Something on
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Writing extracts by Rosa Barbour |
Something on
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Writing extracts by Rosa Barbour |
‘Nightbirds’, a novel
Full synopsis: https://somethingonpaper.weebly.com/extracts/nightbirds-novel-synopsis-and-writers-statement Chapter 12. Jack Preliminary notes ☾⋆ About this chapter: During her time in Portfearn, Cathy meets Jack. Jack is around the same age (mid-20s), and he strikes up a rapport with Cathy after learning of her literary background. Jack’s distant family suffered losses as a result of the Moray Firth fishing disaster in 1848. For a long time, Jack has wanted to write about the incident in an article, and he thinks Cathy might be able to help him to finish it, and get it out into the world. She is initially reluctant; all of her attentions at this point in the novel are tied up with the ‘experienced older man’ aspect of Edward, and on first meeting she finds Jack boyish, associating him with other disappointing men her own age. Nonetheless, one night at the Castle Hotel, Cathy allows Jack to persuade her to accompany him on a boat ride across the Dornoch Firth so he can tell her about the history of the seas that surround the village, and the events of the fishing disaster that shook his forefathers. The below is a draft of the opening of Chapter 12, which narrates their first outing together. ☾⋆ Not long after I drew level with the Pictish warrior woman*, I spotted Jack ambling along the cobblestones towards me. ‘Hallo!’ he called out, in an exaggerated Teuchter accent. In the daylight his face looked less boyish than it had at the Castle; his nose was sharp and long, and an anticipatory sort of smile played about his lips, as if foretelling a frisson of humour he already knew would come to pass between us over the course of the afternoon. ‘Halloo,’ I said. He stopped in front of me, hands in his pockets. He bounced a little on the balls of his feet; a mannerism designed either to keep out the cold, or which was simply a by-product of that slightly frenetic, vital energy I’d noted in him the first time we spoke. His smile split into a grin for a brief moment, then calmed. His green eyes watered slightly in the cold, bright afternoon. He bit his lip very briefly, still smiling, then gestured elegantly down the harbour with one arm. We set off along the harbour. ‘Right, we’ll need to go down to the hut to get a boat,’ said Jack bracingly. ‘That’ll involve speaking to the SS, I’m afraid.’ ‘The SS?’ ‘The SS, aye. Sandy Salter. He lets the boats out. He also owns that very attractive line of cottages above the beach. Rents them in summer. Tourists ‘n’ that. Ken?’* ‘The ones with the massive plastic dolphin plaque things above the doors?’ ‘Those, yes. He’s something of a patriarch around these parts.’ ‘Related to, er… Sally Salter? Of Local Post Office fame?’ ‘Yes. Husband of. And! Their offspring are Susan, Sheila, Sandy and Sean.’ ‘No.’ ‘Yes. They’re the Kardashians of the Tarbat Ness peninsula.’ I chortled. ‘Clearly!’ ‘Right, but you’ll need your serious face for the SS encounter, he’s no’ called that for nothing.’ ‘Right, okay.’ ‘Okay?’ said Jack, turning to look at me, another split-second grin breaking his face in two. It was as if his smile were a self-fulfilling prophecy; it rubbed off on me, sprung onto me, almost, from his lips to mine. He sniggered briefly through his nose. ‘The thing is,’ he continued, ‘I can stop laughing in a second. In a heartbeat. I can rein it in. At any moment I can stop – poker face. You’re a giggler, I can tell. SS doesn’t like a giggler. He’ll discern from your giggling that you don’t take him and his family seriously. He’ll know it with the SS radar. And he’ll punish you in subtle yet extremely impactful ways for the duration of your time here.’ I snorted. ‘I’m telling ye.’ Jack turned sharply, nimbly descending a small stone stairway cut suddenly into the wall on our right. I followed, and found myself standing beside Jack in front of a small stone hut. Above the door was a weather-worn wooden board, painted in faded teak paint. ‘Salter Boat Hire.’ I followed Jack through the door. Inside the hut, at a plywood desk, stood a large man in a dark green gilet. He made a noise of greeting that sounded a bit like ‘Eyp.’ ‘Eyp,’ said Jack in reply. ‘Y’in’fir?,’ said a person who was clearly Sandy Salter. He looked me up and down. ‘We’re wanting to rent a boat, Sandy. Fishing boat. This is Cathy. I’m going to take her out and show her the Firth. She’s going to maybe help with the article about the accident.’ ‘Hello,’ I said. ‘Weegie, are we?’ said the SS immediately. ‘Eh… yes, aye.’ ‘City girl, eh?’ ‘She’s living with Briar and the laddie in the white cottage up the hill from Main Street,’ offered Jack. Sandy’s face darkened. ‘That laddie’s no long for this world, the rate his mither’s going wi’ thon gin.’ Jack, not missing a beat, laughed amiably. ‘Och, if ye mean the amount of bottles the P.O. are getting through, I think old Carlo helps with that, Sandy, to be fair.’ Sandy cleared his throat darkly and begun leafing through the huge dusty log book in front of him. Any flirtation he’d had with the idea of a longer conversation with Jack had clearly evaporated at the mention of Briar and my connection to her. ‘You’re wanting a boat, then,’ he said. ‘Aye, for the afternoon, please,’ said Jack brightly. ‘Yis can take Dòchas, but be careful. Choppy this afternoon.’ ‘Right y’are, Sandy. She’s a lovely boat.’ ‘He knows his way around a boat,’ said Sandy to no one in particular, eyeing Jack suspiciously. ‘Knows his way around for a boat, aye. I’ll say that. Very good in the boats for his age’. Jack smiled, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He clearly didn’t quite know how to receive this comment; twice Sandy had made Jack’s gift sound more like grounds for distrust than a skill deserving of his praise. Sandy turned slowly and pulled a set of keys from the glass box on the wall. ‘Dòchas, then,’ he said to Jack. ‘Dòchas.’ Jack took the keys and lead the way back up the iron stairs to the cobbles of the harbour. Back on street level, I spotted Mrs. Adair with her dogs Marti and Pellow. She looked set to say hello, but on seeing Jack, she drew us both a look so filthy I burst out laughing. ‘What was that about?’ ‘She, eh… doesn’t like me,’ said Jack. We were at the dock now, heading in the direction of a deep green and red fishing boat tied with rope to the jetty wall. ‘Yes… Yeah, no, I can see that,’ I said, still laughing. ‘What did you do, run Marti over?’ He ignored this, stopping near Dòchas and standing back to square up the little boat. ‘Jack!’ He threw me a quick look. ‘No. I didn’t run over Marti, no.' Then, as an afterthought, ‘I don’t drive.’ ‘What did you do, then!?’ ‘Nothing, I didn’t do anything.’ I stared at him, eyebrows raised. Jack sighed as if steeling himself to tell a story he’d been forced to regale several times before. ‘Right, there was a rumour. About my family.’ ‘A rumour?’ ‘Aye, a rumour.’ ‘There was a rumour about your family.’ ‘Yes, Cathy.’ I adopted a Noo Yoik accent, taking the piss. ‘People from arawnd heya, they tawk. There was tawk, ya know, about my family—’ Jack laughed. ‘It’s true.’ There was a pause while I waited for him to elaborate. He said nothing, fully absorbed, it seemed, in sizing up our vessel. ‘Right – I mean, you can’t not tell me,’ I said, as he climbed onto Dòchas and steadied himself on the deck. He made this look like a very easy thing to do. ‘Right, right, no, I will tell you, but just get in the boat first, right? Safely.’ ‘It seems quite easy, from what you did.’ ‘Right… well, just concentrate on what you’re doing though.’ ‘I am.’ I lowered one foot onto the deck and tested my weight. The whole boat moved under the pressure. I squealed in surprise. ‘See? Even step one isn’t that easy. It’s alright, just put your full weight on,’ said Jack, now squinting up at me, the afternoon sun full and bright on his face and the water beyond him. ‘If I put my full weight on it’ll definitely capsi—’ ‘It won’t. It just feels like that at first. Go ahead. Then you can step in with your other foot.’ I looked down at him from the harbour, doubtful. That lithe little smile was still playing about his lips, but I sensed that I could trust him. Slowly and distinctly ungracefully, I clambered onto the boat. ‘Yes! Well done. Right. That’s you, then. First time on a fishing boat. And you’re, er… on. Properly. Well done.’ ‘Yes, so, back to the rumours,’ I said, grinning. He laughed. 'It’s not that interesting. You know how to untie a fisherman’s knot?’ ‘Do I look like I can untie a fisherman’s—’ ‘Not really, no. Shall I show you?’ A seal popped its head up in the shallow waters near the boat. ‘ Fuck’s sake!’ I said loudly, surprised. ‘He’s friendly!’ Jack looked at the seal mildly, unphased. It looked back at him, curious, then ducked its slick head below the water line. ‘If I do the knot, will you tell me the story?’ ‘Yes, alright. Right, you sit over on that side of the deck and have look at the rope that’s tied to the side, coming from the harbour.’ ‘Okay.’ Right, so… Yeah, no that one. That one there. Aye. So, my dad’s dad, so, my grandpa, shall we say, I didn’t know him, but he’s got a bit of a rep, shall we say.’ ‘ 'Ooh.’ ‘Quite the shagger. Quite the shagger, I’m told.’ ‘Who told you? Your dad?’ ‘Well, no, it was my mum. My dad doesn’t like to get into it. but my mum does. After a gin or ten. My maw gets right into this chat.’ ‘Right, and? What, he shagged the minister’s wife?’ ‘Well, yes. That sort of thing. Exactly that sort of pish, yes. Right, do you see how the knot—' ‘So you are descendeth… descendedth… of a heathen.’ ‘Er, yes. Hence, Mrs. Jeannie’s growlers. Folk dinna’ forget roon here. Ken.’ ‘Is that it? There must be more to it.’ ‘Mrs. Jeannie and the like are old-fashioned, god-fearing folk, Cathy,’ said Jack solemnly. ‘Now listen – it’s not a normal knot. It’s hard to untie because of something called jamming.’ ‘Is Mrs. Jeannie aware of the antics of one Marti Pellow? I mean, if he’s going to inspire the names of her children she’d better be aware of what that man’s been up tae.’ Jack roared with laughter; a rugged, full sound, before going quiet again just as quickly. Poker face. ‘Absolutely not, Cathy. Mrs. Jeannie isn’t aware of any of that muck. And I don’t advise telling her, unless you want an OAP casualty on your soft, uncalloused hauns.’ ‘It’s not you, though, is it? You didn’t shag the minister’s wife, I mean. You’re not your grandpa.’ ‘No, but I am of the blood line. My faither sprung from forth his loins, and as far as some folk are concerned, I’m tarred with the same brush. Take that, would you? Also, it doesn’t help that I’m being spotted promenading with the next worst thing to a Minister’s-wife-shagging heathen.’ ‘What?’ I say dumbly. ‘A city girl. A WEEGIE, no less. You couldn’t have even been from Edinburgh. Had to be Glasgow. Harlot. Harlot that you are. Now, enough. We’re here to learn. So. Do the knot.’ ‘What?’ ‘You said you wanted me to show you how to sail a fishing boat.’ ‘Oh right. Aye. Well, saying ‘do the knot’ and pointing vaguely at an unidentified object, wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.’ ‘It’s not an unidentified object, though. It’s the rope we’ve been discussing for the last… several minutes.’ I took the rope, half smiling, and fumbled the tight knot with cold, slippery fingers. It felt impossible, like trying to loosen welded metal. ‘Jack. This is the most difficult knot that has ever been.’ He smiled, taking pity. ‘Sorry. But I was trying to explain. It’s hard. Right, you move up to the other side and I’ll come where you are. So we don’t capsize.’ I moved to the other side of the bench and he took my place next to the rope, holding the knot in both hands for a second before working his fingers gently over the tension. It came apart almost instantly. He gave it a single hard shake and the rope lashed in one clean, straight stretch across the deck. ‘What the fuck, Jack?’ I said, laughing disbelievingly. ‘Well, it is my job. You were supposed to do it. So you can learn.’ ‘I know, but it was like you just touched it and it unravelled.’ He looked down at his hands, eyebrows raised appraisingly, as if all of a sudden convinced of their magic. ‘Right. Let’s get out on the water.’ ‘Also. Marti Pellow’s a bloody Weegie as well,’ I said, as he made his way up to the front of the deck. *In the village there is a bronze sculpture of a Pictish warrior woman on the harbourfront, often used as a meeting place. * ‘ken? / ‘d’ye ken?’ = do you know/understand?
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I caught a glimpse of myself in my mirror. There was a feral, banshee look about me; my eyes were dark, a livid red blossom was climbing from my cleavage up my neck. I walked closer to my reflection, put my hands on my breasts. With my long pinkie nail I drew a bright red line across my throat, dragging harder at the last moment so that tiny beads of blood came to the surface of my skin. I slapped my throat once, twice, and looked down at the fine trail of blood on my palm. Not enough. It’s never enough.
I snaked my hand down under the fine material of my skirt, formed a fist with my fingers and pressed it hard against my clitoris. I could tell immediately from its dull, numb response that I would not be blessed with an orgasm tonight. The novel mystery of someone else’s touch, perhaps, could have coaxed one out. But not my own. Not now. I clenched my teeth and let out a low, animal growl. ‘There are two of her,’ I remember my mum saying to a nurse. There was a frightened look in her eye. ‘She’s… she changes.’ If I were a banshee, I remember thinking, I’d transform myself into a real bat-girl and smash out of my bedroom window, shrouded in a cloud of undulating black smoke. Up, up I’d fly, over the Sainsbury’s Local and through the city night, leaving a trail of shadowy sexual mischief in my wake. George Michael would wake from his slumber and provide a luxuriously forbidding, glittering version of ‘Fastlove’ just for me: my personal soundtrack. He’d know that my bat-self would perceive in full the profound loneliness of that song – not the upbeat disco number others took it for, but dark, so very dark. In the absence of security, I made my way into the night. (‘How could you be lonely if you were George Michael?’ one of his fans had asked in a documentary. ‘You’d be with George Michael all the time.’) Eventually the haze of smoke around me would clear. My wings would carry me back through my bedroom window and I would curl up in my virginal white sheets, spent and peaceful – human again, and as whole as I could possibly be. I was just sane enough in that moment to accept that supernatural Chiropteran antics were not a workable Plan A. The favoured option thus - sadly - eliminated, I knew I had to find a way back to myself that did not involve two bottles of red wine and nicking an artery. I closed my curtains to the harsh streetlight orange, leaving the window open a little, not quite ready yet to fully close myself to the night. My face softened - lit only, then, by the soft womblike glow of my bedroom. I pulled my black lace top over my head. I breathed in, out, slowly, slowly. I clotted pad after pad with thick black mascara. Then, with bleary, slightly burning eyes, I noticed in the mirror the box of DVDs Briar had left for me when she left. They were cast-offs, I knew, from her mum’s collection; the ones that Briar knew I’d like more than she would. I rustled through them, smiling slightly as I selected and discarded Terms of Endearment, Sleeping with the Enemy, Steel Magnolias… settling eventually on Local Hero. I shuffled over to my old DVD/telly player and stuck it in. The title screen loaded and – yes, mmmmm, there it was - began to ooze gently with that gorgeous, dreamy soundtrack. (‘Is that Knopfler?’ the nice Seb might have said into my hair, absently. I’d have loved him for knowing). As I lay on my bed and settled into the story, the evening’s sharp-toothed adrenaline creature finally flowed out of my body, through the open window and out into the night. She was, I knew, a formidable being, not accustomed to surrender. With hours still to go until morning, she sought another body to possess; another mind to stir up and sizzle and, eventually, short-circuit. But it wouldn’t be mine. Not that night. Five songs in particular were haunting me when I came up with the concept for the novel I'm working on. I was very unhappy in my personal life at the time; struggling to focus on anything, struggling to feel passionate about anything at all. My mind was, in many ways, numb. But there must have been some tiny part of me that knew I still had something important going on in my consciousness that had to find a way of coming out. The way that little part of me managed to get my full attention was by bringing me back, time and again, to these songs. Throughout that whole period, the lyrics and melodies would pop into my mind at the strangest moments - often moments when I was otherwise disconsolate or completely debilitated and ill with anxiety - and the songs themselves were so cinematic and beautiful, I knew I had to try to heal myself enough that I could create characters around them. These songs are so much part of the fabric the story now, that I have assigned each one to a character, and each will have their moment in the text as a defining moment for the character they relate to. Here are the songs, and the specific lines from them, that played a huge part in giving birth to the first characters I knew I wanted to stay with: Cathy, Briar, Marius, Edward and Jack.
The ones you dream of, the ones who walk away With their capes pulled ’round them tight Cry for the night – cry for the nightbird, tonight. ‘Nightbird’ – Stevie Nicks In the absence of security, I made my way into the night. ‘Fastlove’ – George Michael My hands are shaking Don’t let my heart keep breaking, cos I need your love. I want your love. Say you’re in love, in love with this guy. If not I’ll just die. ‘This Guy’s In Love With You’ – Herb Alpert Now I can see you wavering As you try to decide You’ve got a war in your head And it’s tearing you up inside You’re trying to make sense Of something that you just can’t see Trying to make sense now And you know that you once held the key But that was the river This is the sea! ‘This Is The Sea’ – The Waterboys Who do you love? Who do you really love? Who are you holding on to Who are you dreaming of? Who do you love When it’s cold and it’s starlight When the streets are so big and wide I love you An ordinary girl. ‘Saturday Night’ – The Blue Nile I spoke about wings You just flew I wondered, I guessed and I tried You just knew I sighed, but you swooned! I saw the crescent You saw the whole of the moon. ‘The Whole of the Moon’ – The Waterboys ‘Other families had lullabies, but the Cassons had fallen asleep to lists of colours…’
☾⋆ Safe Places, Kind Faces and Edible Paint: Saffy’s Angel and The Exiles An analysis of the successful creation of domestic spaces and their psychological influence on the characters that inhabit them In her novels Saffy’s Angel, first published in 2001, and The Exiles, first published in 1992, Hilary McKay creates domestic worlds which mirror the vibrancy and warmth of the families that inhabit them. In Saffy’s Angel, a sprawling, paint-splattered abode houses artistic, exuberant children, who are encouraged to explore their creativity in a bohemian environment. (McKay 2001: 4) The Exiles tells the story of the Conroy sisters, who find themselves uprooted from the sleepy Lincolnshire suburb where they live with their parents, and sent away to spend a lively, sunny summer in the vast Cumbrian hills with their formidable ‘Big Grandma.’ (McKay 2007: 36) Both texts feature lengthy descriptions of the domestic interiors which surround their principal characters, with absorbing focus on the effects of environment on the psychological development of two respective families. (McKay 2001: 17) In an effort explore the representation of home and family in McKay’s work, this essay will include reference to Gaston Bachelard’s 1969 text The Poetics of Space, which reflects the importance of safe spaces during the developmental phases between childhood and adulthood. (Bachelard 1969: 6) I will also consider R.D. Laing’s 1969 essay ‘The Politics of the Family,’ paying particular attention to his warning of the potentially detrimental effect on childrens’ development of over-reliance on familial structures. (Laing 1971: 8) I will conclude that McKay’s work supports Laing’s distrust of familial co-dependency, and is keen to allow her young characters to establish their own identities which, though coloured by their home lives, are not defined by them. In The Poetics of Space, Gaston Bachelard explores the human capacity for prolonged attachment to the home environment. This attachment, he argues, is created through the mental associations we form in our early years in relation to our childhood home, which is our ‘first real universe, a real cosmos in every sense of the world.’ (Bachelard 1969: 4) In Saffy’s Angel, McKay quickly establishes the Casson household as an immersive, creative environment, in which Eve Casson, the childrens’ mother, ‘as far as possible,’ grants her children the freedom to do ‘exactly as they liked.’ (McKay 2001: 193) In the first chapter of the novel, when a health visitor comes to check on Rose (seven years old and the youngest of the Casson children), she is met with the sight of Caddy, the eldest at eighteen, ‘absorbed in painting the soles of her hamster’s feet’ (McKay 2001: 4), while Rose ingests a tube of ‘Yellow Ochre’ paint. (McKay 2001: 6) In the same chapter, we are told that three of the four Casson children were named after colours on a paint chart which hangs on the kitchen wall. (McKay 2001: 1) McKay continues to establish the unique nature of Casson family life: Other families had lullabies, but the Cassons had fallen asleep to lists of colours. (McKay 2001: 1) McKay’s early efforts to distinguish the Cassons from ‘other,’ more conventional families, allows for a comparison of the text with Bachelard’s description of the family home as an individual entity; a ‘cosmos’ and ‘universe’ in its own right. (Bachelard 1969: 4) This notion is solidified in Chapter 2, when we are told: The house had a name. The Banana House. It was carved on to a piece of sandstone above the front door. It made no sense to anyone. (McKay 2001: 17) From this point in the novel, the Casson house is referred to only as ‘The Banana House,’ almost as though it constitutes a character in its own right, in all its paint-splattered exuberance. The principal benefit of such immersive homely spaces, Bachelard argues, is that the house, separated from other spaces, becomes unique in its capacity to ‘shelter daydreaming’ for its occupants. (Bachelard 1969: 6) From comforting, bright attic spaces to the soft nightlights of cosy childhood bedrooms, Bachelard describes the relevance of each nook and cranny of the home as potential ‘resting places’ for daydreaming and self-discovery in early life. (Bachelard 1969: 6) Bachelard’s suggested tendency for children to utilise the home environment as the principle site of their daydreams is explored in both of McKay’s texts. In Saffy’s Angel, Indigo often seeks the comfort of his bedroom, in which he likes to peacefully contemplate picture books about polar explorers, ‘strong as steel and brave as tigers.’ (McKay 2001: 33) We are told that this pastime is private to Indigo, and that none of the rest of the family are aware of his dreamy forays into the lives of adventurers, whose ‘cold, limitless world was the exact opposite of his own muddled home.’ (McKay 2001: 33) In The Exiles, the Conroy family home is pointedly antithetic to the cluttered bohemia of ‘The Banana House.’ (McKay 2001: 17) Mr. and Mrs. Conroy are both of a sensible, quiet disposition; a disposition made manifest in the beige carpets and dust-free windowpanes of their suburban home. (Mckay 2007: 8) Conversely, their four daughters, perhaps in reaction to their sagacious parents and sedate domestic environment, maintain a ‘carefully fostered defiance towards the world in general and school in particular.’ (McKay 2007: 8) McKay introduces the individual nature of each of the Conroy sisters early in the novel, with a luxurious, panoramic description of their night-time dreams: Sunday night darkness seeped through the house. All day long it had hung around waiting, hunched under the stairs… shivering in the bottom of vases. Now it was loose. Rachel and Phoebe slept in bunk beds packed with teddy bears, colouring books and stray lumps of Lego. Phoebe in the bottom bunk dreamed of crocodiles... Phoebe was safe in the dark; it never frightened her. Rachel… did not dream, but all through her sleep hung a nervous distrust of the edge of the bed. The dark was thickest and blackest in Ruth and Naomi’s room, where huge old blue velvet curtains hung, smothering the windows. The curtains had faded round the hems to a browny-grey colour, and they held Ruth and Naomi in the dark like gaolers. Ruth lay awake, staring at nothing and thinking. One day, she dreamed, she would spend summer in the countryside. “Are you awake?” hissed Naomi through the dark. (McKay 2007: 6) Immediately striking in this passage is McKay’s decision to linger on specific details within the Conroy family home. The ‘seeping’ darkness shrouds the colourful Lego blocks and teddy bears, establishing the evening as a time for unconscious thought, in which daytime objects associated with conscious activity are muted by the night. These interior descriptions are granted equal narrative weight to the content of the girls’ dreams, with the result that McKay seems to entwine the action of dreaming with the hushed, safe darkness of the household itself. In doing so, McKay recalls Bachelard’s argument that the principle benefit of experiencing a safe, tranquil domestic space in early life is that the house ‘allows one to dream in peace.’ (Bachelard 1969: 6) Bachelard maintains that dreams, whether sleep-induced or the products of waking fantasy, will often lead one’s mental journey back to the safety of the house itself. (Bachelard 1969: 16) However, as we have seen that in McKay’s texts, children’s dreams in fact serve as a vehicle to convey them beyond the confines of the house. Indigo Casson dreams of a world which is, quite literally, the polar opposite of his own home. (McKay 2001: 32) Ruth Conroy dreams of spending a summer somewhere distant and rural. Interestingly, Ruth’s dream seems to defy her home environment, in which her curtains ‘smother’ the window, imprisoning the girls like ‘gaolers.’ (McKay 2001: 6) McKay’s description of the curtains, striking and unhesitant in its imagery, establishes the feelings of oppression which shade the Conroy girls’ feelings towards their home and remain palpable throughout the novel. (McKay 2001: 166) Ann Alston has commented on the tendency for children’s books to present ‘conflict between the desire to stay in the womb/home and the need to move away from it.’ (Alston 2008: 88) Commenting further on this conflict, Jo Croft has spoken of the habit for children to view their own bedroom as the principal centre for daydreams, not because of its close association with the ‘protective’ family, but because of its status as a personal space within the home. The adolescent bedroom marks out a space relatively protected from adult regulation, associated with the assertion of a distinct, individual identity at odds with a discourse of the integrated nuclear family. (Croft 2006: 215) Croft suggests that from an early age, children begin to form idle fantasies of a realm in which their personal identity is established as separate from the family structures of home. In both of the primary texts, children’s dreams of outer worlds prove useful in their overall development. In Saffy’s Angel, Indigo, who suffers from an anxiety disorder and believes himself to be ‘afraid of everything’ (McKay 2001: 34) continues to refer back to the explorers, eventually taking guidance from their bravery. In The Exiles, Ruth’s dream of spending summer in the countryside is realised, and the resulting experience proves invaluable to the ‘coming-of-age’ process of all four sisters. For Indigo and Ruth, then, daydreaming in some way facilitates a process of development which fosters self-expression, while warding off an over-reliance on the family home. However, in each case, the children have the luxury of contemplating their fantasy escape, safe in the knowledge that their domestic environment will always remain the protective, womb-like environment that Alston and Bachelard describe. (Alston 2008: 88) Inherent contentment allows the children to dream idly, without the avid determination of those children who are not lucky enough to be ‘enclosed… protected… all warm in the bosom of the house.’ (Bachelard 1969: 7) In Saffy’s Angel, Saffron Casson is a catalyst for tension, and her story creates a ripple in the otherwise serene equilibrium of the Casson family dynamic. Saffy discovers at the beginning of the novel that her biological mother, Linda, died when she was very young. Saffy was subsequently adopted by Linda’s sister, Eve Casson: the mother of Rose, Indigo and Caddy. (McKay 2001: 10) Following the discovery of the truth of her upbringing, it becomes clear that Saffy is no longer able to mentally locate ‘The Banana House’ as her true home. She experiences recurrent dreams of the house she had once occupied in Italy with her biological mother. In the dream, Saffy sees ‘a garden behind a green door,’ (McKay 2001: 151) in which stands the stone angel that she had dressed with yellow rose petals when she was a little girl. (McKay 2001: 172) Unlike Ruth Conroy’s idle wish to visit the countryside, there is fervency in Saffy’s repeated vision. Her happy associations with ‘The Banana House’ irreparably disrupted, she desperately seeks to recall a previous dwelling place; the place she was raised by her first protector: When we dream of the house we were born in, in the utmost depths of reverie, we participate in this original warmth, in this well-tempered matter of the material paradise. This is the environment in which the protective beings live. (Bachelard 1969: 7) Bachelard’s belief in the recollection of ‘the house we were born in’ as a universally comforting process is problematic in the case of Saffy Casson. She cannot truly access the ‘warm’ ‘paradise’ of her first home in Italy, as she cannot fully recall its environment, or indeed the ‘protective’ presence of her mother. To Saffy, it is an elusive vision, and yet she knows she will feel lost until she sees the garden in its reality. (McKay 2001: 160) It is clear, then, that Bachelard’s theories regarding of the role of domestic interiors in facilitating positive dreaming could be problematic for those who do not have a steady preliminary home to recall. This issue prompted Jo Croft to comment that ‘what Bachelard describes seems very much an idealised psychic structure’. (Croft 2006: 213). In order to examine more closely the flaws of idealised constructs of the familial environment, we can look to the work of R.D. Laing, whose 1969 essay ‘The Politics of the Family’ examines the polarities of Western family life. In the poetic preface, Laing writes that, for lucky children, the home is a ‘space for love, wherein one is cherished by those one cherishes.’(Laing 1971: 1) However, Laing also considers less fortunate children, for whom home is not always ‘a cosy nest where no eyes are pecked out.’ (Laing: 1971: 1) Laing presents the home as an environment in which complex familial dynamics are played out, and subsequently internalised by the younger members of the household; the process of which has a bearing on their individual psychological development. (Laing: 1971: 4) Though Hilary McKay’s Saffy is loved and well cared for by her adopted family, she struggles to associate ‘The Banana House’ with all of the comforting connotations of ‘home.’ (McKay 2001: 152) It becomes apparent that, even before the revelation of her real parentage, Saffy perceived her difference from the other Casson children. In a flashback sequence near the beginning of the novel, Saffy realises with great anxiety that she cannot spot her name on the colour chart from which Rose, Indigo and Caddy’s names were chosen. ‘Why isn’t my name on the colour chart? Why isn’t there Saffron? There was a long, long pause. ‘It wasn’t me who chose your name.’ ‘Dad?’ ‘No. Not Daddy. My sister.’ ‘Your sister who died?’ ‘Yes. Go to sleep, Saffy.’ (McKay 2001: 10) Despite her benevolent motives, it is clear from the above dialogue that Eve Casson is conflicted by her decision to deliberately obscure the details of Saffy’s past. Laing, reflecting on his prolonged study of family life, argued that in many households, there exist ‘complicated stratagems, designed to keep everyone in the dark.’ (Laing 1971: 69 - 89) Laing’s discussion of the prevalence of denial and collusion amongst Western families can be applied to the Casson family’s failure to explain to Saffy at an early age that she had been adopted. Eve Casson, though armed with good intentions, nonetheless creates great confusion in Saffron, in her prolonged efforts to withhold the truth of her biological parenting. In a striking articulation of Saffron’s feelings, McKay writes: It seemed that the whole pattern of her family was slipping and changing, like colours in water, into something she hardly recognised. (McKay 2001: 12) Saffy’s fear is not only rooted in her loss of Eve and her siblings as she had once seen them, but in the potential loss of her own identity; a fact that becomes apparent when Saffy forms a plan with her friend Sarah to travel to Siena and find the angel in the garden of her recurrent dreams. To Saffy, recollecting this relic from her past life will grant her ‘proof that she mattered as much as anyone else.’ (McKay 2001: 166) The power of the family in determining one’s sense of identity has been articulated by Laing, who observed that ‘’the family’ as an internal group may condition, more or less, a person’s relationship to himself…’ (Laing 1971: 8) Saffy, struggling with the disintegration of her previously perceived familial structure, projects all of her loss onto the only object she remembers from her first home. The pursuit of this object is Saffy’s way of re-assembling her fragile sense of personal identity. (McKay 2001: 166) Saffy’s decision to leave for Italy, in turn, creates a conflict in Eve, her adopted mother. In reaction to Saffy’s departure, Eve paints a canvas in which ‘a girl who looked very like Saffron… smiled contentedly down at the water-lilies in the duck pond and showed no sign of running away.’ (McKay 2001: 135) McKay’s subtle conveyance of Eve’s anxiety recalls another strand of Laing’s theory, in which parental figures equate ‘death of self’ with the departure of a child. (Laing 1971: 14) However, though McKay acknowledges Eve’s maternal concern, she is careful not to let her anxiety approach the state of dysfunctional possessiveness described by Laing, in which a child’s departure from the ‘family structure’ (Laing 1971: 12) is perceived by the parent as ‘worse than murder.’ (Laing 1971: 13) Eve is eventually supportive of Saffy’s decision to explore her past, realising that it is an utterly necessary process in Saffy’s quest for identity. (McKay 2001: 154) In a touching passage, we are told that Eve Casson ‘had known from the day the children were born that they were in every way more talented, intelligent and wise than she would ever be.’ (McKay 2001: 193) Perhaps for this reason, she is determined to allow her children to forge their own paths. Although the Casson children’s collective creativity seems irreversibly entwined with the arty clutter of ‘The Banana House,’ (McKay 2001: 17) McKay is careful to establish the ways in which each child develops his or her own unique personality. Saffy, ‘who had grown up so fierce and so alone,’ we are told, nonetheless is ‘always gentle’ with her grandfather. (McKay 2001: 26) Rose, age seven, is extremely perceptive, and immediately understands the reasons for Saffy’s sudden departure to Italy. Through a mouthful of paint, she explains to her mother: ‘She’s lonely. That’s why. (McKay 2001: 132) Bettina Kümmerling-Meibauer has said argued that fully capable children should begin to display empathy at around seven years old (Rose Casson’s age). At this stage, for the first time, children ‘understand that it is still possible for a person to be unhappy even if they are ‘in a positive and stimulating surrounding, because these emotional shifts are caused, for instance, by unpleasant memories or a more general state of unease.’ (Kümmerling-Meibauer 2012: 130) In perceiving Saffy’s sadness, Rose demonstrates her own ability to process ‘emotional shifts’ in others as distinct from surrounding environments. In her subtle presentation of Rose’s compassion and emotional development, McKay shows that Rose is already beginning to understand that the happy, colourful world of ‘The Banana House’ cannot always prevent the interior anxieties of its inhabitants. In The Exiles, ‘Big Grandma,’ like Eve Casson, avoids the over-protective caring techniques which are so condemned by Laing’s analysis. (Laing 1971: 13) When the four Conroy sisters sulk around the house on a rainy day, she tells them, ‘I cannot bear you any longer.’ (McKay 2007: 66) Eventually taking heed of Big Grandma’s amiable irreverence, the girls go outside to play in the garden. Naomi, in particular, is charmed by what she finds there. At the strawberry bed Naomi halted in amazement, for dozens of them sparkled there, bright red under the dark green leaves. At home they had always been the rarest of fruits, bought for Sunday tea in summer, and eked out with ice cream. The smell of them, sweet and spicy in the warm sunshine, enticed Naomi to her knees, and there, bewitched, mesmerised, heedless of all possible consequences, she began to gather them. (McKay 2007: 56) In the above passage, McKay is consistent in establishing the exotic nature of the strawberries in comparison to those Naomi has had at home ‘for Sunday tea’. In comparison, the wild fruits in Big Grandma’s garden ‘sparkle,’ sweet and spicy in equal measure. Naomi, mesmerised by their glamour, experiences the first flush of a new-found passion for gardening. (McKay 2007: 60) Alice Byrnes discusses the common motif in children’s literature for the child to move to an idyllic pastoral setting in order to gain inner peace and semblance, writing: The garden is not only the setting but the means of mystical transformation. The physical restoration of the gardens is emblematic of the spiritual metamorphoses of the people who inhabit them. (Byrnes 1995: 56) This perspective stands in line with R.D. Laing’s emphasis on self-development as achievable through experiences outwith the familial home. (Laing 1971: 7) While Naomi finds a release from the oppression of her suburban home through her zeal for the outdoors, Saffy’s journey to Siena allows her to re-assemble her sense of identity, and return to ‘The Banana House,’ armed with the confidence that she can handle herself in the world beyond its walls. (Byrne 1995: 55) At the end of The Exiles, the Conroy sisters have found an outlet for their collective restlessness in the Cumbrian hills, with their ‘sunsets of flame and scarlet over the sea,’ (McKay 2007: 166) and return home to their parents full of new ideas to keep themselves entertained. (McKay 2007: 190) As Byrne states, ‘in literature, the outward journey is a metaphor of the inward journey. In a physical expedition one leaves home, ventures to an unfamiliar place, and re-establishes oneself.’ In the closing chapter of Saffy’s Angel, Caddy Casson, having successfully passed her secondary school exams, prepares to leave ‘The Banana House’ for the first time. The autumn of her departure leaves the Casson garden covered in leaves, whose warm shades, Rose suggests, mirror her sister’s name: ‘Cadmium deep yellow, Cadmium scarlet and Cadmium gold’. (McKay 2001: 212) Rose’s simple comparison of her sister’s name with the colours of the changing season is striking in its optimism, implying happiness and fruitful opportunity will come to define the first phase of Caddy’s life beyond the ‘womb’ of the family home. (Alston 2008: 88) Caddy’s final gesture is to present Saffy with her stone angel, which was recovered from the house in Italy, but broken after a long car journey. (McKay 2001: 214) Caddy had spent weeks over it. She had found the right kind of resin and one by one she had set the fragments together again strapping each piece until it was solid… Last of all she had blown on to it a very little thin gold dust, Siena gold coloured. She had been able to find exactly the right shade from the ever-useful paint chart on the kitchen wall. Caddy put the box down on the grass and took off the lid. Inside was the little stone figure that had come so far. (McKay 2001: 214) Caddy spends her last few weeks at home internally absorbing the creative, happy energy of ‘The Banana House,’ which is made manifest by an outward action of kindness towards her sister. In gaining her own closure, Caddy offers Saffy the symbol of her own identity: her stone angel, sprayed with the golden colour of the country she was brave enough to visit. Saffy learns from her journey to Italy that her identity takes root in her bravery and is not bound to her place within any fixed abode, (McKay 2001: 206) showing that she is ultimately independent from the ‘group operations’ of the internalised family structure. (Laing 1971: 8) In the course of the story, Saffy, like her angel, has come very far. (McKay 2001: 214) In depicting such issues as Saffron Casson’s adoption and the Conroy sisters’ emotional distance from their parents, Hilary McKay is careful to infuse her work with storylines from which children with similar issues can take comfort. In doing so, she successfully creates a fictional balance in which problems can co-exist with essentially comfortable family life. Through their collective empathy, bravery and creativity, McKay’s children characters ultimately achieve independence from their home environments, despite having been shaped and coloured by their unique ‘worlds’. (Bachelard 1969: 4) At the same time, McKay preserves the Bachelardian theory of the importance of comfortable domestic environments in early formations of personality. In her vivid, immersive descriptions of ‘The Banana House’ and the sparkling strawberries of Cumbria, McKay makes it clear that for the Casson and Conroy children, ‘memories of the outside world will never have the same tonality as those of home.’ As such, it can be of no doubt that that the children of both families will continue to recall the sounds, sights and colours of their early domestic environments long after they have ‘flown’ their confines. (Bachelard 1969: 6) Bibliography ☾⋆ Primary texts: McKay, Hilary. Saffy's Angel (London: Hodder Children's Books, 2001) McKay, Hilary. The Exiles (London: Hodder Children's Books, 2007) Secondary texts: Alston, Ann. ‘There’s No Place Like Home: Home and Family in Children’s Literature’ and ‘A Room of One’s Own? Spaces, Families and Power,’ in The Family in English Children's Literature (Devon, Routledge, 2008), pp 47-69 / 69-89. Bachelard, Gaston. The Poetics of Space (Boston: Beacon Press, 1969) Beckett, Sandra L. ‘Crosswriting Child and Adult in France: Children’s Fiction for Adults? Adult Fiction for Children? Fiction for All Ages?’ in Transcending Boundaries, Writing for a Dual Audience of Children and Adults. (New York: Garland, 1999), pp 31 – 63 Boyers, Robert. R.D. Laing and Anti-Psychiatry. (New York: Octagon Books, 1974) Burston, Daniel. The Wing of Madness: The Life and Work of R.D. Laing. (Cambridge, MA: 1996) Byrnes, Alice. The Child: An Archetypal Symbol in Literature for Children and Adults (New York: Peter Lang, 1995) Chapman, Dennis. The Home and Social Status (London: Routledge, 1955) Croft, Jo. ‘A Life of Longing Behind the Bedroom Door: Adolescent Space and the Makings of Private Identity,’ in Our House: The Representation of Domestic Space in Modern Culture, ed. by Gerry Smyth and Jo Croft. (New York: Rodopi, 2006), pp 209 – 225 Dalsimer, Katherine. Female Adolescence (Connecticut: Yale, 1986) Gabb, Jacqui. Researching Intimacy in Families (Basingstoke: Palgrave MacMillan, 2010) Goode, William J. The Family: Second Edition (New Jersey, Prentice-Hall: 1964, 1982) Hall, Dinah. ‘Voices from the past: Dinah Hall celebrates the return of historical fiction in her round-up of children’s books.’ Online article accessed from The Telegraph website, first published 27 March 2005. Stable URL: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/3639374/Voices-from-the-past.html [Accessed 1st March 2015] Jung, Carl G. The Integration of the Personality (London: Trubner, 1940) Kümmerling-Meibauer, Bettina. ‘Emotional Connection: Representation of Emotions in Young Adult Literature,’ in Contemporary Adolescent Literature and Culture: the Emergent Adult ed. by Hilton, Mary and Nikolajeva, Maria. (Surrey: Ashgate, 2012), pp 127-139 Laing, R.D. ‘The Politics of the Family’ and other Essays (London: Routledge, 1971) Laing, R.D. Wisdom, Madness and Folly (Edinburgh: Canongate, 1998) Mackey, Margaret. Narrative Pleasures in Young Adult Novels, Films, and Video Games (Basingstoke: Palgrave MacMillan, 2011) Mitchell, Juliet. Psychoanalysis and Feminism (London: Penguin Books, 1990) Moran, Joe. ‘Houses, Habit and Memory,’ in Our House: The Representation of Domestic Space in Modern Culture, ed.by Gerry Smyth and Jo Croft. (New York: Rodopi, 2006), pp 27 - 43 Nash, Ilana. American Sweethearts, Teenage Girls in Twentieth-Century Popular Culture. (Bloomington, Indiana University Press, 2006) Savage, Jon. Teenage: The Creation of Youth Culture (New York: Viking, 2007) Singer, Jerome L. Daydreaming and Fantasy (London: Butler & Tanner, 1976) You can view my entry in full at:
https://www.johnbyrneaward.org.uk/entries/has-generation-ys-aggressive-strain-of-narcissism-contributed-to-a-rise-in-depression-and-self-destructive-behaviour-among-its-emotionally-discerning-individuals/?fbclid=IwAR1tch5Fl-XWpGPAZPnlqnJrb8_U0U2TctOHCHhzeMxgJpPEttVuZqa7n5Y '
Don, attempting in vain to get hot water to run through the espresso filters, lets out an indiscernible bellow. Beside him stands a young man I’ve never seen before. His glasses magnify his already-huge eyes slightly, lending an owlish quality to his sincere, tanned face. ‘Is clogged, in the pipe,’ he says calmly in a thick Italian accent. He leans over Don and flicks the water switch on the offending coffee machine. Unsurprisingly, nothing happens. ‘Is pipes.’ says the new boy again. His tone is one of gentle finality. ‘It’s no’ the pipes,’ barks Don. He doesn’t seem to be talking to anyone in particular. It’s more like a (very loud) prayer. ‘Donal. If you try again to run water through this, it’s not come. We need the Graham.’ ‘Can I just have a tea?’ attempts the man queuing in front of me. He is immediately drowned out by Don, who is now, quite clearly, on the verge. ‘I TOLD YOU. WE’RE NOT GETTING GRAHAM OUT.’ The Italian touches his fingertips to the bridge of his nose and looks up at the ceiling. Despite my own dark morning-mood, this brief gesture of exasperation (resigned, yet respectful somehow, and totally without insolence), is very funny to me. ‘Can I just have a tea, though? I’m really just wanting a tea,’ pleads queue man. ‘Right, ffffff— right, aye. No, I’ll get you a tea, that’s fine. What tea are you wanting—’ ‘Just normal with mi—’ ‘ 'Right - Andy, speak to Nina about the fucking curry powder business, would you. Let's sell some wares.’ Andy? Surely not. Don slops hot water from the kettle into a takeaway cup for the now-distressed tea man, plonking in a Twinings English Breakfast as something of an after-throught. The new guy stares at him, finally dwarfed by the extra language barriers erected by Don's idiosyncratic weirdness. 'What do you mean curry powder?' Don stabs a thumb at the counter next to the till, where two white cups are on display, tipped and filled to the brim with bright-coloured powder; one a mustardy yellow, the other a dense, highly-pigmented green that looks a bit like Urban Decay’s Kush eyeshadow. ‘Donal. Christ, man. Okay. You want to try? Is Matcha, or Turmeric. For lattes.’ I realise that possibly-called-Andy was addressing the latter to me. I’ve heard of this Matcha stuff before, but I had always thought it was a syrup, or powder, or something, that you add to coffee. I tell him so. ‘No, no. Tea. Is tea from Japan.’ I meet his huge green eyes for a moment. His air of benevolence and unassuming humour makes me grin, again(!), despite myself. ‘An Italian selling me tea?’ ‘Sί. Trust me - is struggle,’ he says with a small smile. He takes a jar of the bright green Matcha powder from the counter-top and sprinkles a measure into a large cardboard cup. From a silver jug, he swirls some cold milk on top and stirs the mixture into a thick paste. He reaches elegantly over Don (who is now dealing grumpily with the tea man’s change), and swivels the milk wand from the broken coffee machine towards him. He doesn’t bother with the thermometer, instead tapping the pad of his thumb against the jug to test the heat. When the milk is ready he pours it smoothly and steadily on top of the Matcha, creating a pretty, unfussy leaf print on its surface. ‘Okay, here,’ he says. ‘You are Little Matcha Girl.’ I laugh at this. He’s about to pass the cup over the counter to me, but decides against it, clutching it instead to his chest to fasten a lid on top. Don, having finally dispatched of his only other customer, is now doing inconsequential things with a spanner to the draining chamber of the coffee machine, which, as far as I can see, has nothing whatsoever to do with the plumbing connecting the machine to the water mains. ‘You know this tale? 'The Little Match Girl'?’ the boy asks me. ‘Yes. Yes, I remember. It’s very sad.’ ‘In Italian, ‘La Piccola Fiammiferaia’. They make a play recently, in London. Her name is Fiammetta.’ ‘Ahh. I see.’ ‘Is very beautiful story. I know it because my sister…’ He loses concentration for a second, staring intently at his long fingers as he presses to make sure the lid's pressed down properly. ‘Your sister liked the story?’ I probe gently. He looks up at me again and gives a tiny apologetic shake of his head. He is bright, very bright, that is clear to me. One of those 50-thoughts-a-minute types. I guess that his momentary lapse of concentration was not an isolated trait, but when his eyes meet mine again they are warm and fully engaged. ‘No, no. She doesn’t like this story at all. They use it to teach her English. But my sister cried every day so had to change. My sister is very, you know… how do you call it. She is caring for things. Sorry, I hope that you won’t think I am… in English, how do you call. Always pretend. You know, like…’ He makes a wanking gesture next to his mouth with his hand. I laugh again, very loudly this time. ‘Pretentious? No, I don’t think that at all—’ Don pauses in his fannying-about-with-the-spanner type activities for long enough to give me a filthy look. ‘Pretentious, sί. In Italy we say pretenzioso. Lots of guys do this kind of thing. Is stupid, you know. Sorry, is not good English. I am Andrea.’ He holds his hand out over the counter as he keys my latte into the till. He shakes my hastily proferred fingers without looking up. ‘Oh! Eh, I’m Nina. And, no. No, it's good, your English is lovely.’ (It is. It’s delightful. He’s delightful. I’m delighted). ‘No, really, my English is very shit,’ says Andrea solemnly, finally handing me the steaming cup of bright green milk. (Extract from a longer piece). You can view my entry to the September 2019 John Byrne Award pool at www.johnbyrneaward.org.uk/entries/is-empathy-a-dying-trait/
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