Take to the sea with Sea Change

A new voyage for the Carnegie Medal as it takes to the sea with Richard Armstrong’s Sea Change.

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Jacket image of the first edition of Sea Change
Jacket image of the first edition of Sea Change

Following the old-fashioned lyricism of Walter de la Mare, 1948 saw a complete shift in tone with Richard Armstrong’s contemporary career novel Sea Change. The novel focuses on sixteen-year-old Cam Renton, an apprentice merchant seaman, and follows him from his arrival on board a new ship through to his acceptance as a valued member of the ship’s crew. Cam’s age and the focus on work in this novel make it the first of the Carnegie Medal-winners which can squarely be classed as an adolescent novel, albeit there is nothing in terms of content which would make it unsuitable for child readers.  It also marks a return to contemporary realism for the first time since We Couldn’t Leave Dinah in 1941 (if that book can be classed as realism, exactly), although with plenty of adventure in the form of powerful storms, a fire on board ship, and a perilous journey as part of the skeleton crew for a salavaged ship. Although W. Berwick Sayers had stated in the first year of the Medal that the winning book should ‘as far as possible’ appeal to both boys and girls, Sea Change is unapologetically (as you can see from the cover) a book for and about boys: there is not a single female character, nor even a mention of women (even in the form of mothers or sisters). This again was a departure for the Medal, although several earlier winners had focused primarily on female characters.

This is an interesting book in that it’s simultaneously very old-fashioned and very modern. It owes a great deal to the nineteenth-century seafaring adventure story,  giving us a kind of ‘bildungsroman by sea’, but its concern to map out the route to a successful career and to emphasise the skills which will be used in the world of work it very much reflects British sensibilities of the late 1940s and early 1950s, a period when the ‘career novel’ was at its zenith.

One element of the book which aligns with the tradition of nineteenth-century boys’ adventure narratives is its assertion of British superiority. This is paradoxically most apparent in the episode which constitutes Cam’s most ignominious point in the narrative. Chafing at the orders he has received to remain close to the ship, Cam and his fellow apprentice Rusty take an illicit trip to a fort in Port of Spain and end up getting arrested by the soldiers manning the fort. This episode serves as a climax to Cam’s feelings of discontent about the orders he has received and his erroneous belief that the second mate ‘has it in for him’, serving as the turning point for his attitude on board ship. The two boys have to be rescued from their scrape by the captain of their ship, but despite this  their strength, courage and quick wittedness is contrasted throughout with the slovenly, ill disciplined behaviour of the soldiers manning the fort. (It’s not completely apparent, incidentally, what nationality these soldiers are – can anyone tell me who would have been manning a fort in Trinidad in the 1940s?). The sentry guarding the fort – asleep on the job – is ‘the strangest soldier Cam had ever seen’: ‘his khaki tunic had no buttons and hung loose over a blue- and white-striped singlet; his trousers were creased and stained and the bottoms of them stopped short of his dusty ankles’. When Rusty trips over his rifle, the soldier awakes and attacks him with a knife, but Cam is swift and efficient in disarming him and the boys are captured only because more soldiers arrive and overpower them. They almost succeed in outwitting the soldiers and escaping from the fort on their own, and and when the captain does rescue them, he persuades the fort commander to drop all the charges by suggesting to him that this will involve losing face. The commander reflects that he does not wish ‘to admit that my command is so undisciplined that sentries sleep at their posts, so inefficient two beardless boys can defy all the force we can muster’. Thus the episode ultimately serves to impress on the reader as well as on Cam the value of British naval discipline and its inherent superiority to other nations. Hazel Sheeky Bird has argued (in work forthcoming) that the ‘navalist’ tradition is key to the construction of British national identity in children’s literature of the early twentieth century, and this is an interesting reflection in light of the focus on heritage which has been present in earlier Carnegie winners. There is, I think, some continuity of concern here, even though this is a very different kind of book.

Cam himself is inducted into this tradition over the course of the book, developing from an apprentice chafing under orders to do some of the most mundane tasks on board ship to a seaman whom the second mate – who is clearly presented within the novel as a model of the idea sailor – describes as ‘Tough as old boots, keen as mustard, and guts to spare’. Although he is still an apprentice at the end of the book, he is identified as the de facto mate of the skeleton crew who have salvaged a derelict ship and returned safely after a perilous journey. All this would fit well into the traditional adventure novel, but the way it is presented also clearly reflects 1940s concerns about  education, teenage identity, and the world of work. At several points Armstrong emphasises the value of skills learnt at school: lessons which may have seemed boring at the time but whose application is vital in the world of work. Cam is allowed a brief teenage rebellion, but Armstrong also emphasises the value of obedience and of trusting that adults know what is best, even if they do not share their reasoning with you.

All this is interesting from a socio-historical perspective, then, but how does it hold up as a story? I do have a bit of a taste for this kind of ‘authoritarian’ bildungsroman, although usually I enjoy i in the form of girls’ school stories (which tend to follow a similar pattern of first resisting, then embracing, the order and authority of the school). However, it’s fair to say that I am probably not the most appreciative audience for a book about adventures at sea. I don’t think, however, that this is the only reason that this is the Carnegie winner I’ve enjoyed least so far. In contrast to the beautiful prose of de la Mare’s book, this is something of a comedown: the dialogue especially is stilted and clearly suffers from the tension between reproducing the language of young sailors realitically and keeping the book within the perceived limits of what is appropriate for young readers. One of the key dramatic episodes in the book starts like this:

[…] Rusty pointed to the porthole through which the night could be seen full of red glare.

‘Suffering snakes! She’s on fire,’ he yelled, and made for the door.

‘Not in your bare feet, you chump!’ shouted Cam.

There’s something to be said for plain prose – and for representing a rather less middle-class millieu than had previously featured in most Carnegie winners – but I found this rather stilted. This is the first of the winners I’ve read which is now out of print, and it’s easy to understand why. Marcus Crouch praises the characterisation and realism of the book, but neither were especially vivid to me.

Despite these caveats, I think this does mark an interesting turn for the Carnegie Medal. Richard Armstrong was the first winner who could really claim to be a working-class writer: born to a blacksmith in Northumberland, he left school at 13 and worked first in the shipyards and then at sea. The book itself is also much more aimed at working-class readers than any previous winner: the kind of boys who would be likely, like Cam, to leave school at 15 and embark on an apprenticeship. This really broadens the definition of ‘childhood’ which the Carnegie Medal was catering to. For that alone, the book deserves an honourable mention, if sadly not a continuing life in print!

 

SOME UNSCIENTIFIC RATINGS AND NOTES…

My overall rating: 5/10 – It had something to offer me, but the clunky language and the rather thin characterisation made it a bit of a grind

Plot: 7/10 – There’s plenty going on here – maybe a bit too much. I felt I was moving from episode to episode rather than the plot really developing.

Characterisation: 4/10 – Cam does develop a bit, but in general there are stock characters rather than actual characterisation.

Themes: Seafaring, adventure, realism, work, nationhood

Publisher: Dent (the third win for this publisher)

Illustrator: None in my edition, but the first edition had line drawings by the marine artist Michal Leszcynski

Author’s nationality/race: White English

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Wind On the Moon

An interesting departure for the Carnegie Medal with The Wind on the Moon

The Wind on the Moon: first edition book jacket1944 brought a change in the rules for the Carnegie Medal: having begun as an award for any book published for children in the British Empire, then retrenched in 1941 to cover only books published in England,  the criteria were revised again to specify that it should go to ‘an outstanding book for children by a British subject domiciled in the United Kingdom (Great Britain and Northern Ireland), published in Great Britain during the year’. Owen Dudley Evans suggests that limiting the Medal’s scope to England may well have been an inadvertant consequence of the tendency (strong then and not absent now) to use ‘England’ as a synedoche for ‘Britain’; whether or not this was the case, the case for revising in 1944 must certainly have been strengthened by the fact that the proposed winner was a Welsh-born, Scotland-bred writer with strong Orcadian and Scottish nationalist sympathies.

The winner in question, Eric Linklater, was the first Carnegie Medal winner to have made his name largely in the realm of literature for adults. His third novel, Juan in America (1931), was particularly successful, and later novels, along with some political ambitions (he stood as a Scottish nationalist parliamentory candidate in 1933), aligned him with the Scottish Renaissance. Interestingly, some of Linklater’s Scottish literary preoccupations align him with some of the trends I’ve observed in earlier winners of the Carnegie Medal: he was interested in the Scandinavian / Viking heritage of Orkney and many of his books sought to connect readers with an Old Norse literary heritage. The Wind on the Moon, however – the book which was awarded the Carnegie Medal – doesn’t reflect this interest.

The Wind on the Moon follows the adventures of sisters Dinah and  Dorinda, whose father warns them on the eve of his departure to war that a wind is blowing on the moon, and that if they should be naughty while the wind is blowing they will be stuck being naughty for a whole year. Naturally, despite their best intentions, the girls are naughty, which kicks off a year of naughtiness and strange adventures. They eat until they are as round as balloons, cry until they are as thin as matches, turn into kangaroos and live in the zoo, and finally travel secretly inside furniture vans across Europe, in the company of a puma, a falcon and their dancing teacher, to rescue their father from the dungeon of the evil Count Hulagu Bloot. The book originated as a story Linklater told to his two daughters to quiet them after they were caught in a rainshower, and I think this shows: it’s a set of loosely connected narratives which have the feel of extemporaneous story-telling rather than the coherence of a more formally composed narrative. For this reason I think this would be a good book to read as a bedtime story; in fact, given its length (it has thirty-nine substantial chapters) I think that many children of the right age to enjoy this story (I’d say the 7-10 crowd) might struggle with accessing this one alone.

Linklater served with distinction in the First World War, and was in active service during the Second, so it’s perhaps unsurprising that the war has a discernible impact on this book. Count Hulagu Bloot is a tyrant of a kind which would have seemed all too familiar in 1944. We are told that the people of Bombardy:

[H]ave become a silent people, because [their] infamous Tyrant, Count Hulagu Bloot, has a thousand spies who go everywhere and listen to all that is said, by men and women, throughout the country. And if anyone speaks against Count Hulagu, he is arrested and put in prison. And as there is a great temptation to speak against him, because he is always doing some vile, iniquitous, and cruel thing, the people, to guard their safety, have almost stopped talking. They go about almost in silence now.

The running theme of the book is freedom: on a small scale, the sisters’ adventures are set in resistance to the circumscribed lives demanded of the well-behaved little girl; the zoo incident culminates in them liberating the Puma and the Falcon, for whom liberty is sweeter than all else; the two girls liberate a group of wrongfully-imprisoned people from the local jail; and the third act of the book involves first liberating their father and themselves from Count Hulagu’s dungeon, and then liberating Bombardy from the tyranny of Hulagu altogether. This theme is radical in its expression, especially for a children’s book, since Linklater repeatedly suggests that true freedom is more important than strict obedience to the law. Indeed, the law itself comes off pretty badly in this book. One early episode involves the trial of a woman who is wrongly accused (by a policeman) of stealing a pair of silk stockings. When the jury fail to convict –  notwithstanding the heavy prompting of the judge –  the judge sends all twelve to prison. The law here is an ass.

The Wind on the Moon is less concerned with rural Britain than some of the other books on the Carnegie list, but I think it shares some of the same sense of the importance of nature and wildness. The passage about Dinah and Dorinda’s time spent in the forest with the Falcon and the Puma, where ‘they learnt more than Miss Serendip could teach them. They learnt to see things’ is certainly in sympathy with The Little Grey Men. The rejection of law is linked to a sense that it is poorly connected to natural law, as when the children puzzle over how they can possibly explain to the Puma why it’s a problem to kill the local sheep and conclude that, understanding the Puma’s nature, they can’t expect her to behave in any other way.

These elements of the book are interesting, but the real charm of the book is in its wit and inventiveness. The episode in which Dinah and Dorinda convince the judge to change his mind about keeping the jury in prison though an elaborate prank to suggest that an unchanged mind literally stinks was more me the most interesting and enjoyable part of the book. It’s subversive and funny, and also stands out for being one of the few plotlines completely driven by the two sisters themselves. Linklater is a bit too fond of the deus ex machina, and in most of the other major incidents the solution to the problem at hand comes from elsewhere, and is often rather unconnected to Dinah and Dorinda. This is a bit unsatisfying, and I think a more fully worked through novel would have at the least provided some links which demonstrated that the deus ex machine were prompted by some action of the sisters.

Due to its length and Linklater’s tendency to wallow in his own prose from time to time, I suspect this book would not quite stand the test of time as a book for children to read indepedently. As a book read aloud, though, I think it would be enjoyed by all parties (especially if the reader judiciously edited some of the more self-indulgent passages, as my father used to do when reading to me). It’s certainly a new kind of book for the Carnegie Medal – one thing I’d love to gauge when I get onto the historical research for this project is whether someone on the committee actively sought that change, or whether they were just impressed by Linklater’s general standing and/or unable to think of a worthy contender. Intriguing

 

Some unscientific ratings and notes…

My overall rating: 7/10 – I enjoyed this despite its flaws, although interestingly its strengths are not really in plot or characterisation

Plot: 6/10 – Nice episodes, but the whole thing is a bit rambling

Characterisation: 6/10 – This isn’t a highly character-driven book, though I did enjoy Dinah and Dorinda’s sheer exasperation with the baffling criteria for being ‘good’.

Themes: War, tyranny, freedom, humour

Publisher: Macmillan

Illustrator: Nicholas Bentley (I liked the illustrations, incidentally, though I came across a review somewhere which was rather scathing about them)

Author’s nationality/race: White Welsh / Orcadian

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We Couldn’t Leave Dinah

Another wartime story, this one with ponies: We Couldn’t Leave Dinah. Needs more gymkhanas.

Caveat: I read this fairly recently, but couldn’t find my copy this week to refresh myself, so this might suffer slightly from the vagaries of my memory. Also (ironically), this post is even more spoilery than usual, so don’t read if this will bother you.

1941 saw the Carnegie Medal continue its focus on war with Mary Treadgold’s We Couldn’t Leave Dinah, a pony story cum wartime adventure set on the Channel Islands. Caroline, Mick and Thomas Templeton – English residents of fictional island Clerinel, and all members of their local Pony Club – are faced with evacuation to the UK as fears of a German occupation of the island grow. The Germans invade the same night as the evacuation, and in the chaos Caroline and Mick manage to get themselves left behind, and end up concealing themselves and their ponies in a cave originally meant as the new headquarters for the Pony Club. With the help of their French friend Peter, they manage to organise a way off the island for themselves, though not before Mick is forced to teach the daughter of the German general occupying their home how to ride (he masquerades as their French servant). In the process, he uncovers some information which can be used against the Germans. They depart the island in possession of this information, but leaving behind their pony Dinah, who they conclude will be safe with the Gernam child Nannerl until they can return for her.

Mary Treadgold was inspired to write the story after reading many terrible pony books  while working as editor of Heinemann, and this is generally referred to as a pony book. I was quite excited about this, because I had my prescribed horsey phase as a small girl and can still get excited about winning the gymkhana with the pony tricked out in lovingly restored tack found in the old stables. As the summary above demonstrates, however, there’s quite a lot more going on in this book and I found it rather lacking in pony detail. Even though the children are obsessed with the Pony Club, it felt more like a plot device than a central focus. I liked the book less as a result, although this says more about me than about the virtues of the plot. The drama of the plot focuses around the danger that the children will get caught and their accidental involvement in an English spy ring operating on the island, and while I’m willing to accept this in theory, in practice I’m more excited about who wins the gymkhana.

The most interesting part of the novel (to me, anyway) is the way that it explores changing identities and allegiances in the context of war. The book begins with a fancy dress party organised for the Pony Club by the new President of the Pony Club, Peter, who is one of the French residents of the island. The party provides an excuse for a group of Germans to land in disguse and take over key strategic points on the island, thus facilitating the invasion. This sets up a running tension through the book: Caroline sees the Germans and later puts two and two together, and so the children are faced with the prospect that Peter’s father – and possibly Peter himself – are in fact German collaborators. At the end of the book, it’s revealed that Peter’s father did collaborate with the Germans, but only because they have family in Germany who are being held hostage against his cooperation. The genuine sympathy with which Treadgold portrays this character is important given that she was writing shortly after the establishment of the Vichy government in France: it’s made clear that this has been an agonising decision. The introduction of the German child, Nannerl, is also key: although they imagine she will be a horrible Nazi, she turns out to be a small, rather comical figure who shares their love of horses and desperately wants to learn to ride.  They find her desperately annoying and inconvenient, but in the same way as they are annoyed by their younger brother, and during the course of the book they win her over. At the end of the novel, they are not only sure that Nannerl will take good care of Dinah, they make her an honorary member of the Pony Club and look forward to the possibility that they might meet again as fellow members of the Club in happier times. There’s something rather wonderful about the fact that the wartime committee chose a book with such a clear message about the potential for unity across nationalities, and with such a sympathy for those caught between what was moral and what was safe.

Despite these good qualities, Treadgold’s portrayal of the actual non-English characters is rather clunky, and there is just a shadow of a sense that whatever the good qualities of other nations there’s something special about being English. There’s also a bit of a gendered quality to the characterisation: once the two children are living in the cave Caroline is largely quite anxious, while Mick gets drawn into the discovery of a possible spy ring and becomes much more brave and adventurous. There are some nice bits of characterisation in this section (when my copy eventually reappears I’ll come back and add a quote), but this story does feel more gendered than any of the previous winners.

Plotwise – lack of gymkhanas aside – this does clip along well and there’s a reasonable level of realism. Based on the title, I had always imagined this was a story in which the children actually refused to be evacuated, but in fact although they’re sad about leaving their pony, it’s pure accident that they don’t make it onto the boat and they’re pretty panicked about it. And despite my quibbles about the gendered nature of it, I like the fact that hiding out in a cave is not portrayed as all a jolly good adventure – it’s all a bit nervewracking and uncomfortable.

This is the second winner I’ve come to which is out-of-print, but it survived much longer than Visitors From London: the last edition in WorldCat is 1982, two decades later than the last edition of Kitty Barne’s book. I find this surprising in terms of quality: this isn’t a bad book, but it’s nowhere near as vivid or interesting as  Visitors from London. I suspect that the pony story aspect helped a lot here, since it lends itself to marketing – I’ve noticed that other stories with a pony element tend to have that played up on the jacket, however slight the focus on ponies within.

1941 was slim pickings for children’s publishing, which probably helped Treadgold: Ransome’s Missee Lee came out this year, but was ineligible since at this time authors couldn’t win more than once (not sorry about this, Missee Lee is the most problematic of Ransome’s books by a long chalk), and P.L. Travers also published an evacuation story, I Go By Sea, I Go By Land. I haven’t read the latter, so I’m not sure how We Couldn’t Leave Dinah holds up in comparison (cue yet another book purchase, whoops). I’m not convinced it is really an outstanding book, but on the whole I’d rather have this one celebrated than no award at all. Marcus Crouch, though, suggests that the award was premature in terms of Treadgold’s writing career – I enjoyed this one enough for that to pique my interest in her other works.

 

Some unscientific ratings and notes…

My overall rating: 6/10

Plot: 6/10

Characterisation: 5/10

Themes: War, evacuation,  ponies, nationhood, adventure, spies

Publisher: Jonathan Cape

Illustrator: Stuart Tresilian (but my paperback edition had none of the illustrations, so I can’t comment on these)

Author’s nationality/race: (A new category, I realised the other day I’d like to keep track of this, and also not note race only when the author was non-white. Not that this is likely to be an issue for a while.) White English