Young Adult Fiction, page 1 of 9

Some more 1970s YA, though this is more pre-teen than YA. The Conjuror’s Box was first published in 1974, with a Children’s Book Club edition the following year, and a paperback in 1977.

Martin and Lucy Lovell, both under 13, are spending the last days of the Easter holidays with their Great Aunt Bea when they meet Snowy, a somewhat sarcastic talking cat who has been cursed to spend most of his time as the ornamental handle of a small jug. The one who cursed him is known as the Green Lady, who was herself originally an inanimate object, the statuette of a goddess bought by the Lovell’s great-great-great-grandfather, a sea captain who disappeared, was thought drowned, then reappeared many years later looking not a day older, before disappearing once again. Inanimate objects, in this world, aren’t really inanimate at all, as Snowy explains:

“Things are like electric batteries you see… only instead of storing electricity, they store life, imagination, enjoyment… The Things in Captain Lovell’s house were particularly lively, because he had three energetic and imaginative children.”

Snowy’s own story, for instance, involves a dish and a spoon who walked off on their own accord. (And, yes, a jumping cow, and a fiddler. It’s all been passed on, in debased form, as the nursery rhyme “Hey Diddle Diddle”.) The Green Lady, meanwhile, gains her power by being the last remaining idol of a once-powerful goddess, who “held the seasons in her hands, the increase of herds and the opening of harvests.” Now forgotten, she seeks her revenge on humanity — if they won’t give her their power through worship, she’ll take it in her own way:

“If she could surround humans with lifeless, mechanical Things, she would draw off the power of their imaginations like water from a tap.”

The children return home, and learn that their neighbour, a young potter called Sarah Peach, also knows Snowy, and had various magical adventures with him as a child which she only vaguely remembers. Snowy asks her to locate her godfather, currently known as William Schwartz, but more generally known as the Fiddler. He and Snowy, it turns out, are two of the “Old Ones”, one being the Keeper of the Water Gate, the other of the Earth Gate — these Gates being doorways from this world into another. The Green Lady needs to get into that other world to gain two objects of power, a spear and a cauldron (and the fact these are referred to as “the Tokens” shows how thin a lot of the plot-reasoning is — their significance and power is never really explained beyond their sounding familiar from myth and legend, they’re just plot tokens).

In order to gain access to this other world, the Green Lady is seeking the Conjuror’s Box, an old prop from a stage-magician’s act that also happens to have genuine magical power (though only in certain places and at certain times). The box is currently owned by the descendent of that stage-magician, Henry Partridge, a young man whose passion in life is building small working models of steam trains. This, at first, is a worry, because the Green Lady has an affinity with machines, and it’s thought she might easily win influence with Henry, but two things stand in the way of that. One is that he obviously fancies Sarah Peach, the other, as explained by Snowy is:

“Look at the machines he likes — straight out of a time when people loved their machinery and treated their engines like people. The Lady’s idea is to have people treated like machines.”

It’s an enjoyable romp of a book that makes up for any thinness in reasoning or plot (those plot tokens) by sheer rush of new ideas and events. That idea about “Things being like electric batteries” and having a life of their own sounds, at first, like the set up for a novel about the hidden life of inanimate objects, but it’s pretty much dropped almost as soon as it’s out, because there are too many other things bursting to happen: a mysterious toy-maker who tries to steal the box and, when foiled, opens his umbrella and flies off into the sky, after which he’s never met or mentioned again; a rocking horse (called Horse) who, it turns out, can not only move but fly; a pair of large, striped, talking mice who have spent their life studying the precise mathematics of the interaction between the two worlds; a film company that’s clearly a front for the Green Lady, who set up to film in the local village; a journey by hot air balloon; owls who watch the children’s house by night… So many things pop up quickly, making sense enough in the onrush of events, then disappear before you’ve had time to realise how any one of these might make the basis for its own novel, but here’s it’s just a chapter. We hardly get to meet the Green Lady at all, but it doesn’t seem to matter, as the main purpose of The Conjuror’s Box is the conjuring of a world behind the ordinary, full of hidden magic, wonder, and adventure. (A final tying-up of the “Hey Diddle Diddle” connection at the start, though, implies there may have been some planning behind the book: the dish that ran away with the spoon, the cauldron and the spear…)

The Conjuror’s Box shares a certain amount in common with Penelope Lively’s The Whispering Knights: one has a witch, the other a Green Lady, both being dark archaic powers from the past seeking to wreak havoc in the modern age, who ally themselves with machinery (the witch in The Whispering Knights marries a factory-owner). As I’ve said before, it seems to be a theme of British 1970s YA fantasies that their teen/child protagonists are caught between the dark superstitions and supernatural powers of the past and the more oppressive forces of encroaching modernity. (The Changes, and the trilogy of books it came from, being a key example.) The Conjuror’s Box isn’t at all a serious take on the theme, but shows how ubiquitous it was.

I only found two brief reviews of the book. One from The Times Literary Supplement (6 December 1974), by Sarah Hayes, who clearly hated it:

“Ann Lawrence’s first two books for children were stylish off-beat tales with a timeless quality that set them in the Farjeon and Thurber class. The load of old-fashioned junk piled into The Conjuror’s Box cannot quite smother Miss Lawrence’s humour and originality, but it is odd that a writer formerly so dependent on restraint should have shown so little here.”

One person’s “old fashioned junk” is another’s emporium of wonders, and I can’t help feeling Hayes was being a little harsh. The other take is from Valerie Brinkley-Willsher in Twentieth-Century Children’s Writers:

“The Conjuror’s Box is an enjoyable fantasy with a dramatic climax and some thoughts about the nature of time, but neither characters nor plot has the originality of her other fantasies.”

Ann Lawrence (1942–1987) seems to have mostly gravitated towards historical fantasy fiction for children. One of her later books from 1980, Hawk of May, about Sir Gawain, sounds interesting, but seems not to have made it beyond its initial hardback, perhaps because another book called Hawk of May, also about Sir Gawain, which came out the same year, by US author Gillian Bradshaw, seems to have been more successful.

Gordon’s 1983 YA novel The Edge of the World seems to have enjoyed a bit more success than his previous book, The Waterfall Box, as it had hardback editions in both the UK and US, and a UK paperback in 1985.

It takes place in the middle of the summer holidays in Wisbech in the Fenlands of Cambridgeshire. 13-year-old Tekker Begdale (real name Terence, though only his mother calls him that, and only when she wants to annoy him) and Kit Huntley, a girl of the same age, have seen, not a ghost, but a “ghost like thing”—“a man shape with a horse’s skull”—near the cottage of a local woman with a fearsome reputation, Ma Grist. Later, in the same area with Kit and her older brother Dan, Tekker indulges in one of his pet projects, seeing if he has mental powers. He’s already tried mind-reading with Kit (it didn’t work), now he tries telekinesis, willing the surface of a pond to ripple. To his delight he seems to have managed it, but the next moment the whole world changes: there’s a flash, and the fens become a vast red desert under a purple sky. Then it’s gone. They’re approached by old Mr Welbeck, who claims to have seen it once before, when, as a pilot during the first World War, he crashed his plane in the fens and found himself for a moment in that red desert world. He’d been showing off to his girlfriend, Stella, a woman who, he said, could see a whole other landscape in the fens, full of “Wonderful things”, “shining shapes”, and “a glittering mountain”.

Tekker discovers he can bring that red-and-purple world back with the same mental effort, and he and Kit find the wreck of Mr Welbeck’s Bristol Scout plane there. Later, trying to convince the still-sceptical Dan, they re-enter the world once more, but are attacked by the Horsehead-thing, which leaves Dan comatose. They learn from Mr Welbeck that Dan’s only hope is for Tekker and Kit to go further into this strange other world and find the woman he loved, Stella, who was imprisoned there, in a glass palace, by her jealous sister—the woman known as Ma Grist.

What follows is a tense journey across a constantly challenging landscape—first a vast red desert, then a climb down a massive cliff, then to the towering, labyrinthine palace of glass—where Tekker and Kit are pursued by the Mari Lwyd-like Horseheads. These are, surely, the best part of the book. Basically, they’re Tolkien’s Black Riders, combining as they do undead men and horses, who later take to the skies on lizard-winged flying machines. It’s their equivalent of the Black Breath that has felled Dan. (I wonder if, also, the horned cow-skull creatures from Time Bandits might have had an influence, too.)

There are hints this other landscape may have some relationship with the real world. An actual palace was planned to be built in the fens four hundred years ago, so perhaps the glass one is an echo of what might have been. Meanwhile, the dry desert and towering cliff are the exact opposite of the flat, watery fens. But it also seems these lands were created, or at least shaped, by Ma Grist and Stella: Stella, who saw that “glittering mountain”, now dwells in it, while the jealous Ma Grist has imprisoned her there thanks to the vast desert, cliff, and the Horseheads she commands.

Is this world, then, a parallel realm—perhaps one of many—that just happens to be accessible at this point in the Fens, or was it somehow created by events in the real world then taken up and crafted by Ma Grist and her sister? I suspect Gordon stayed clear of answering such questions because, to him, the important element was to open up reality to be stranger than we think it is. As Tekker says at one point:

“Look at all that land out there. It looks flat and dull but it’s full of things you’d never guess. I feel I could split it wide open like a skin and find something else inside it.”

Or Kit (in what I like to think of as the book’s trailer moment):

“There’s always something just beyond the edge of things, and sometimes you learn the trick of getting there.”

The fraught nature of male-female relationships, particularly in their early stages, are one of the driving elements of Gordon’s YA fiction. Tekker and Kit are incapable of admitting their feelings for each other, but are quick to feel jealousy and turn spiky, accusing one another of breaches of a relationship that can’t, it seems, be acknowledged in any other way. The dry desert, forbidding cliff, and confusing glass labyrinth, then, could be seen as an actualisation of the emotional barriers people place between themselves. They are, after all, what’s between Mr Welbeck and his love Stella, created by the jealousy of Stella’s sister Ma Grist. But Mr Welbeck needs no fantasy land, as he talks of sticking to his house because it’s his “fortress” and “bolt-hole” — but against what? The Horseheads, or human relationships? And there’s a hint, I think, that Stella and Ma Grist may even be one person, with Stella the loving aspect that can only be reached once Ma Grist’s forbidding nature is overcome. It’s all quite emotionally complicated.

And crossing this landscape, facing its dangers together, might not lead to Tekker and Kit speaking more openly of their feelings, but it forces them to work together, often in actual physical contact. “We balance each other,” Tekker says at one point, because they’re having to move with their arms tight around each other to avoid falling, but it’s as close as he comes to admitting the other aspects of their growing relationship.

For me, The Edge of the World doesn’t work as well as Gordon’s more ghostly or subtle supernatural fiction. Tekker’s use of mental powers to enter the other world are dropped once he and Kit are given a flat disc of “bog oak dug up from the fen” which allows them to enter that other world by turning it. Why not just have the disc and do away with the complication of the mental powers? (Or make better use of the mental powers and have Tekker employ them in some way in their quest?) And Gordon’s terse, impressionistic prose style, which is great for capturing immediate sensations and fleeting moments—and so, perfect for adding a ghostly edge to a real-world narrative—doesn’t work, for me, so well with this sort of outright fantasy, which requires a clear establishment of the landscape and situation, at least initially. It’s hard to get an overall feel for some of the situations Kit and Tekker find themselves in, and as a result, dangers arrive suddenly, as do their solutions. It all feels like it’s filmed with nothing but too-close handheld camera-work, which can create a lot of tension, but can also be disorientating and confusing.

But the very oddness of the fantasy aspects at least gives it a sense of authenticity. You never feel Gordon is rehashing something generic, but rather that he has his imaginative eye set on some world he’s discovering within his own head, and relating it exactly as he finds it, even if it doesn’t make perfect sense.

Gordon does seem to produce some books I can’t quite get on with as much as others, and the ones that don’t work for me, such as The Ghost on the Hill, largely don’t because they’re too impressionistic and confusing; they leave me needing to read them a second time but not really wanting to because I didn’t enjoy the first read. The Edge of the World is more of that type than I’d like (because I love the theme of boy-and-girl-go-to-another-world—key examples being Le Guin’s Threshold and Catherine Storr’s Marianne Dreams), but at the same time it’s obvious there’s a genuine artistic intent behind all of his works, which makes the best of them—The House on the Brink, for instance—all the more special.

This is Fair’s second novel for pre-teens/young adults, published in 1976. It has a number of similarities with her previous book, The Ivory Anvil, in that it combines a light touch of fantasy with a gentle tale about children exploring a landscape. Here, there’s a bit more of a threat to the landscape—though, again, a light one—and like the previous book there’s a mystery from the past to be solved.

The landscape in this case is the area surrounding a canal in rural Derbyshire. The Atkins family have just moved into Bickley Mill, a disused water mill in need of renovation. (Their father, a teacher, tells them it’s going to take two years to get it into the state he wants it in, including completely replacing the plumbing and installing an interior staircase, as at present the only way to get to the bedrooms is via outside steps. 1970s dad that he is, he intends to do all this work himself, with a little help from his kids.) In their spare time, the kids, twins Rachael and Rowan, explore the canal, and get to know Mr Benson, whose job it is to care for it. Like the mill, the canal is basically disused, and Benson is battling to keep it going, as he knows certain local forces—farmers and factory-owners—would rather it was closed for good. People dump rubbish in it, and others engage in outright vandalism. Unlike similar books such as The Grey Dancer and The Walking Stones, the threat to the canal isn’t a threat to a whole rural way of life, then. Rather, it’s an interesting piece of the past, one that adds charm to the landscape, and provides a habitat for local wildlife, including kingfishers, ducks, moorhens, swans, frogs, water voles, pike, carp, tench, roach and woodpeckers. Part of the appeal of the The Penny Tin Whistler is being allowed to dwell in this country environment with the kids as they explore it. (There’s even a map, spread out over three pages at the start of the book. It seems to have been cut off, though, and there was presumably meant to be more of it. I suspect the author, who was an artist and I’m guessing is the one who drew it, wanted it to be a fold-out. I certainly wanted it to be a fold-out.)

The fantasy aspect is, as with Sioned in The Ivory Anvil, a sort of enhanced sensitivity to people and to the past. Twins Rachael and Rowan have a telepathic bond: they’re always aware of where one another is, and though they can share thoughts, they’ve agreed not to be too intrusive. It also turns out, though, that they can pick up lingering memories from the past. It’s nicely done, as when Rachael finds an out-of-the-way nook under the ivy and finds herself thinking:

Me. Dressed in green,
Cat’s cradle,
Hairy string,
Knotted, beneath the ivy.

Only, she knows the “Me” isn’t herself. She’s picking up someone else’s memories. Rowan, meanwhile, gets impressions in his dreams. After some investigation, they discover that a pair of young twins like themselves used to live at the Mill, but were separated when they were evacuated during the War, after which their grandfather, who lived at the Mill and was their only family, died, meaning they never returned. (One slight niggle: why were they evacuated from such a rural spot?) Rachael and Rowan realise that these twins, being younger than themselves, and whom they know never returned, might never have been able to find one another after that separation, and perhaps that’s why they’re picking up these memories. (The title of the novel comes from what Rachael and Rowan call one of these twins for a while, as Rachael senses her, at one point, playing a penny tin whistle.)

As with The Ivory Anvil, the investigation is dotted throughout the daily life of the twins as they go to school, help with the house, and explore the canal. But the quiet pace of the story never feels boring. The only complaint I have about the book, plot-wise, is it leaves its resolution so late that some points aren’t fully resolved. One of these is that, in order to fully access his dreams and learn where the lost boy-twin might be, Rowan has to mentally detach from the telepathic bond he’s shared with his sister since birth. This is a scary moment for him, and he wakes the next morning to find himself without it for the first time—in part, though, appreciating the sense of individuality and privacy that comes with it. But is it permanent? I’m supposing it is, but I felt there had to be at least one revisit, one exchange between the pair about the loss of their deeper connection, or something like that, just to resolve the issue. (The other main plot point that doesn’t get resolved is that, although the lost twins are located, we never get to see them, or know they’ve got together again. Perhaps that might have proved too emotionally weighty a scene compared to the rest of the book, but still, I felt it was needed.)

I found two reviews from the time, one positive, one negative. Juliet Page in the Times Literary Supplement wrote:

“Sylvia Fair knows well how children think, talk and act, and her twins, with their grouches and enthusiasms, are the genuine article. Though steeped in atmosphere, this adventure is set firmly in the everyday world of plumbing, homework, and conservation… As Sylvia Fair admirably demonstrates, it is possible to be both down-to-earth and enchanting. Her novel is to be thoroughly applauded; it is one of those delightful children’s books that reanimates one’s own memories of magical times spent in secret places.”

But Stuart Hannabuss in The Times, dismissing the book as “a generic package” in comparison with her previous novel, goes on to say:

“The Penny Tin Whistler with its children in telepathic contact with spirit children of the past and with its workable theme of saving a canal, evokes a mood like Lucy Boston’s Chimneys of Green Knowe, but does little to bind the themes together or to pin down the people. Children grow used to themes cropping up again and again, but have every right to expect that a story should do its own work.”

(I wonder if he expected child readers to all be as well-read as himself.)

To me, The Penny Tin Whistler seemed a perfect follow-on from Fair’s previous novel, and I’d have been happy to read more in the same vein, but her next books were for much younger readers. At least she got a good cover, this time, though.