Fireweed and Lapsing

 

Jill Paton Walsh is an author I discovered relatively recently, and I am still actively collecting her novels. Quite coincidentally, I found two of her books within a week or so of each other. I found Fireweed in a small op shop in Euroa, with a tiny collection of YA books for sale (I gasped audibly when I saw it on the shelf). Lapsing turned up, appropriately enough, at a church book sale in the city among many books about theology and missionary travels, and it only cost me a dollar.

I loved Paton Walsh's Wimsy sequels, and I also relished her Imogen Quy mysteries, but of her standalone novels, I definitely liked these two best (so far). Fireweed is very short (even by Paton Walsh's standards) but it tells a vivid and moving story, of two teenagers from very different backgrounds camping out alone in London in the middle of the Blitz. The Blitz setting is breathtaking in its brutal detail; Paton Walsh thanks 'everyone I know who was old enough to remember 1940,' and the novel very much has the flavour of lived memory.

The same is true of Lapsed, though this is a very different kind of novel; it feels autobiographical in parts. It centres on Tessa, an Oxford undergraduate in the 1950s (like Paton Walsh herself), a staunch Catholic who finds herself being courted by several young men and who makes a choice that is consistent with her beliefs, but which will probably baffle a modern reader. Shot through as usual with philosophical and moral struggles, Lapsed feels unusually heartfelt (unlike A School for Lovers, which was much lighter, almost farcical in tone). Like Tessa, Paton Walsh was also a Catholic. She formed an attachment to another man while already married; she did eventually marry the second man, but only after the death of her first husband, who was also a devoted Catholic; so we can only guess how much of her own experience was poured into Lapsed.

The Last of the Marlows

 

The last four books of Antonia Forest's Marlow series are a mixed bag: two 'holiday' books and two set at Kingscote, two of my absolute favourites and two at the bottom of my 'liking list,' as Nicola would say.

The Ready-Made Family is a lovely read, introducing the Dodd children (bookish Rose, chirpy Chas and ponderous Fob) and their dismal father Edwin, who unexpectedly marries nineteen year old Karen, thus bringing her Oxford studies to an abrupt halt. It's always perplexed me that everyone just assumes that Karen has to give up her studies after marriage, but perhaps there was some kind of university rule about it? The theme of this book is 'nearly a nasty accident,' from the naughty boys throwing stones on the railway tracks in the opening chapter, all the way up to Rose and Nicola's terrifying near-miss encounter with a very nasty man in Oxford at the end. It could be argued that Karen and Edwin's marriage actually is a nasty accident; I'm less lenient toward him and his (not always suppressed) violent streak than Nicola is.

The Cricket Term ties with End of Term as my teenage favourites -- two perfect school stories. It's been pointed out that this novel feels like it could be the end of the series, neatly tying up Nicola's long-standing enmity with the dastardly Lois Sanger, a happy, summery atmosphere, and a cracking cricket match as its climax. Forest writes about cricket as well as anyone I know, so well that she's won converts to the game among American readers who otherwise wouldn't have a clue. And there's a fabulous plot twist involving my pet Lawrie, which delights and outrages me every time.

The Attic Term skips over the summer holidays and brings us back to school. This is my least favourite of the Kingscote stories, mostly because it revolves around Ginty, my second least favourite Marlow sibling, and her tedious romance with boy-next-door Patrick. And I could well do without Patrick's pontifications on the recent changes in the Catholic Church, which make him so unhappy at his own school that I honestly can't understand why his parents don't move him. This time the theme seems to be 'the coughing bear' -- a minor breach of rules/laws that results in terrible damage, most immediately Nicola's first illicit phone call from the school office which paves the way for Ginty's later wrongdoing. I think Forest is suggesting that the changes of Vatican II also opened the door for catastrophe to follow? I don't know enough church history to comment on that point of view!

Run Away Home is another patchy book, like The Thuggery Affair (though I prefer Thuggery). This one features my first least favourite Marlow, oldest brother Giles, who is sexist, pompous and insufferable, though clearly intended to be dashing, bold and tremendous good fun. I'm irritated by the plot of the runaway boy, in which the rights and wrongs are less obvious to me than they are to the Marlows. I'm furious on behalf of poor Ann, who is treated with utter contempt by everyone, teased, lied to and denigrated at every turn; I'm inclined to agree with her take on the Edward situation and I think her family treat her abominably. There's a half-formed problem with Nicola accepting the gift of Miranda's dress, which again, I find baffling -- who cares? Miranda would have thrown it away if Nick hadn't taken it! However, the final few chapters, with Giles and Peter in trouble at sea and Patrick holding vigil, are almost worth the annoyances at the start.

It was interesting to read all ten novels from beginning to end. It was much easier to follow little bits of continuity, like the endless pony swaps and Peter's splinter, as well as the presence of the Dodds, which I never understood as a young reader, having missed Ready-Made Family. Taken as a single work, they are certainly uneven, but there are far more moments of brilliance than there are moments when I grit my teeth. As Patrick says to sexy au pair Claudie, 'Might we do that again some time?'

Friends, Lovers and the Big, Terrible Thing

Matthew Perry's memoir, Friends, Lovers and the Big Terrible Thing was a birthday present. I've been wanting to read it ever since Perry's shock death in October last year. Insecure, witty Chandler Bing was my favourite Friends character; Chandler and Monica's romance unfolded in parallel with my own courtship with my husband, and I followed it avidly. I was dimly aware that Perry had suffered from a painkiller addiction during one season of Friends, (one season? Huh!) but I stupidly assumed that he had gone to rehab and got over it. How wrong I was.

Friends, Lovers is a painful read. Perry started drinking at eleven, moved on to opiates (though he always balked at heroin) and ketamine, and never broke free from addiction to one substance or another for longer than a year or so until the day he died. He tells how, as a colicky baby, a doctor prescribed phenobarbitol to stop him crying; was that when his brain chemistry was irretrievably altered? Or was his deep anxiety the source of the black hole inside he was never able to fill, not with gorgeous girlfriends, not with fame, not with money or artistic success? 

The tragedy of Matthew Perry is that he was never able to convince himself that he was enough. Plenty of people tried to help him; he made numerous attempts to help himself, and sometimes he would seem to succeed in shaking off his demons. But never for long. There was a particular anguish in reading the end of the book, where he declares that he's clean for good this time, knowing full well that he would be dead within a year. It's hard to escape the conclusion that his sad, premature ending was inevitable. Perhaps the saddest part is that he really was just as smart, funny and surrounded by love as Chandler; yet as Perry himself points out, Chandler was able to mature and achieve the goals that Matthew Perry the actor never could.
 

The Great Believers

I came of age in the AIDS era. In the late 80s and 90s, the spectre of the disease hung over me and my gay friends like the threat of nuclear war -- only much more personal and immediate. Safe sex messages were everywhere, posters of cute boys kissing, labelled with chirpy admonitions. I was terrified of something happening to one of my friends, I wished they would all stay celibate forever (no chance). But gradually treatments appeared, then really good treatments, and eventually HIV became a manageable chronic illness rather than a death sentence.

In The Great Believers, Rebecca Makkai draws a deft comparison between the devastation of a generation in the First World War, and the similar catastrophe wreaked by AIDS on a whole community. Her story focuses on Yale, a young gay man, and Fiona, the straight sister of his friend Nico, and it's Fiona who acts as a witness, support, and advocate, and ultimately memory-keeper, for a whole friendship family. The novel alternates between Chicago in the late 80s and Paris in 2015 where Fiona is searching for her estranged daughter, and I found the Chicago sections more compelling. The plot also deals with an art legacy, acquired in Paris in the 1920s, and this theme beautifully highlights the duty of memory, story-keeping and the role of art (with this novel itself forming a part of that witnessing).

I absolutely loved The Great Believers, it's a sensational novel. I also thoroughly enjoyed Makkai's later novel, I Have Some Questions For You, but The Great Believers is, I think, more moving and substantial. Highly recommended.
 

First Knowledges: Innovation

I've enjoyed reading all the volumes in the First Knowledges series (this is the seventh title, and there are at least four more scheduled), but Innovation: Knowledge and Ingenuity, by the husband and wife team of Ian McNiven and Lynette Russell, is one of the best. It serves as a brief, digestible history of Australian First Nations peoples and the adaptations and inventions they have made over their long 65,000 year occupation of this continent.

There has long been a notion that First Nations people lived in a static, changeless world, stuck in a 'Stone Age' lifestyle. In fact, they were quick to adapt and change as their environment changed, willing to develop new methods of hunting and trapping (like the ancient, massive fish traps at Budj Bim), adopting some foreign inventions (like using Reckitt's Blue laundry powder for painting, or glass and ceramic for spearheads) and rejecting others. Even when missionaries attempted to introduce Christianity to First Nations communities, it was usually added to their existing spiritual beliefs, rather than replacing them.

It's impossible to read this book and not come away with a profound admiration for the resilience and ingenuity of First Nations people, both before and after colonisation.

The Hidden Life of Trees

Peter Wohlleben's instant classic, The Hidden Life of Trees, has been around for a while now (published in 2015) and he's followed it up with several other books exploring the world of nature. What made this first volume so electrifying was his portrait of trees as sentient, communicative beings, living not singly but in splendid communities, cooperating and helping each other through chemical communication and widespread underground networks of mycelia.

Wohlleben unapologetically anthropomorphises trees throughout, referring to mother and child trees, cries of anguish, bleeding wounds, migration (of species, not individuals), trees 'stuffing themselves with sugary treats,' happy and unhappy trees. I suspect it's this unashamed attempt to make trees relatable that led to the huge success of Wohlleben's work. And it is genuinely remarkable to discover that trees send nutrients to each other when they're in trouble, that they can count (warm days in a row to discover spring has come) and that still no one really knows exactly how trees draw up moisture from their roots all the way to the tips of their leaves.

As a German forester, Wohlleben naturally focuses on European species: oak, beech, ash, spruce and pine. I don't know if there's an equivalent volume that discusses southern hemisphere and non-deciduous trees, but if there is, I'd love to read it.