Many
children and teenagers develop their own private fantasy worlds. I had one. Age nine, I was the imaginary leader of the red horses
of the sunset clouds... my name: ‘Red-Gold’. My friend was the leader
of the white summer clouds (‘Cloud’); our adversary, the black horses of
the thunder. It was obvious enough (you can tell I was horse mad!)
but it gave me much pleasure and sent me off to sleep composing
adventures. For a feel for the intensity of the thing, here’s a
prose poem I wrote about it when I was just thirteen:
And out of
the mist come horses galloping, born of the wind with wings like to it,
dancing and running, plunging through the cool air, out of the golden,
out of the glory, straight from the sun as it shines through the mist:
dazzling, glorious, horses of the morning, horses of the sunrise, horses
of the dawning, shining horses of the steel-blue sky.
My head may have been almost literally in the clouds, but I don't believe it did me any harm at all. But here are three interesting books
which study the effects of fantasy worlds built by young people, and ask
what purposes they serve for good and for ill.
The
first and earliest is ‘Peter’s Room’ by Antonia Forest, published in
1961, part of her series of novels/school stories about the Marlow
family which began with ‘Autumn Term’(1948). Forest was a writer who
transcended genre, and her well-characterised, insightful stories (now
reprinted by Girls Gone By) are well worth attention. In this one, set
during the Christmas holidays, the younger Marlows and their friend
Patrick begin using an old stable loft (‘Peter’s room’) as their daily
meeting-place. Inspired by the Brontë sisters’ Angria and Gondal, they
pass the time by inventing an imaginary world with themselves as
characters – role-playing, if you like. Gradually, their fantasy
characters begin to exert influence on their real lives. It nearly ends
in disaster.
Forest was writing with unusual
foresight about the seductive power of role-playing (think Second
Life) – but also, the book is about the creative process – the way
characters develop lives of their own and often take their authors and
creators in unexpected directions. When Patrick’s ‘avatar’, the heroic
sounding ‘Rupert Almeda’ evolves into a traitor and coward, it throws
Patrick himself into existential doubt. Is he too a coward? How much of himself is in Rupert? Who, really, is
he? Forest is in no doubt that the process can be extremely dangerous.
The reader doesn’t have to follow her all the way. It could be
argued that role-playing is (usually) a safe way of exploring the
possibilities of individuals and relationships. Just so long as it
doesn’t take over…
A
more playful but no less thoughtful exploration of the subject is Jan
Mark’s wonderful book “They Do Things Differently There” (1994) in which two bored and
lonely teenage girls living in a very ordinary new town called Compton
Rosehay, form a friendship by inventing an utterly bizarre alternative
neighbourhood called ‘Stalemate’. Local landmarks become ‘Lord Tod’s
Corpse Depository’ and ‘The Mermaid Factory:
“There is a mermaid factory?” “You know that big iron barn place at the end of Old Compton Street, just opposite the bus stop at the end of the slip road.” “Where it says O GLEE...?” “That’s the place.” “It’s got petrol pumps outside; I think it used to be a garage.” “You
may think so,” said Elaine, “but remember, here in Stalemate what you
see is not necessarily what is there. Earth’s fabric hath worn thin.
The real Stalemate is all about us, but we only get occasional glimpses
of it. You’ll just have to take it on trust. It’s a mermaid factory.”
In
this book, the fantasy world the girls create is the basis of the
friendship between them. The book’s a celebration of the delights of
invention and imagination, and of the joy of finding someone else with
the same sense of humour. In the end, though, as the name suggests, you
cannot stay in Stalemate. You have to move on.
The
most recent book I know which looks at this subject is “The Traitor
Game” (2008) by B.R.Collins. Michael and Francis share an imaginary
world called Evgard, involved in bitter civil war, with a city called
Arcaster. Michael invented it, and it’s been a refuge from the bullying
he endured at his last school. Now Francis has been allowed in.
There
was only one other person who knew where Arcaster was; who even knew it
existed: Francis. It was as secret, more secret, than a love affair or
a drug habit... And sometimes… when they worked on
something together, and ... when both of them were talking about Evgard,
arguing, joking, pushing at each other for ideas, Michael felt like he
could stretch out his hand and nearly, nearly feel the world of Evgard
beyond the real one... He’d catch Francis’s eye when he looked up from
his drawing, or hear him say, ‘No, but no, you couldn’t get from Than’s
Lynn to Arcaster in two days, it’s winter, you’d have to go the long way
round, via Gandet and Hyps,’ and suddenly he’d want to grin like an
idiot. It was crazy, they were fifteen, for God’s sake, it wasn’t like
they were kids, but here they were inventing a country.
So
when Michael believes Francis has betrayed him, his emotions are
catastrophic; and the betrayal occurs in Evgard too. This is a dark
unflinching book which delves deep into jealousy, cruelty, anger and
fear.
All three of these very different books are
powerful explorations of friendship and selfhood, and the dark as well
as the joyful side of the impulse to create.
Earthsea, Narnia, Middle Earth – the three classic fantasy worlds I talked about last week – are distinctive places. Most children – most people you meet – have a pretty clear picture of at least the last two, and even if they haven’t read the books, will certainly have heard of them. I venture to suggest, as a thought experiment, that if you were dropped at random into one of these worlds you would soon be able to guess which one it was.
There has been a lot of fantasy written since these worlds were created, but not much that competes with them in iconic status and recognisability. Try thinking of names of other worlds, and “Discworld” is the only one that springs readily to my mind. At the border where fantasy and science fiction blur, there may be others – but what in fact are modern writers doing with fantasy worlds? Is sub-creation, as Lewis called it, their primary concern?
Here follows a roundup of some of the ‘other worlds’ I myself have encountered in children’s and YA fiction. I’d be interested to hear of others.
First of all, there are the other worlds which are a slightly different version of our own. An obvious example is Joan Aiken’s wonderful alternative Georgian England – not Georgian at all, of course, because the Stuart kings are still in power, and instead of Bonnie Prince Charlie, we have ‘Bonnie Prince Georgie’ and a whole series of wonderfully bizarre Hanoverian plots to bump off the reigning monarch and put him on the throne. We know we are not going to get historical accuracy, so we play a happy game of follow-my-leader through the wildest places. Pink whales (“Night Birds on Nantucket”), a sinister overweight fairy queen in a South American Welsh colony (“The Stolen Lake”), a plot to roll St Paul’s Cathedral into the Thames in the midst of a royal coronation (“The Cuckoo Tree”), foiled by tent-pegging it down from the back of a galloping elephant… That one initial twist, parting her fantasy world from history, gave Aiken permission to let her imagination loose. And her imagination was powerful, joyous, puckish. Her books are always full of energy, but they can also be eerie, sad. It’s a long walk in the dark/on the blind side of the moon, a character sings in one of her short stories; and it’s a long day without water/when the river’s gone…
Diana Wynne Jones followed Aiken’s lead: many of her books are set in alternative universes that closely parallel our own except for one crucial difference: the existence of magic. Indeed, she goes so far as to suggest that the absence of magic in this world is something of an aberration. Each world diverges from the next in its ‘series’ because of a different outcome to some historical event – Napoleon winning the Battle of Waterloo, for example. Since every author is inspired by others, it wouldn’t be surprising if this had been suggested by Aiken’s books. And the ‘In-Between Place’ in ‘The Lives of Christopher Chant’ owes something in concept, though not in presentation, to Lewis’s ‘Wood Between the Worlds’ in “The Magician’s Nephew”: a neutral, mediumistic jumping-off ground between universes. Again, the main advantage of escaping the confines of our own world and its history is to allow Wynne Jones’ imagination free range, and perhaps also to enable us to consider our own world from an outsider’s point of view. (Handled interestingly in ‘Power of Three’ where the threatening Giants turn out to be, well, us.)
Fascinating, fun, and sometimes thought-provoking though these books are, they are not – and were never intended to be – creations of fantasy worlds in the classic sense. But they share a purpose with the next one I’m coming to: Terry Pratchett’s ‘Discworld’.
Discworld has grown enormously over the series. It began – in “The Colour of Magic” as a spoof, a comic take on sword-and-sorcery novels, with characters like the incompetent wizard Rincewind and the warrior Cohen the Barbarian. It was brilliant comedy, spot on the mark. But Pratchett was too good a writer to remain content with such an easy target. The books rapidly deepened and became more serious of purpose (though still extremely entertaining). Discworld fits the criteria for an instantly recognisable, self-contained imaginary world. It is carried through space by four elephants standing on the back of a giant turtle. It has a consistent geography, with its central mountain range at the Hub, the Ramtops, the city of Ankh-Morpork, the cabbage fields of Sto Lat; its directions (hubwards and rimwards rather than north and south ). There is nowhere quite like it... except that nearly everything in it is a deliberate borrowing from our own Earth, viewed through a slightly distorting fantasy lens that paradoxically allows us to see it rather more clearly. I don’t know of a more passionate advocate than Pratchett for racial and sexual equality. We might be reading about dwarves and trolls, but we’re not fooled. When Commander Vimes employs trolls, werewolves, dwarves, zombies and vampires in the City Watch, it’s not because they all live together in Ankh Morpork like one big happy family. Read ‘Feet of Clay’; read ‘Equal Rites’. Discworld, like the worlds of Aiken and Wynne Jones, sets Pratchett free to say exactly what he wants in a way quite different but not less seriously intended than so-called ‘realistic’ fiction.
But does fantasy have to have a ‘message’? Can’t it just be for entertainment? I wouldn’t like to pronounce on that, but I do think that it has to have a purpose: you have to know why you are writing fantasy and whether, as C.S.Lewis said about children’s fiction, it’s the ‘best medium’ for what you want to say. The charge of ‘escapism’ so often levelled against fantasy, implies that reading and writing fantasy is a frivolous occupation. Even if that were true, I see no reason why it should be disapproved. Plenty of human occupations are frivolous, yet no one objects: popular music, days on the beach, fashion, eating out, good food and wine. Yet many of us who love fantasy feel there is something more to it than this, that at its best it can provide something essential to the spirit. Escape, as either Lewis or Tolkien pointed out, is judged according to what it is you are escaping from. If reading fantasy impairs us for real life, that would be bad, but it’s by no means proven.
Many children and teenagers develop their own private fantasy worlds – perhaps because it’s healthy to stretch the imagination? I had one of my own. Once upon a time I was the imaginary leader of the red horses of the sunset clouds... my name: ‘Red-Gold’. My friend was the leader of the white summer clouds (‘Cloud’); our adversary, the black horses of the thunder. It was obvious enough (and of course I was horse mad), but it gave me a lot of pleasure and sent me off to sleep composing adventures. To give you a feel for the intensity of the thing, here’s a prose poem I wrote when I was twelve:
And out of the mist come horses galloping, born of the wind with wings like to it, dancing and running, plunging through the cool air, out of the golden, out of the glory, straight from the sun as it shines through the mist: dazzling, glorious, horses of the morning, horses of the sunrise, horses of the dawning, shining horses of the steel-blue sky.
Can’t see it did me any harm at all. But here are three interesting books which study the effects of fantasy worlds built by young people, and ask what purposes they serve for good and for harm.
The first and earliest is ‘Peter’s Room’ by Antonia Forest, published in 1961, part of her series of novels/school stories about the Marlow family which began with ‘Autumn Term’(1948). Forest was a writer who transcended genre, and her well-characterised, insightful stories (now reprinted by Girls Gone By) are well worth attention. In this one, set during the Christmas holidays, the younger Marlows and their friend Patrick begin using an old stable loft (‘Peter’s room’) as their daily meeting-place. Inspired by the Brontë sisters’ Angria and Gondal, they pass the time by inventing an imaginary world with themselves as characters – role-playing, if you like. Gradually, their fantasy characters begin to exert influence on their real lives. It nearly ends in disaster...
Forest was writing with unusual foresight about the seductive power of role-playing (think of Second Life) – but also, the book is about the creative process – the way characters develop lives of their own and often take their authors and creators in unexpected directions. When Patrick’s ‘avatar’ – the heroic sounding ‘Rupert Almeda’ evolves into a traitor and coward, it throws Patrick himself into existential doubt. Is he really Rupert? Who is he? Forest is in no doubt that the process can be extremely dangerous. The reader doesn’t have to follow her all the way, though. It could be argued that role-playing is (usually) a safe way of exploring the possibilities of individuals and relationships. Just so long as it doesn’t take over…
A more playful but no less thoughtful exploration of the subject is Jan Mark’s “They Do Things Differently There” (1994) in which two bored and lonely teenage girls living in a very ordinary new town called Compton Rosehay, form a friendship by inventing an utterly bizarre alternative neighbourhood called ‘Stalemate’. Local landmarks become ‘Lord Tod’s Corpse Depository’ and ‘The Mermaid Factory:
“There is a mermaid factory?” “You know that big iron barn place at the end of Old Compton Street, just opposite the bus stop at the end of the slip road.” “Where it says O GLEE...?” “That’s the place.” “It’s got petrol pumps outside; I think it used to be a garage.” “You may think so,” said Elaine, “but remember, here in Stalemate what you see is not necessarily what is there. Earth’s fabric hath worn thin. The real Stalemate is all about us, but we only get occasional glimpses of it. You’ll just have to take it on trust. It’s a mermaid factory.”
In this book, the fantasy world the girls create is the basis of the friendship between them. The book’s a celebration of the delights of invention and imagination, and of the joy of finding someone else with the same sense of humour. In the end, though, as the name suggests, you cannot stay in Stalemate. You have to move on.
The most recent book I know which looks at this subject is “The Traitor Game” (2008) by B.R.Collins. Michael and Francis share an imaginary world called Evgard, involved in bitter civil war, with a city called Arcaster. Michael invented it, and it’s been a refuge from the bullying he endured at his last school. Now Francis has been allowed in.
There was only one other person who knew where Arcaster was; who even knew it existed: Francis. It was as secret, more secret, than a love affair or a drug habit... And sometimes… when they worked on something together, and ... when both of them were talking about Evgard, arguing, joking, pushing at each other for ideas, Michael felt like he could stretch out his hand and nearly, nearly feel the world of Evgard beyond the real one... He’d catch Francis’s eye when he looked up from his drawing, or hear him say, ‘No, but no, you couldn’t get from Than’s Lynn to Arcaster in two days, it’s winter, you’d have to go the long way round, via Gandet and Hyps,’ and suddenly he’d want to grin like an idiot. It was crazy, they were fifteen, for God’s sake, it wasn’t like they were kids, but here they were inventing a country.
So when Michael believes Francis has betrayed him, his emotions are catastrophic; and the betrayal occurs in Evgard too. This is a dark unflinching book which delves deep into jealousy, cruelty, anger and fear.
All three of these very different books are powerful explorations of friendship and selfhood, and the dark as well as the joyful side of the impulse to create.
And so we move on to wholly self-contained invented worlds. (I’m still excluding Elfland, which seems to me a different kettle of fish, and I’ll explain why some other time.) Some have been created for the sheer delight of experiencing something fantastical and other: but in the best fantasy that is never the be-all and end-all. They still have something to say. Katherine Roberts’ Echorium Sequence is a good example: it reminds me of the Earthsea books.In the first volume, "Song Quest":
The day everything changed, Singer Graia took Rialle’s class down the Five Thousand Steps to the west beach. They followed her eagerly enough. A Mainlander ship had broken up on the reef in the recent storms, and the Final Years were being allowed out of the Echorium to search for pieces of the wreck.
Already the reader has picked up hints of reservations about the culture which treats a shipwreck as an excuse for a class outing. The task of the Singers on the Island of Echoes is to spread healing and harmony; they are the diplomats of their world, and are able to talk with the Half-Creatures, such as the Merlee who live in the sea and are trawled for by sailors who sell their eggs as delicacies. The boy, Kherron running away and picked up by fishermen, is told:
“You wait right over there with your bucket. When we draw them in, there’ll be lots of wailing and shrieking. Don’t you take no notice. Soon as we toss you one of the fish people, you get right in there with your knife. No need to wait for ‘em to die first. They ain’t got no feelings like we humans do. Got that?”
Kherron does – but soon:
Soon he was surrounded by flapping rainbow tails, coils of silver hair tangled in seaweed, gaping mouths and gills, reaching hands, wet pleading eyes – and those terrible, terrible songs. “Help us,” they seemed to say. He shook his head. “I can’t help you,” he whispered... [He] watched his hand fumble in a pool of green slime and closed on the dagger. He began to hum softly. Challa, shh, Challa makes you dream... The creatures’ struggles grew less violent. One by one their arms and tails flopped to the deck, and their luminous eyes closed. Kherron opened their guts as swiftly as her could and scooped out handfuls of their unborn children. It helped if he didn’t look at their faces. That way he could pretend they were just fish.
This is strong stuff, and Roberts is clearly interested in the differences between a superficial adherence to peace and harmony – the soothing songs of the Singers, the diplomatic missions – and the blood and guts reality that it may not be possible even literally to keep your hands clean. Colourful adventures in imaginary places don’t have to be anodyne: even heroes and heroines may do some very bad things. But in YA fiction, the learning process is usually what counts, and hope is never forgotten.
John Dickinson’s fantasy trilogy – beginning with ‘The Cup of the World’ (2004) – is a more downbeat series. It’s set in a claustrophobic medieval-style kingdom, in a world pictured as held in a vast cup and circled by a snake or cosmic serpent. All of the characters are flawed: civil war is rife, and the main characters are themselves descendants of invaders from over the sea. Long ago, their ancestor Wulfram led his sons against the indigenous hill-people, whose goddess Beyah still weeps for the death of her son. It’s an intricate story which no brief summary can do justice: but the narrative is dark and fatalistic, with a gloom bordering at times on pessimism. This trilogy is a great corrective to the notion that fantasy is all about crude oppositions of good and bad, white and black. The main characters’ best intentions can lead to disaster, and often their intentions are selfish anyway. The descriptions of the world are lovingly detailed and rich, the writing is beautiful, and these are books I greatly admire. They are well worth reading – but not if you happen to be feeling low.
Last, and most recent, Patrick Ness’s trilogy “Chaos Walking” is set on another planet. I haven’t really had time to discuss science fiction, and the border between sci-fi and fantasy is blurred at best. Is this a fantasy trilogy? Why not? There is no reason other than convention why a fantasy world has to be (a) medieval and (b) in some other dimension. The books ask: is there ever an excuse for violence? And there isn’t a clear answer: Todd, the adolescent main character, has a good heart and wants to do the right thing. But, the books ask, how do you know what the right thing is? Can you trust your own judgement? Are people what they seem? Can even first love – the most intense of experiences – sometimes be a selfish excuse for doing harm to others? Like Katherine Roberts’ Kherron, like Antonia Forest’s Patrick, Todd learns that you can’t always keep your hands clean.
I enjoyed “Chaos Walking” immensely, but began to feel towards the end that I could have done with just a little less non-stop, breathless action, and a little more world-building. This is a trilogy which takes the moral choice to the level of a sixty-a-day habit. I loved the first book the best, maybe because there was more leisure to examine Todd and Viola’s (and Manchee’s) surroundings:
The main bunch of apple trees are a little ways into the swamp, down a few paths and over a fallen log that Manchee always needs help to get over… The leap over the log is where the dark of the swamp really starts and the first thing you see are the old Spackle buildings, leaning out towards you from shadow, looking like melting blobs of tan-coloured ice cream except hut-sized. No one knows or can remember what they were ever s’posed to be… … I start walking all slow-like up to the biggest of the melty ice-cream scoops. I stay outta the way of anything that might be looking out the little bendy triangle doorway… and look inside.
There are so many other books with fantasy worlds – Susan Cooper’s “Seaward”; Jan Mark’s “The Ennead” and “Riding Tycho”; Sally Prue’s “The Truthsayer” trilogy – but I have run out of space. These titles surely show that modern fantasy writers are still creating all sorts of other worlds for all sorts of different reasons.
So next week I want to go into that a little further. Why do we do it? And what are the pitfalls? When shouldn’t you be writing fantasy?
There is a vast range of ghosts in children’s fiction. I’m going to leave out all the comic ones, on the assumption that a comic ghost story is hardly a ghost story at all. Even Oscar Wilde’s ‘The Canterville Ghost’ doesn’t become spooky until the end – when the comedy vanishes into pathos. Such stories, one presumes, work mainly to stop young children being frightened of ghosts – rather as the brilliant Ahlberg ‘Funnybones’ picturebook series helped prevent my kids being frightened of skeletons: (“In a dark dark room in a dark dark house on a dark dark street – three skeletons lived…”)
That ghost stories can be spooky without being truly frightening is proved by the beautiful Green Knowe series by Lucy Boston, the first of which, ‘The Children of Green Knowe’ was published by Faber and Faber in 1954. I grew up with these books, buying the last, ‘The Stones of Green Knowe’ as a teenager in the late 1970’s. A lonely little boy, Tolly, goes to stay with his grandmother Mrs Oldknowe in her ancient house (modelled on the author’s own beloved twelfth century manor house at Hemingford Grey, Cambridgeshire) and slowly comes to meet the other children who have lived in the house down the centuries. Lucy Boston wrote pure, elegant prose, with a light but sure touch. Here, Tolly and his grandmother have finished decorating their Christmas tree:
As they rested there, tired and dreamy and content, he thought he heard the rocking horse gently moving, but the sound came from Mrs Oldknowe’s room… A woman’s voice began to sing very softly a cradle song that Tolly had learned and dearly loved:
“Lully lulla, thou little tiny child,
By by Lully lullay…”
“Who is it?” he whispered.
“It’s the grandmother rocking the cradle,” said Mrs Oldknowe, and her eyes were full of tears.
“Why are you crying, Granny? It’s lovely.”
“It is lovely, only it is such a long time ago. I don’t know why that should be sad, but it sometimes seems so.”
The singing began again. It was queer to hear the baby’s sleepy whimper only in the next room, now, and so long ago.
Scary things do happen in the Green Knowe stories, but always with a background of reassurance that goodness is greater than evil. Tolly never time-travels – he meets the ghosts in his own ‘now’, although at the very end of the series the Norman boy Roger, whose father built the house, does briefly travel forward into his future: our twentieth century. The theme of the books is that of TS Eliot’s Four Quartets: ‘Time past and time present/Are both perhaps present in time future/And time future contained in time past.’ Lucy Boston’s books echo with the voices of children: ‘hidden excitedly, containing laughter’.
Plenty of other books do take the child hero or heroine back into the past to share in other lives. In fact, the little Victorian ghost in smock or pinafore, looking out of the windows of the big house, whose history the modern child gradually uncovers, is almost a cliché. A constant theme in children’s ghost stories is that of loneliness. A solitary child feels a misfit, or has no friends, and finds ghostly companionship. Tolly is just one example, although he develops a strong relationship with his delightful grandmother; another is Anna, the lonely little girl in Joan G. Robinson’s ‘When Marnie was There’ (1967). Anna has never had a friend: her relationship with the strange child Marnie gradually prepares her for real live friends when Marnie goes away. This book is one of many where the reader can decide for him or herself whether the ghost is ‘real’ or some kind of dream playmate. And of course there is Tom in Philippa Pearce's classic, 'Tom's Midnight Garden', who finds his way into a garden of the past, and a playmate in the little girl there.
Penelope, the heroine of Alison Uttley’s classic ‘A Traveller in Time’ (Faber 1939) is another shy, quiet, imaginative child, who sees ghosts or visions of the past almost without trying. On being sent to fetch a rug,
“Upstairs I went again, but when I got to the landing I looked at the closed doors and did not know which was Aunt Tissie’s, for there was something strange and unfamiliar about them. I hesitated and opened a door, and then stopped short, for in the room before me, down a couple of steps, were four ladies playing a game with ivory counters. They sat round a table and a bright fire was burning in an open hearth. They were young and pretty, except an older woman whose expression was cold and forbidding… All this I saw in the moment I stood transfixed at the door. Then a little spaniel rushed across the room and they turned and stared at me with startled eyes. They were as amazed as I, and sprang to their feet, yet there was never a sound…
“I beg your pardon,” I muttered, and quickly I shut the door, my heart pounding and my hands trembling.
Penelope soon grows as intimate with the 16th century inhabitants of the old Derbyshire farmhouse ‘Thackers’ as with its 20th century inhabitants. She becomes an anxious yet powerless witness to the ill-fated Babington plot to free Mary Queen of Scots; and the book is also a poignant love story.
All of these are ghost stories which explore the transience of time, rather than the finality of death. They are typically sensitive and beautiful: eerie rather than scary. And perhaps it's a theme that children on the cusp of growing up are particularly fascinated by: the realisation that old people were once young, and that children like themselves will one day be old
Another time-slip ghost story, with a slightly harder edge and bags of atmosphere, is ‘Playing Beatie Bow’ by the Australian writer Ruth Park, in which the prickly Abigail, resentful of her parents’ divorce and being made to move to a high-rise area of Sydney, witnesses children playing a creepy game:
‘Oh Mudda what’s that, what can it be?’
‘The wind in the chimney, that’s all, that’s all.’
There was a clatter of stones being dropped. Some of the younger children squawked and were hushed.
‘Oh Mudda what’s that, what’s that, can you see?’
‘It’s the cow in the byre, the horse in the stall.’
Natalie …put her hands over her eyes. ‘Don’t look, Abigail, it’s worse than awful things on TV!’
And the climax of the game comes with the cry: ‘It’s Beatie Bow…risen from the dead!’ Into this book too comes a desperate love story – for how can love span the centuries?
Like all of us, children - older ones especially - enjoy a good scare. Moving on from the beautiful and the poignant, we come to more malevolent ghosts. There’s an extremely sinister one in Katharine Briggs’ famous ‘Hobberdy Dick’ (1955) – the appearance of a ghostly child, informed by the evil spirit of the woman who killed it. One of the characters, Anne, wakes in the night:
She sat up in bed with a beating heart, aware of a wicked thing in the room. There seemed a faint light at the end of the bed; more she could not see, but the room was icily cold, and cruelty and remorse and pain pressed on her like a weight, so that she could not move.
Help comes, but at the cost of the death of the good woman who exorcises the spirit. This book is a brilliant exploration of the folklore and customs of the seventeenth century, by an expert who knew and loved the stories better than anyone else.
Peter Dickinson’s “Annerton Pit” (1977) is the story of a blind boy, Jake, whose grandfather, a ghost hunter/debunker, has disappeared near Annerton Mine, site of a dreadful mining disaster a hundred years ago. Entwined with an adventure story, is the creepy build-up of supernatural tension, as, trapped with his brother and grandfather at the bottom of the mine, Jake becomes aware of a strange presence in Annerton Pit:
There was another noise, even fainter than the sea. Jake couldn’t decide if it was real, or was only an effect of the fall – a low, continuous, throbbing hoot. Sometimes it seemed to be coming from further up the tunnel, sometimes from all around him, and sometimes from inside his head. Once he’d noticed it, it bothered him.
Low key, but spine chilling. Less is often more with a good ghost story.
Ann Halam, whose books for children range from fantasy to ghosts to sci-fi to horror, actually managed to break the rule I mentioned at the beginning of this piece by writing a totally brilliant ghost story for children which is funny as well as terrifying. “King Death’s Garden” (Orchard, 1986) is the story of the impossible and self-pitying Maurice, obsessed with his asthma and allergies and with the vain hope of attracting the attention of elegant Jasmin Kapoor. Maurice has refused to relocate with his parents to the Gulf, and is boarding with an elderly aunt until the end of term. He is of course another loner – and ends up spending far too much of his time in the Victorian cemetery beside his aunt’s house… Here he is, reading the tombstones:
The Best Mum and Dad in the World… Never a Cross Word….And in the morn the angel faces smile, That I have loved long since and lost awhile…Love’s last gift, remembrance…
Suddenly he realised that someone was watching him. It made him jump, because just then he was well off the path and actually standing on a grave. He was only putting back some plastic flowers that had pathetically fallen out of their urn, but he knew it wouldn’t look good. A big elderly man was standing by a bench just a few yards away. He was glaring like someone in authority – maybe a gardener.
And maybe not...
I’d recommend any book by Ann Halam, but another of hers’ with a creepy ghost is ‘The Nimrod Conspiracy’ (Orion 1999). Completely different, just as good. And I have to mention Robert Westall, whose taste ran to more Gothic ghosts and horror, always rooted in his beloved North East: ‘The Scarecrows’, ‘The Stones of Muncaster Cathedral’; ‘The Watch House.’ Definitely for older children, and not for the faint-hearted. And speaking of Gothic, how about Leon Garfield, whose novella 'Mister Corbett's Ghost' ought to be better known?
A windy night, and the old year dying of an ague. ... In the apothecary's shop in Gospel Oak, the boy Partridge looked up through the window to a moon that stared fitfully back through the reflections of big-bellied flasks, beakers and retorts. Very soon now he'd be off to his friends and his home to drink and cheer the death of the old year - and pray that the new one would be better. And maybe slip in a prayer for his master, Mister Corbett, the apothecary himself. Such a prayer!
"May you be like this year that's gone, sir, and take the same shivering ague! For your seasons weren't no better."
Having wished his master dead, poor Benjamin Partridge soon has cause to wish him alive again, as he has to accompany the poor phantom over Hampstead Heath - on a journey through guilt, terror and pity to eventual
redemption.
An exception to the rule that ghost stories for children always have solitary heroes or heroines is Catherine Sefton’s charming ‘The Back House Ghosts’ (Puffin, 1978). Ellen’s mother, who runs a seaside boarding house, accidentally overbooks. The enormous Mooney clan arrive (eleven children!) and, to make space, Ellen moves out into the ‘Back House’ – a disused cottage at the bottom of the garden. That night:
Ellen lay back in her lumpy bed. She liked the back house. She would make it live again.
She went to sleep watching the sky through the window. The stars were stabs of light against a dark blue cloth, and the moon was yellow and round…
***
When Ellen woke up in the morning, the first thing she saw was the window.
Through it she could see the back wall of Bon Vista, and the window of the back bedroom… and nothing else.
No sky.
Just the grey wall and the rose which grew across the window.
All the books I’ve discussed so far have been full length novels (although the Green Knowe books are fairly slim.) To write a really good novel-length ghost story is a fantastic achievement, because stringing out the tension for so long is really difficult. Most literary ghosts – for adults at least – tend to arrive in the form of short stories, and many of the children's writers I've talked about in this post also wrote brilliant - and often dark - short ghost stories. Philippa Pearce could weave terrifying tales about inanimate objects: an old wooden tallboy; a Christmas pudding ('A Christmas Pudding Improves With Keeping', from 'Who's Afraid, and Other Strange Stories' 1986). A master of the form was the late great Jan Mark. Perhaps her best collection is ‘In Black and White’ (Viking, 1991). Every story in this book is so wonderful, it’s hard to pick just one, but one of Jan’s own favourites was the story called ‘Nule’ - in which Martin’s little sister Libby makes a character out of the newel post at the bottom of the stairs. She calls it ‘Nule, and dresses it up with a pointed hat.
The hat definitely did something for Nule. When Martin came in later by the front door, he thought at first that it was a person standing at the foot of the stairs. He had to look twice…
Entering into the spirit of the thing, he helps Libby to dress it up more, with an old coat and gloves, and a pair of football boots at the bottom. Not a great idea, as it turns out…
(Illustration copyright Neil Reed, 1991)
There are ghosts in two of my own books: an Icelandic-style vengeful corpse in ‘Troll Blood’, and a harmless but still rather unnerving White Lady in ‘Dark Angels’ (US title: ‘The Shadow Hunt’.) As you can see I love ghosts – one day, maybe, I’ll try and write a novel length ghost story of my own. In the meantime, I’ll leave you with Peer and Hilde, beginning to wonder about an empty house on the shores of Vinland.
The sun had sunk below the hills, and the wooded slopes looked dark and mysterious. Down by the ship, the men had lit a fire on the shore. Around the flames, the evening turned a deeper blue.
“We should go and help,” said Hilde. “Look, they’re bringing things up already.” Someone was coming slowly up the path, as if stiff from weeks at sea. His face was indistinct in the dusk. He turned aside, heading for the other house. Hilde called out, “Hello! Is that one ours?”
Whoever it was made no reply, but turned in to the porch of the second house. Hilde shrugged. “He didn’t hear me. It must be that one.”
They walked across. Flat stones made a short path outside the door, which was shut. Peer lifted the latch. The Nis darted between his feet – and sprang back like a startled cat, all arched spine and splayed limbs. Peer saved himself by clutching at the doorpost.
“What are you doing?” he cried.
The Nis was creeping backwards, bristling. “Not nice,” it squeaked. “Not a nice house at all, Peer Ulfsson. The other one is better!” It shook itself and shot decisively away.
With an odd feeling under his ribs, Peer shoved the door wide open and looked in. He didn’t step over the threshold. Hilde craned over his shoulder.
It was just like the first house. Same long fire pit, same smoke holes, same dusty-looking benches and line of dim posts leading to a doorway at the far end.
This house was colder than the first. The air felt disturbed, as though someone had recently passed through.
