts on this blog featuring books about time:

Three mind-bogglingly brilliant books exploring the dimension of time [posted July 2029]

A time traveller’s theory of relativity [posted August  2022]

As well as my preview of a wonderful upcoming one:

Utterly Dark and the Tides of Time [posted June 2023]

The Den by Keith Gray

Gray boys

This new from Barrington Stoke is definitely one to look out for.

The Climbers, Keith Gray’s previous title from this remarkable publisher, is one of my favourites of their many outstanding accessible books, Aditionally, an earlier full novel of his , Ostrich Boys (Directions, 2008), is one of my all time best YA reads.  So I was desperately keen to discover his new Barrington Stoke story.

I was not disappointed.

What boys are

Keith Gray is one of a small number of contemporary writers who understand just perfectly how to represent the behaviour, thinking and speech of young teenage boys. For parents, teachers and others who are trying to tempt reluctant boys into reading this makes these writers enormously important. To lure such young people into fiction often takes more than just stories about sport or superheroes. Far more important is that they can find themselves in books, characters that do the things they do, talk the way they talk, have the real hang ups and frustrations that they and their mates do.

And that is exactly what Keith Gray offers them here. His characters, their issues, their behaviours (right or wrong) and, perhaps most importantly, their dialogue are spot on; full of honest emotion and the naive attitudes of youth. These are youngsters in that awkward time of being neither child nor adult, who feel they know exactly who they are, when, as yet, they can’t and don’t. But that does not mean their integrity is one jot the less. They are boys for whom the society of their ‘mates’ seems all, and the adult world is something alien, almost hostile. Although they actually still need family love and support, they are most reluctant to admit it, even to themselves .

What boys will be

In this new story, young teen Marshall desperately wants to escape his single-parenting father, a disillusioned would-be guitarist, who came close to the life he craved only as a rock band roadie. Marshall’s best mate, Rory, is equally glad of respite from his overbearing mother. The two believe they can find refuge of sorts  when they discover a den in the strange underground bunker of a demolished house. However disputes over who owns the den provoke massive ructions, which reveal much about their peer relationships as well as their family ones. A sort of reconciliation comes from a quite unexpected source and, for Marshall at least, proves wider than he might have foreseen.

The dialogue which forms a significant part of the narration is sharp, sometimes funny, and always affectingly truthful to the responses of countless similar kids in similar situations. The writing is of such a standard that even the relatively banal events recounted are deeply involving, and the narrative far more compelling than many a far more fanciful storyline.

This is a prime example of a simple plot, about incidents that are huge, in the moment, to those involved, but essentially unremarkable in the big scheme of things . Yet this very story reaches into the heart of real human issues on an individual, social and global scale. It is about friendship, about family, about loss and anger, about conflict, perhaps even war - and ultimately about a potential for peace and a better life.  And if this bigger picture thinking will seem to pass over many young readers, then you never know what is being subliminally internalised. Regardless, what Keith Gray’s new novella provides is a cracking good read.

What boys could be

So much current MG and YA fiction is dominated by feisty girl protagonists. Now, don’t get me wrong. This is a good thing in very many ways. You might well say it is the girls’ turn, their time. And I have maintained on many occasions that stories about girls are not just for girls. However, it is also good to have new, strong books about boys. Especially in view of the desperate need to encourage more boys into reading for pleasure. It is doubly welcome when a book about young teen boys is as good as this one, written with so much understanding, and so much unobtrusive skill.

The cover picture (by an unidentified artist, as far as I can find on the NetGalley proof) is for me as close to an ideal representation of early adolescent male friendship as could be seen. Going around on bikes with a mate is exactly what I remember dominating this period of my own life, so seems to have been a big thing for at least fifty years or so.

*This certainly includes David Almond and Anthony McGowan, amongst a few others.

The Storm and the Minotaur by Lucy Strange

Illustrated: Pam Smy

In anticipation 

Here is a book well worth looking out for.

This is a new Barrington Stoke title, with an interest level of, I would say, around 9-12, but a reading age of 8. However, like many of their offerings, it not only provides accessibility for less confident or reluctant readers but a great deal more besides.

I suspect that it is particularly difficult to craft an engaging, serious story for this age-range  whilst keeping vocabulary, syntax and overall comprehensibility in the required range. But this is exactly where Lucy Strange’s writing ability and experience allows her short novel to shine. She has already penned several full-length, historically set novels, including The Ghost of Gosswater, Our Castle by the Sea, and Sisters of the Lost Marsh, all outstanding reads for confident young readers. She also has one fine Barrington Stoke title to her name, The Mermaid in the the Millpond. 

Mine author

The Storm and the Minotaur is a tale of coal mining in the early Nineteenth Century, of its serious dangers and especially of the plight of young children who worked down in the dark tunnels. Lucy Strange sensibly begins with enough factual information to give the story context, but not so much as to be off-putting. She also cleverly threads through her story references to the myth of the Cretan Minotaur, which protagonist, George, has come across in a precious book. Again, she retells enough of the tale to explain what George has read, but briefly enough not to be tedious.

Colours

Her limited language palate in no way restricts the emotional and thematic colours with which she is able to paint. Nor does her story have any less impact for the straightforwardness of its telling. In fact probably more. Within a simple, though very dramatic, story structure, the author’s secret is to focus on exactly the actions, words and thoughts which give real depth to her characters and especially their relationships. The feelings exchanged between son and father are particularly strong and affecting, as is George’s response to his dead uncle, an attachment strong enough to change the Minotaur of the original myth into a benevolent guardian.

So often, the potency of this writing is in the very specific images.Time after time, Lucy Strange includes a telling detail that brings her story to vivid and compelling life. Coal dust in the creases around a miner father’s mouth, hundreds of thunder bugs tickling a bare arm, a cap dunked in a cold stream on a scorching day; these are little things that ignite vivid pictures in the readers’ minds and lure them deep into vicarious experience.

She also manages to work into her narrative a wonderfully positive shout out for books and reading. This is both welcome and appropriate for her audience. Factual information, added at the end, also helps to heighten the impact and relevance of the narrative, but is probably best assimilated at this point, after reading the story itself. 

Hi-lo

This title is certainly very successful in meeting Barrington Stoke’s important ambition of ‘high interest, low ability’. However, the best of its titles, including this one,  will make very satisfying short reads for more confident readers too. 

Additionally, this novella provides an object lesson for young writers (and indeed older ones) in how to tell a story concisely but powerfully.

A real bonus here is provided by Pam Smy’s illustrations. This talented artist has already authored and illustrated outstanding books in her own right.* Now, she adds strong, evocative images which not only support comprehension for less confident readers, but also contribute strongly to the the impact of the story.

* Particularly Thornhill and The Hideaway.

The Lovely Dark by Matthew Fox

Cover: Izzy Burton

‘Books open all doors. . . 

Books unlock all secrets in the end.’ (p 154)

Death Becomes Him

Death is not the easiest of subjects for children’s books. Yet Matthew Fox’s second book is his second title on this theme - and both of them are outstanding contributions to contemporary literature for young readers,

.

Despite the challenge, some of the very finest children’s books have, in fact, been about death, perhaps because of the depth of truth and sensitivity it bring out in great writers.  Most often these novels have dealt with childhood bereavement, of a close family member or of a special friend. Amongst modern classics to which this applies are Katherine Paterson’s Bridge to Terabithia and Doris Buchanan Smith’s A Taste of Blackberries. More recently, outstanding titles on this subject have included Karen Foxlee’s Lenny’s Book of Everything and Berlie Doherty’s The Haunted Hills. Last year, Matthew Fox made a strong contribution to this distinguished list with his remarkable debut The Sky Over Rebecca, a tender and deeply affecting story.

There have, however, been rather fewer books about the actual experience of death, about ‘passing over’, stories exploring the possibility, or otherwise, of an afterlife. The House With Chicken Legs (still, I think, the most outstanding title of all the wonderful books from  Sophie Andersen) is largely concerned with the passing of other people. A more subjective and quite devastatingly touching view of a young boy’s own after-death experience came in Piers Torday’s little masterpiece, There May Be a Castle. And now Matthew Fox adds to this list too - and quite wonderfully again. 

Precisely 

As in his previous book, there is much that is both idiosyncratic and remarkable about Matthew Fox’s prose. Relatively spare, with mostly rather simple sentences, and organised into short punchy chapters too, it somehow manages to capture quite perfectly the thoughts and feelings of Ellie, its young protagonist. Her responses to events and people are generally direct but also sensitive and perceptive. The results of this writing is often deeply affecting and makes for a far more immersive and empathetic read than many a fancier or more trendy narrative style.

Really surreal

The author delivers another winning coup early in the story by establishing a very grounded reality for Ellie and her life. The sad death of her grandmother, during the height of Covid lockdown, with no family at all  able to be with her, rings very true. This means that when the narrative starts to take a very strange turn indeed, after Ellie experiences her own death, we as readers, are completely hooked into what for her is a continuation of reality, however disorientated. Much of what follows kept reminding me of the way Franz Kafka in his fiction was able to present essentially surreal events in a nevertheless very ‘real’ way, although here, or course, everything is kept at a far more child-accessible level. This extension of ‘reality’ however contrasts sharply with the complete scepticism about heaven or an after-life that Ellie’s grandmother expressed when still alive. This tension is an essential element of the narrative’s subsequent compulsion. The story’s speculations are also  helpfully distanced from any specifically religious connotations; it is a book that asks questions about life and death, but not one that offers any particularly dogmatic answers.

Weird and wonderful 

The whole subsequent narration of Ellie’s bizarre after-death experience is completely intriguing and keeps the pages turning rapidly. What follows for her can be funny, puzzling, surprising at times quite chilling and tension mounts until her story compels with a vice like grip. However there are softer moments too. The whole is warmed by Ellie’s relationships with other children she meets, not least by her affection for Justin, the close friend who shared her fatal accident. In fact the loving ties that bind Ellie with both her deceased grandmother and her friend Justin are a golden thread that shimmer throughout the weaving of this story.

Lyres and libraries 

Another clever strand of Matthew Fox’s novel is the way he draws in elements of existing story and mythology, in particular the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice. Not only does this myth throw light upon the story of Justin and Ellie, but the reverse is true too. And yet this is no straightforward reworking of the myth, Ellie’s tale is, rather, unpredictable in the extreme. In fact halfway through I though I had cleverly worked out how it was going to turn out, based on my knowledge of the myth, only to be completely wrong footed, by subsequent revelations. It was a thrilling and thought-provoking surprise to be proved so woefully wrong.

Through this story too runs a theme of the importance and pleasure of reading: stories, a library, favourite books. It is wonderful for children to be exposed, even if subliminally, to positive reinforcement of all the benefits that reading for pleasure can bring, 

If I implied earlier that this book is about after death experience rather than about bereavement, then that is not completely true. It ultimately contains sensitive and hopeful, but not unrealistic, messages about coping with loss too.

Rest assured 

I hope it is not too much of a spoiler to say that this book has a positive and supportive ending, without it being overly sentimental. I think that  the parents, carers and teachers of potential young readers probably need reassurance that a story with this subject matter is not in the least morbid or depressing. In fact the warmth and human understanding of its author shine through it like the guiding lanterns that feature throughout his story. 

Matthew Fox has now produced two fine children’s books. That makes him well on the way to becoming a great children’s writer. And great children’s writers are great writers, period.

‘Books open all doors

Books unlock all secrets.

Books open all eyes . . .’  (p 254)

This one certainly does.