Susan Green

IN the second week of August I took a walk and photographed the first wattle. It’s always out around my husband’s birthday. It looks so fluffy and golden and soft at first – then it gets bashed around by the wind and sodden with rain. But it’s a sign of what’s to come, and I know that winter is nearly over. On the same day, I saw jonquil spikes pushing up through pine needles, and the hyacinth starting to come up through its potting mix.

When I took a walk today, the wattle was still out, the hyacinth is in full bloom and so are the jonquils. It was warm and sunny and it felt good to be outside. It’s nearly spring!

There’s been no blogging for a while because I’ve been incapacitated – I had to have five stitches in my right hand because of a misadventure with a sharp knife in the kitchen sink. It was a Lady Macbeth moment with much blood dripping from my outstretched hand. I had the stitches out last week, but because it is such a deep wound it’s taking a while to heal so it’s still criss-crossed with steristrips. I can type rather slowly now, but until recently it’s been left hand and one finger at the keyboard. There’s also been no knitting, little gardening, very ordinary cooking and a bare minimum of housework. It’s the most excitement I’ve had for ages, but not in a good way.

I’ve been wanting to comment on some lovely letters I got in the mail a couple of weeks ago. In mid-June, I did two days of workshops about writing history at a girl’s school. I had great fun, and it was good to find out that the girls enjoyed the sessions too.

Not only that, but they began to think about writing stories of their own. Some of them sent me brief outlines of their stories and descriptions of their characters, and I was impressed at the range of ideas. Even though my talk was about Verity Sparks, who lived in inner city London and Melbourne during the the Victorian era, some of the girls were inspired to imagine other times and places. The piece of advice I gave to them was ‘Think yourself into somebody else’s world’ – and that is what they have done.

Maeve, for instance, began to imagine a 10 year old  girl with an absent European father and an Aboriginal mother in the early 20th century. Her mother is imprisoned so she goes in search of her father. There’s a strong ‘Stolen Generation’ theme, and it’s a great set-up for a story with lots of tension and conflict and heart. Maeve might need to do some research…and perhaps she might find a book called Follow the Rabbit Proof Fence by Doris Pilkington Garimara in her school library. It’s a true story. There’s also a film on dvd called Rabbit Proof Fence.
Christine’s story idea involves Annette who loves sailing and the sea, but has a traumatic accident and loses her memory. The story of how her character regains her memory – and perhaps manages to sail again – could almost be a detective story, especially if Annette only gains little fragments of her past at a time, and has to try to piece them together. If I were writing the story, I would probably tell it from the girl’s point of view and accentuate the ‘missing’ pieces of the puzzle – that would ramp up the mystery. A very promising idea.

Isabella has begun a story set in the future. It has a strong science fiction element, with a science corporation developing  powerful serums which, injected into the population, can wreak havoc – or activate special magical abilities in children. What’s good about Isabella’s idea is that she’s chosen to concentrate on one girl’s individual journey in this strange new world. That means the readers can experience the future through her experiences.
Laura has planned a story about an ordinary girl in extraordinary circumstances  – her character is washed away by a freak wave and ends up (with her little sister) on an island. Lots of opportunity there for the ‘ordinary’ child to discover how strong, resilient and brave she can be as she protects her little sister and keeps them both safe. Do they get rescued, or does she work out a way to get off the island? I wonder.

Because I was speaking about historical fiction and the Verity books in particular, some of the other girls  in the class imagined themselves back in the late 1800’s.
Ruby’s The Life of Victoria the Pickpocket starts with a very convincing description of the way a pickpocket watches and listens and observes the way people walk along the street…in order to successfully rob them! She’s chosen first-person narration, which is a great choice – you can really hear Victoria talking to you.
Margaret has set up a family story – her heroine has three sisters and they all must help their mother and father with the family business, selling food from a street stall. With so many fictional orphans around, it’s nice to have an intact family for a change! Mia has made her fictional family very poor, so there is plenty of opportunity for an engaging storyline around their united struggle to survive and make a better life for themselves.
Juliet’s story centres on the maid in a rich household. She is only 12 and wishes she could be free to play and have fun like wealthier children.  Her father is dead, and the rest of her family – mother, brothers and sisters – all work as domestic servants in the city. It’s a good situation and Juliet can really highlight the inequalities of the Victorian era if she shows the contrasts between the lives of rich family and her character. I wonder if she will find a way for them all to be together again. Perhaps they could all go to work on a farm… As city children, there could be lots to learn and a few adventures along the way.

Courtney’s beginning is very engaging, with lots going on. Young Mildred, a servant girl, starts hearing voices in her head. It’s very disturbing – so how can she get help? Who can she tell? Who can she trust? She doesn’t want to be sent back to the orphanage… I wonder how Courtney will solve the mystery of the voices.

Anna’s story takes the poor family situation and gives it an extra twist. Margaret’s parents have died, leaving ten children. As the oldest, Margaret has to look after them all. What a lot of responsibility. Anna could have lots of fun with all the different personalities of the children – perhaps there could be a cheeky one, a dreamy one, a clever and studious one… I would definitely include a couple of naughty siblings to keep the story lively.

And finally Mikayla’s begun a school story (I really enjoyed writing the Hightop House section of Verity Sparks Lost and Found). Friendships are so important and the boarding school setting gives  lots of opportunities for exploring what can go right and wrong among groups of friends.

So many stories, so many ways to write them! I have been working hard on the 3rd Verity Sparks novel, and at the end of this week, I will start work with my editor on the final version. After the editing process is finished, there’ll be a gap of time before it’s released in 2015. But before it’s out in the shops I’ll be working on another novel. The ideas are already percolating because I never feel quite right without a story on the go. With Verity all edited and out of the way, it’ll be time to dive into somebody else’s world again.

Mrs Miniver lived in an unimaginable world of privilege – though I’m not sure that’s how Mrs Miniver would have seen herself. I think author Jan Struther meant her to be an ordinary middle-class housewife. Yet she had a nanny for her two youngest children, a son at Eton, a country house with a married couple to look after it, a car and a cook and a housemaid. Her observations on the joys of ordinary life – the everyday small happinesses, the flitting fleeting beauties of the mundane world – are lovely, even moving. They’re sensitively, beautifully, minutely described moments of  everyday life and routine.

Not that she didn’t enjoy the holidays but always felt – and it was, perhaps, the measure of her peculiar happiness – a little relieved when they were over. Her normal life pleased her so well that she was half afraid to step out of the frame in case one day should find herself unable to get back. The spell might break, the atmosphere be impossible to recapture.

I’ve never seen the film, but as I read I did have Greer Garson’s perfect face in mind as she manages to be brave and beautiful at the same time, keeping calm and carrying on in the face of bombs and blitz, gas masks and austerity. Not that there is much donner und blitzen in the book. Getting fitted for gas-masks, taking in evacuees, I did note that Mrs Miniver muses several times that the British are going to war against a Government or a civilization, not a nation.

I have a Tasmanian-born friend who collects instances of Tasmania equated with The End of the Earth/Utmost Darkness/Doom and I did find an instance for her in the book.

Mrs Miniver woke up one morning with a sense of doom, and knowledge that the day contained something to be dreaded. It was not a crushing weight, such as an operation, or seeing one’s best friend off to live in Tasmania; nor was it anything so light as a committee meeting or a deaf uncle to tea: it was kind of welterweight doom.

What I remember of the book is not Mrs Miniver’s stiff upper lip. It is a picture of her sitting in her beautiful drawing room, surrounded by beautiful personal objects…and ringing the bell for tea.

Taken by my husband Howard – this is just the fence outside one of the doctor’s surgeries in one of the busy streets in our town. I say ‘just’ – I pass by this fence and hedge every time I go shopping, but it takes seeing rather than looking to make an image like this one.

My new favourite heroine is Flavia de Luce.

I was me. I was Flavia. And I loved myself, even if no-one else did.
“All hail Flavia! Flavia forever!” I shouted…

I detected instantly that she didn’t like me. It’s a fact of life that a girl can tell in a flash if another girl likes her… With a boy you never know whether he’s smitten or gagging, but with a girl you can tell in the first three seconds. Between girls there is a silent and unending flow of invisible signals, like the high frequency wireless messages between the shore and the ships at sea…

Seed biscuits and milk! I hated Mrs Mullet’s seed biscuits the way St Paul hated sin. Perhaps even more so. I wanted to clamber up onto the table and, with a sausage on the end of a fork as my sceptre, shout in my best Laurence Olivier voice, “Will no one rid us of this turbulent pastry?”

Some suggestions by various critics. ‘A cross between Dodie Smith’s I Capture the Castle… and the Addams family.’ Or ‘a dark Nancy Drew set in gothic Midsomer.’ I can detect hints of Mistress Masham’s Repose as well.

My local Opportunity Shop is a great source of reading matter. I’m always amazed at the new and newish novels that people read and pass on. There’s always a good selection of large paperback crime and thrillers (the B-format ones that retail around the $32.95 mark) but they’re rarely the ones I want. My happy hunting ground is in the $2 classics shelf and among the children’s novels.
A couple of weeks ago I found Go Saddle the Sea by the wonderful Joan Aiken. I think I have written this before – and if I haven’t, I should have – Joan Aiken was one of my first models. It was The Wolves of Willoughby Chase (for years one of my favourite books, and read I don’t know how many times) that started me off on a long love affair with Victoriana. Gas-lamp or Gothic, if it has corsets, carriages and crinolines, orotund language and bizarre surnames (Miss Slighcarp for the evil governess has rarely been bettered), I’m hooked.

So I was surprised to find that I’d never registered Aiken’s The Felix Trilogy. Go Saddle the Sea, the first book, introduces the hero Felix Brooke, a half-Spanish half-English orphan who, feeling unloved and misunderstood at home with his stern grandfather, runs away to find his father’s family in England.
It’s a ‘quest’ story. Felix, who tells the tale in the first person, sets off  to travel across Spain from the mountains to the sea. Along the way he has many adventures, experiences temporary triumphs and setbacks, encounters a changing cast of characters, makes friends and enemies. It’s a ‘picaresque’ novel; you could say it’s episodic, but it’s meant to be.  Ideal for sporadic reading. Ideal, too, for incorporating the marvellous, the fascinating –  or in the case, of the Comprachicos, the grotesque and horrifying –  from historical research.

Felix is abducted by the Comprachicos.
They “were a secret people, wandering in groups over the face of Europe, sometimes seeming to vanish for fifty or sixty years together, then, apparently, coming to life once  more. In the wake of wards and civil disturbances, plagues or bad seasons, when food was scarce and times were hard, then they would appear, plying their evil trade. What did they do? They supplied the raw material for fairs and peep-shows. And to do this they bought children from hungry parents – or they took orphans whom nobody claimed – they never stole, they drove hard but honest bargains – and they re-made these children, by terrible arts of their own, turning straight bodies into hunchbacks, dislocating joints, manufacturing dwarfs by stopping their growth – sometimes by constructing jars around them, it was said – grafting tails onto human bodies, making normal children into monstrosities. By their skilful surgery they could alter a child’s face so that its own mother would not recoginise it. At the end of Napoleon’s wars, when Europe was full of starving families and homeless children, there were the Comprachicos again, like refuse collectors, picking up human rags and turning them into profitable goods…”

There’s enough material there for a whole book –  a whole trilogy, even – but it’s just a chapter in this one.

I was in the Ian Potter in Fed Square a few weeks ago. In one of the upstairs galleries was this painting of schoolboys waiting in line. It’s a picture I know well, because it used to hang on our wall. And that’s because my Dad – or more properly in this context, the artist Douglas Green –  painted it.
I couldn’t stop smiling. Grinning, actually, like the Cheshire Cat. I felt like telling the other gallery goers “My Dad did that!”
But I didn’t. I did a sedate turn of the room looking at all the other pictures and then circled back again. I smiled some more, and then left, still smiling. Nice work, Dad.