Susan Green

In October, Sisters in Crime are celebrating their 20th anniversary with a HUGE convention called SheKilda. It’s on from 7-9th October at Rydge’s Hotel in Melbourne, and there will be heaps of women crime writers from Australia and overseas, plus – hopefully – heaps of readers as well.  The link is www.SheKilda.com.au – check it out and you’ll see that there’s an amazing line-up of crime-writing talent. And one delighted but slightly puzzled participant – me.

I’ve been invited because of my new children’s novel, The Truth About Verity Sparks. Well, there’s crime in it all right (murder, arson, kidnapping, assault – rather a lot of crime, really, for a kid’s book!) and detection, so I guess I sort of squeak in. It’s funny, in a way – I’m not a crime fiction buff by any stretch of the imagination, but my late mother was, and often when I was looking for something to read I’d wander up to look at her shelves and take something from her collection back with me. She didn’t just collect the latest, or the most well-known, either. She was interested in the Victorian prototypes like Wilkie Collins ‘The Woman in White’ and Fergus Hume’s Melbourne-set ‘The Mystery of a Hansom Cab’, as well as many early 20th century examples. The famous ones like Agatha Christie and Dorothy Sayers as well as the not-so-famous – a genre I categorize to myself (and it’s rather twee, I know) as “forgotten best-sellers of yesteryear”. That’s because though on the covers or inside the title page there’ll be the boast “20th thousand” or ’16th printing’ or whatever, the books and authors will often be almost completely forgotten.

Take the case of  Mary Roberts Rinehart. I’m having a bit of an MRR binge at the present, thanks to Mum’s collection. (When Mum died, more than thirty boxes of crime fiction  were sold to a second-hand dealer, but I saved a few favourites.) MRR was an American writer – sometimes called ‘The American Agatha Christie’ – who lived from 1876 to 1957, and in the course of her long career published what Rinehart afficionado Michael E. Grost calls ‘a mountain’ of short detective fiction in magazines plus over forty novels, plays and collections. Her first big success, ‘The Circular Staircase’ published in 1907, sold 1,250.000 which was an astonishing best-seller for those days. She’s credited with inventing the ‘If-I-Had-Known’ school of mystery writing (you know – ‘Had I but known the significance of the button in the garden bed, perhaps…etc etc) and the one I’ve just finished, ‘Haunted Lady’, does have a fair bit of that. It’s also got a delightful heroine, Hilda Adams, a nurse who her policeman friend (and just at the end, love interest) calls ‘Miss Pinkerton’ after the famous private detective agency. She’s neat and a bit prim, middle-aged and grey-haired but cherubic when she’s all pink after after her bath, very observant and very very sensible. Rinehart was a trained nurse herself, and married a doctor, so the medical aspects to her plots ring quite true. ‘Haunted Lady’ features a rich family with lots of dirty secrets and there’s much creeping and spying and being knocked out and found stabbed and so on – the usual happy family stuff – in a creepy old urban mansion. Loads of fun.

Before I read ‘Haunted Lady’, I sat up the night before till late with ‘The Wall’ – murders among the idle rich by the sea. Before that, it was ‘The Swimming Pool’ – ditto, but among country estates of New England – and ‘The Yellow Room’ – same again, during WWII. That they’re dated goes without saying, but there’s plenty of intrigue, suspense, deception and insanely complicated family machinations around money and inheritance, not to mention adulterous dalliances and of course, murder. 

 

I’ve only got one more of Mum’s MRR’s to go now – it’s called ‘The Great Mistake’…and then I’ll need to get onto the second-hand book sites on the internet to see if I can find any more.

Today’s ‘Sisters in Crime’ are part of a long tradition of female crime writers, some of whom – like MRR – are almost forgotten today but still really worth a read. And I think my mother would be tickled pink to know that with my children’s novel, I’ve been admitted to the sisterhood.

A couple of weeks ago I went to see ‘From Time to Time’, a movie based on a children’s novel by L.M. Boston. I was eager to see it, and I suppose it’s always a danger, seeing the film of a beloved book…and yes, I was disappointed and left wondering, how could they get it so wrong? But then the film is not the book, and will be soon forgotten while the spell of those Green Knowe novels is still strong for me. In fact, I immediately re-read the first couple of them – ‘The Children of Green Knowe’ and ‘The Chimneys of Green Knowe’. Green Knowe is a strange old house, part Norman, part Elizabethan, part Georgian, where the past is alive in the objects and pictures and furnishings of the house, the trees and plants in the garden, the stones and beams of the place. Ghosts are part of everyday life, but so are meals and gardening and the weather. It is both real and un-real, enchanted, magical and also down to earth. I still enjoyed the stories, but I found even more than that, I was gob-smacked by the writing. As a teenager, first reading these books, I never realised just how beautifully written they are, how ‘literary’, and I suppose that the beauty of the writing must always have been part of the spell. Here’s the section of ‘The Children of Green Knowe’ where little Toseland – later called just Tolly – first enters his great-grandmother’s house.

The entrance hall was a strange place. As they stepped in, a similar door opened at the far end of the house and another man and boy entered there. Then Toseland saw that it was only themselves in a big mirror. The walls round him were partly rough stone and partly plaster, but hung all over with mirrors and pictures and china. There were three big old mirrors all reflecting each other so that at first Toseland was puzzled to find out what was real, and which door one could go through straight, the way one wanted to, not sideways to somewhere else. He almost wondered which was really himself.

There were vases everywhere filled with queer flowers- branches of dry winter twigs out of which little tassels and rosettes of flower petals were bursting, some yellow, somw white, some purple. They had an exciting smell, almost lieks oemthing to eat, and they looked as if they had been produced by magic, as if someone had said ‘Abracadabra! Let these sticks burst into flower.’

“What if my great-grandmother is a witch!” he thought. Above the vases, wherever there was a beam or an odd corner or a doorpost out of which they could, as it were, grow, there were children carved in dark oak leaning out over the flowers. Most of them had wings, one had a real bird’s nest on its head and all of them had such round polished cheeks they seemed to be laughing and welcoming him.

(The illustration that goes along with this – of the carved angel with a nest in its arms –  is also very beautiful. All the illustrations for the books were done by Lucy Boston’s son, Peter.)

I think ‘entranced’ is the right word, back then when I first read the book, and now, re-reading after many years. I had remembered the story – stories, really, for layered along with the story of Tolly discovering the house are the stories that Mrs Oldknowe tells about the 17th century family of  Linnet, Alexander and Toby – and the atmosphere. Books do form part of your understanding and experience of the world, and I realise that whenever I visit old houses I am primed to seek that sense of past lives she created at Green Knowe.

I also read L. M. Boston’s memoir about the model for Green Knowe (the Manor at Hemingford Grey) called ‘Memory in a House’ and started another memoir ‘Perverse and Foolish’ but oddly found that I didn’t like Lucy Boston very much. Or rather, found her prickly and a bit cranky and thought if I had met her, I probably would have been a bit afraid of her. And last, but most interesting in this Lucy Boston jag, I read her novel for  adults, ‘Yew Hall’, which is, frankly, weird – but I read it all in one go. Again, I was astonished – or enchanted, or amazed; taken right out of myself is what I am trying to say – by the beauty of the writing. Really really good ‘nature’ writers, like Annie Dillard , do this to me too. Here’s a description of roses.

One was a single rose of an open splendour like an assembly of planets. The other was the Painted Damask, which opens as a cup packed with cream petals in concave whorls, every one edged with crimson; then with the engaging habit of many roses it turns itself inside out and takes the shape of a bubbling spring, one curled dome above another, pearl in the centre and arabesques of crimson lines around the circumference… I imagined the raiser who first found or hybridized it, perhaps in the seventeenth century, and the gardens in which it grew, the novelty of the day. It went well with the looped and ribboned clothes of the time. It was obviously once a sophisticated rose, but now encased in the density of time like moss in amber. The single rose was one that I wished had never grown in any garden but this, it seemed to have sprung from the necessity to be here, the mark of the house. These were too precious for picking. I left them on their trees and browsed round the better established treasures, trying to see each one for the first time, and amazed at the stupidity and blindness of my habit-dulled eyes.

After reading that, when I went out into my garden, I was so  – sorry, but there’s another extravagant word coming – intoxicated that I was quite crazy with seeing. And was rewarded with a plum tree full of white blossom and birds. A flock of greyish-green silver-eyes was chirping and hopping from branch to branch among the flowers and petals were falling all around them. I wish I had Lucy Boston’s pen to describe it.

Finding time is the key to a life filled with happy work. Kenneth Atchity

A friend has loaned me a book called A Writer’s Time by Kenneth Atchity. The subtitle is Making the Time to Write. Even though I have found ways around the time problem (all will be revealed later), I have to admit that when I started to read it, I did harbour a secret hope that I’d find THE answer.  There are days and weeks when I don’t get it right, when there simply isn’t enough time, and I’m ashamed to say this even though I work only two days a week. My writing time is missed, too short, rushed through, cut off, chopped into tiny segments and of course, wasted or frittered with little tasks and digressions that are writing-related but not actually writing.

Alas, Kenneth Atchity was quite clear that there was no easy way. Finding time, he says, ‘begins with an act of the will.’ It also begins with knowing yourself; knowing how your mind works, knowing how you work best.  For me, there is no real trick to it. It’s a bit like losing weight – if you want to weigh less, you have to eat less. Well, if I want to produce more writing, I have to write more. Simple as that, and simple doesn’t mean easy. Kenneth Atchity has all sorts of handy hints – and I mean that, some of them really are – but there’s no magic.  In the past I have devised all sorts of different plans to find more writing time for myself.  I have commanded myself sternly to get up at dawn and finish all the household tasks before breakfast; I have blocked out slabs of time on a planner or a diary; I have even made graphs of my time use and discovered a shameful amount of time lost to unproductive slacking about for ten, twenty, even thirty minutes with a cup of tea and the weekend papers.

What I’ve found works for me is simply this; the more productive I want to be, the lower my standards have to sink. Which may mean I leave the dishes in the sink, washing piled up in the laundry, dust kitties breeding under the couch and the garden morphing into untamed wilderness. None of this is because I hate or despise housework – I’ve  inherited the domestic gene from my father, who was a house-husband and stay-at-home dad – and in fact, I actively enjoy keeping house, especially since the housekeeping methods I absorbed from my father involved many shortcuts (he did actually sweep things under the carpet), a sincere appreciation of the contentment that a well-run house produces, absolutely no obsession with germs and, most importantly, lots of lovely food.  I never stint on cooking, so we don’t live on baked beans, although cake production does take a dive when a working spree is on. I have discovered that, just as you can spin out housework to take up the whole day, it is amazing what you can achieve in a frenzied half hour.

In about ten days, however, all that – finding time, baking cakes and frenzied half hours – will be academic, because I am going to Varuna. Varuna is a house set in a lovely wild-ish garden in Katoomba, in the Blue Mountains. It was built for the novelist Eleanor Dark, author of ‘The Timeless Land’, and her husband, but now it’s ‘The Writer’s House’, and operates as a retreat for Australian writers. I’ve been awarded a Varuna Publisher Fellowship which means six nights at Varuna and a couple of mentoring sessions, as well as a commitment by ‘my’ publisher, Scribe, to consider the finished ms for publication. I’m excited and happy, because I’ve been before and I know that at Varuna, there is absolutely no time problem at all.  No cooking, cleaning, taking anyone to sport or getting anyone off to school, no anything but writing, reading, thinking, walking, eating delicious meals brought in by the caterer every evening, talking to other writers… and more writing.

With no time problems, you get to discover your ultimate writing routine.  Mine was; start work at 9am and work until around 1pm, have lunch and a walk and be back at the desk by around 3pm, then write till 6 and that’s it until the next day. I wonder if it will be the same this time?

No, not best poems about the underground – political movement or home of worms and tunneling creatures – but best poems on the London Tube.

When I went to the UK with my mother in September 1986 we travelled everywhere by train, and I got to feel quite familiar with the London underground or Tube as they call it. I loved the iconic signage (the circle with a bar through it), the vaguely thirties type-face, the radically simplified maps with their different colours for different lines. I loved the station names, too, familiar from the Monopoly board – Liverpool St, Picadilly – and names with roots deep in the past like Blackfriars which was where the Dominican friars (called black freres for their black hoods) had their house in the 1300’s, and the Barbican which was part of the old defensive wall of the city and goes back to Roman times. I loved watching the exotic  mix of people (well, to me from very Anglo central Victoria it was), noting their clothes, listening to their accents and eavesdropping on their conversations. And I also loved the poems. I even scribbled one of them down.

STARS AND PLANETS

Trees are cages for them: water holds its breath

To balance them without smudging on its delicate meniscus

Children watch them playing in their heavenly playground

Men use them to lug ships across oceans, through firths.

They seem so twinkle -still but they never cease

Inventing new spaces and huge explosions

And migrating in mathematical tribes over

The steppes of space at their outrageous ease.

It’s hard to think that the earth is one –

This poor sad bearer of wars and disasters

Rolls-Roycing round the sun with its load of gangsters

Attended only by the loveless moon.

Norman McCaig (1910-96)

Why did I write it down? I think what I liked then – and I still like – was Norman McCaig’s see-sawing between beautifully poetic and timeless words and images – ‘trees are cages for them’ – and the brash 20th century of  ‘Rolls-Roycing round the sun with its load of gangsters’. But also, with all the overload of sensation (London was the biggest city I’d ever been in, and everything about it was new to me), amid the noise, sights, sounds and smells of the Underground, it was a lovely surprise to have a small window into a quiet private interior space while reading the poem. And that is probably why I remember it so clearly.

I didn’t know then that the scheme was new. It was the idea of three friends who were all poetry lovers and users of public transport.

In their introduction to their anthology Best Poems from the Underground (Pheonix 2010), the editors, Gerard Benson, Judith Chernaik and Cicely Herbert wrote, ‘How pleasant it would be, we thought, if poems could be scattered among the adverts on Underground carriages. Encouraged by far-sighed Tube managers, we put together our first selection of poems, and the project was launched at Aldwych Station in January 1986.’  So the Norman McCaig poem I liked was one of the first five that rode the rails. So far 450 poems have been displayed, and the editors say ‘It is strange to think that a project that began so causally is now part of urban history,the subject of academic theses and government surveys of ‘Great Art for Everyone’.’

It was a great pleasure for me, anyway, to read poems and even try to memorize them on the Underground – more than a pleasure; a very useful distraction from the thought that we were a long way down underneath roads and buildings with tons and tons of earth and masonry on top of us. All that crushing weight, bearing down… The next time I visited London, on my own, I discovered buses. It was bliss for a claustrophobic traveller to be on the top of a double decker bus even though they moved so very slowly through the Monopoly board streets. But no poems.

The theme this week is bits and pieces.

I have been trying to impose order on my bulging filing cabinet, and so I’ve had a purge. Lots of paper went straight to the bin, while a small pile for ‘keep’ and a bigger one for ‘?’ slowly formed. In the ‘?’ pile are many clippings and scribbled notes and pictures torn out of magazines and even (I’m a little ashamed to admit) books. Not library books (isn’t that annoying? how can they sleep at night?), but ratty old books from Op shops and second-hand shops.  I will keep some some amazing black-and-white images of the Lascaux caves and the Venus of Willendorf which must have come from a book on pre-historic art; a few unfortunately rather stained full-page advertisments from 1950’s women’s fashion magazines for clothes and especially corsetry (a preoccupation of mine; more later); and a set of illustrations from some Victorian historical novel involving gloomy castles, sadistic jailers, fainting maidens and ghosts. These last smell very musty and odd. I have put them aside for The Scrapbook Project.

Lots of writers keep notebooks. One writer that I know has a stack of notebooks spanning her entire long writing career, and she can go back to them to find any clipping or quote or picture or reference that she remembers, or  even half-remembers… They’re all there.

I do envy her, and would like to have a similar reference, but my efforts in the notebook department have been pretty sporadic. I have a few very lovely blank journals with at the most only twenty pages in each actually used. Scraps of paper seem to be more my style. So, for me it’s scrapbooks; I can paste in the pictures and clippings AND the scribbled quotations.

Because my mother, who died in May 2008, was both a hoarder AND a born archivist, I have inherited a mass of beautifully organised files relating not only to her own, Dad’s and her three children’s personal histories, but to her many interests. History of many varieties – family, local, Australian, English, ancient Roman; artists; writers; Australian literature; children’s literature; detective fiction; gardens; architecture; travel… on it goes. She used those A4 binder books, and either slipped the cuttings in or pasted them onto a sheet of paper. I’ve just bought a stack of large kid’s scrapbooks and a couple of glue-sticks. Now all I need is a couple of rainy weekends and the project will be launched.

I’ve always enjoyed reading what writers say about their working life. A room of one’s own, kitchen table; biro, pencil, pen; paper, computer; strict routine, when inspiration strikes…  Though that last phrase brings me to a little quote I’ve got pinned up above my writing desk. ‘Temperament is for amateurs’. That’s from Edward Bawden, a prolific English artist, illustrator and graphic designer.  I copied the following (found on a scrap of paper in my files) from a biography of the American writer Katherine Anne Porter.

You need to find somewhere in the house, a work room that no one has occasion to pass through or come near. And no one to ask anything of you until two o’clock in the afternoon. You know perfectly well what it takes: uninterrupted meditation and long hours of steady work.

The difference between mere adventure and a real experience might be this. That adventure is somethng you seek for pleasure, or even for profit, like a gold rush or invading a country; for the illusion of being more alive than ordinary…but experience is what really happens to you in the long run; the truth that finally overtakes you.

I believe we exist on half a dozen planes in at least six dimensions, and inhabit all periods of time at once, by way of memory, racial experience, dreams that are another channel of memory, fantasy that is also reality…I believe that a first rate work of art somehow succeeds in pulling all these things together and reconciling them. When we deliberately ignore too much, we make a fatal mistake.

Chinese saying: The land that is nowhere, that is the true home.

From “Katherine Anne Porter: A Life” by Joan Givner (Simon and Shuster, 1982).

This is how I became a reader, and then a writer.

Reading came first, but not easily. Perhaps I started school too young – only 4 – but my mother always told me that I had had all sorts of readiness tests done, and I should have taken off like a shot. She blamed my teacher, Miss Benson.

Miss Benson had beautiful light fluffy hair and I loved her because she was so pretty. I loved her even though she was often cross with me, and once I even wet my pants in front of the whole class because when I asked her urgently ‘Can I go to the toilet?’, clutching at my crotch and hopping about, she kept me waiting until I got the phrasing right. (‘Please may I …’)

Our key text in Preps was a reader called ‘John and Betty’. They jumped and ran. They had a cat called Fluffy and a dog called Scotty, who also jumped and ran. I failed to learn to read (or Miss Benson failed to teach me) in Preps, so I went into the less than bright class, a Prep/1. I failed there too, so I was sent off to Remedial Reading with the Infant Mistress. I can’t remember her name, or much about her, except that she was an older woman, not pretty, without fluffy hair. I used to sit right in front of her, staring straight ahead between her legs, utterly fascinated by the stockings gartered just above her bulging knees, her pale thighs and saggy knickers.

I didn’t learn to read from her, either, and by Grade 2 my mother, who had been a primary teacher, lost patience and taught me herself. Her method ignored John and Betty. She bought some Puffin books – proper story books – and read part of the story and then left it to me to finish. The breakthrough text was called Rom-Bom-Bom and it was something about a tiger and a drum. It turned out I could read after all.

With the immense confidence that gave me,  I thought I could then read anything. From the bookshelf I picked Ulysses by James Joyce (it had a lovely curved bow on the spine), but I couldn’t make head or tail of it; I moved on to Oblomov by Goncharov but got a bit bored. I did better with Orlando by Virginia Woolf, and read perhaps 20 pages before I lowered my sights to children’s books. I must have read Frances Hodgson Burnett’s A Little Princess near the end of Grade 2, when I was 7, because that was when I wrote my first story. In the book, the heroine Sara tells the littler children at her school a fairy tale about princesses and mermaids. In post-modern terminology, I appropriated Sara’s tale, and wrote:

Once a princess sat on a old white rock and stared at the bluey-green water. Out of the sea rose four Mermaids with flashy silver tails. The Mermaids swam about in the crystal-green water and dragged after them a fishing net woven of deep-sea pearls. On it stood a prince who said to her “Will you come down under the sea and marry me?” The princess sat on the white rock and stared in amazement and slowly said “yes’. So she stepped onto the carefully woven net and the Mermaid dived under the sea. The Mermaids left them on the pure white sand in the middle of a shiny gold cave and swam away. The prince picked up a handful of sand and sprinkled it over her. Immediately she grew a tail. Soon they were married and lived in a palace made of pink coral and pearls and shells.

I still have that story. Very neatly printed in brown biro, with an illustration of prince and princess with tails and crowns outside the coral palace. Beginning writers are often exhorted to write from experience, and in a sense I was.  I was still so very close to the fairy-tale world of my earliest childhood. Plump and sturdy, with dark almond eyes, black hair and fat red cheeks, I was nevertheless a princess. Why not? And a mermaid, too. The sea, with its waters both bluey-green and crystal-green, was just over the sand-dunes outside our back gate. I spent hours and hours swimming underwater, following little fish, with my hair waving around my face like black sea-weed. When I was very  little, in stormy weather, I sometimes thought I saw my sister mermaids riding the waves far out beyond the pier.

I didn’t hit my stride as a reader until Grade 3 at Campbell’s Creek Primary School. The classroom was fully supplied with Enid Blyton’s Secret Seven series and, even better, in the library, a dim, imposing room with lots of dark wood panelling, were the Billabong books by Mary Grant Bruce. I was off and away, a serial reader.

And sometime in Grade 3, I also became a writer. That is, I fell in love with words. Not just stories; words. I tried my parents’ bookshelf again, and found something with a likely-sounding title. The Reluctant Dragon by Kenneth Grahame. I opened it and read:

The masterful wind was up and about, shouting and chasing, the lord of the morning. Poplars swayed and tossed with a roaring swish; dead leaves sprang aloft and whirled into space; and all the clear-swept heaven seemed to thrill with sound like a great harp…

I think that’s all I read. I still have not read much further. I didn’t want to or need to then. I wrote:

The winds woke up

From their summer sleep

And tossed the leaves about.

Still wet with dew

The grass was swaying

From left to right.

Below the wild flowers

Filled the grass with colour.

Oh wicked winds!

What magic do they bring!

What magic! It was like magic with words and I have never forgotten how exciting it was.  I was going to be ‘The Reluctant Blogger’ but I think ‘The Reluctant Dragon’ fits just right.

I WAS A TEENAGE FASHION VICTIM!

It's True! Fashion Can Be Fatal

Fashion Can Be Fatal is the first – and only – non-fiction book I’ve written. The lovely, witty and very kind Robyn Annear is a fellow Castlemaine resident and author of the award-winning Bearbrass (about early Mebourne), Nothing But Gold, The Man Who Lost Himself, A City Lost and Found, and children’s non-fiction book Fly a Rebel Flag. (Robyn’s website is at robynannear.com). I was talking slightly self-pityingly to her one day about the big gap in my publishing record –  five or so years since my last book – when she suggested I approach children’s editor Sarah Brenan at Allen&Unwin.

A&U were doing a non-fiction series called It’s True! They wanted manuscripts that took a quirky, fun look at history.  So, encouraged by Robyn, most trepidatiously and tremulously (in common with lots of mothers, I’d lost a bit of confidence while in baby-land) I sent off an exploratory email and the rest, as they say, is history. Well, my history, anyway.

I put myself in the book. (Why? Because I could). I’m Fashion Victim#12.

It was 1974. I’d saved for months to buy a pair of bright red platform shoes They had 6-centimetre heels and I thought they were fantastic. When I was invited to see a movie with friends, I dressed up in my best outfit and my brand new shoes. I looked great. There was only one problem: the shoes. I kept falling off them and they gave me blisters. it was like wearing a brick on each foot. The whole evening was a disaster. I never wore them again.

Red shoes. Red shoes are dangerous and alluring. Red shoes dance you to delight and oblivion and madness. There’s a Hans Christian Andersen fairy tale called The Red Shoes, a 1940’s British film starring Moira Shearer called Red Shoes and a book by Carmel Bird called Red Shoes. David Bowie in ‘Let’s Dance’ implores his lover to put on her red shoes and dance the blues…etc, etc, etc. I was a hulking fourteen-year-old, in Form 3 at Karingal High School, wearing grey flares and a red top and making the debut of those bloody red shoes at the Pancake Parlour in Bourke Street and there was no delight or delirium to speak of that night. That is why, when I see from time to time the rebirth of seventies fashion – platform and wedge heels, flares, skinny-knit jumpers, tiny shrunken cardigans, the dolly-cut, smocks, shirring…need I go on? – I am not tempted: I was there the first time. But enough about me…

Some of my other Fashion Victims were real people – like Isadora Duncan, strangled by her scarf in a car accident in the South of France, and the 146 Triangle Shirtwaist Company workers who were locked into their workrooms on the top floors of a ten-storey New York building and died when fire broke out. Others were made up. Like Mlle Adele Derriere entering rooms sideways due to the width of her panniers, and Lady Gertrude Gormless squeezed breathless by her extreme corsetry.

The book is a bit of fun, and I enjoyed the research enormously. I used the library, bought a few books (like the fantastic Encyclopedia of World Costume by Doreen Yarwood full of her adorably awkward black and white pen illustrations) and Googled. Googling was great, but I had a few surprises. Typing in ‘Beaver Trade’ was not a good idea. ‘History North American Fur Trade’ got results much more appropriate to the dear little kiddies.

A&U got Queenland illustrator Gregory Rogers to do the illustrations. I thought they were perfect. And here’s a little story about illustrators, authors and the six degrees of separation.

A very pleasant man walked into the bookshop where I work, and was chatting to the owner. He and his partner were on holidays, staying with a friend, looking around… He’d just had a picture story book published, he told us. And another coming out soon from Allen & Unwin.

“So do I,” I chimed in.

‘It’s called Fashion Can Be Fatal, ” he said.

You could have knocked me down with a feather boa. “I wrote it!” I said. Mutual amazement ensued. How’s that for coincidence?