Gullstruck Island

This is the first Frances Hardinge book I've read, and I gather it's a good one to start with. Already I'm in awe of her virtuosic world-building, her vivid characters and setting, and her brilliantly imaginative story-telling. Gullstruck Island opens with a description of the 'Lost,' just the first of many rich ideas: the Lost are gifted but vulnerable members of the community who have the ability to detach their senses from their bodies and travel at will -- what we used to call astral travelling, though I haven't heard anyone talk about that for a long time. The Lost are vital for communicating news, forecasting weather and spotting distant dangers, and when they are all mysteriously killed in the space of one night, the whole island is bereft. The only surviving Lost seems to be quiet Hathin's sister Arilou, and the secret they never mention is that Arilou may not be a Lost after all...

There are wonderful layers of subtext in Gullstruck Island, about race and colonisation, but couched in a fantasy setting that echoes without exactly replicating real world history. 'The Lace' are an oppressed minority with their own culture and dialect, and it's the ancient stories of the Lace that end up pointing the way to everyone's salvation from the conspiracy that threatens the island.

It was quite shocking to read the last portion of the novel, which involves a volcanic eruption with a flood of mud, rock and steam rolling inexorably down the channel of a valley -- exactly like the horrific events in Nepal recently. Though Gullstruck was published fifteen years ago, it felt eerily and horribly contemporary, and impossible to read without recalling the terrifying images from that part of the world.
 

Archer's Goon

It's shallow of me, but I have to confess that the reason I've never picked up Archer's Goon, Diana Wynne Jones' 1984 novel, is because I didn't like the cover. the combination of the lime-green background, the leather-clad thug and the cartoonish children with their gormless mouths open, all convinced me that I wasn't going to enjoy the story inside.

Well, how wrong I was. Archer's Goon (I don't love the title either, to be perfectly honest) displays Diana Wynne Jones at the very peak of her powers. A story seemingly rooted in the everyday quickly takes a twist, veers off in a magical direction and rapidly roars into full-blown but deceptively well-controlled chaos, with one almighty whiplash twist saved up for the very end. 

A book featuring a family of five (counting Fifi, the student lodger) as well as a group of seven warring siblings with superpowers, and other sundry characters, could easily become confusing, but everyone is crisply delineated, funny and vivid. There's plenty of action and confusion to keep the plot racing, and needless to say, Archer's Goon is meticulously structured and pulls itself together at the end with such panache that the reader can only gasp. I'm sure I once read somewhere that Diana Wynne Jones didn't work out her plots in advance, but just started writing and worked it out as she went along, but frankly, I find that very hard to believe.

It's a delight to add another treasure to my Diana Wynne Jones bookshelf, unappealing cover and all. 

Impossible Creatures: The Poisoned King

This sequel to Katherine Rundell's Impossible Creatures takes us back to the Archipelago, that magical world peopled by talking animals, dragons, flying unicorns and other incredible beasts. The Poisoned King introduces us to twelve year old Princess Anya, whose wicked uncle is hell bent on taking over the kingdom at any cost, even murder. Guardian-to-be Christopher, from our world, joins forces with Anya to solve the mystery of who is killing dragons (spoiler: it's the wicked uncle) and to save Anya's father, the true heir.

As usual, Rundell delivers a pacy, magical adventure with plenty of heart. I wonder if she was influenced by Eva Ibbotson, because Rundell set her first book in the Amazon, a beloved Ibbotson location, and there is something about the emphasis on love, courage and compassion, and the love of the natural world, that reminds me very much of Ibbotson's novels. I also loved the fact that hereditary royalty is dismantled at the end of the book! Now that wouldn't happen in an Eva Ibbotson novel.
 

Dancer in the Wings

I bought Dancer in the Wings (1958) at the same time as Principal Rôle, which was a bit of a self-indulgent impulse -- I've now acquired five of these Lorna Hill ballet books in hard cover, purely from childhood nostalgia. 

Dancer in the Wings is definitely a second tier Lorna Hill (unless all the Lorna Hill titles are less good than I've remembered??). It centres on Annette Dancy (is that a bit lazy, Lorna?) who is a member of the Cosmopolitan Ballet company, but finds herself in a precarious position when her mentor teacher dies. I always enjoy stories about intra-company politics and rivalries, but quite soon we escape this scenario when Annette takes off for Scotland, shaken by the news of her mother's unexpected second marriage, which turns Angus MacCrimmon from a vague love interest into her stepbrother -- no, wait, he's still a love interest. I guess that is okay, though I'm pretty sure my daughters would say 'ick.'

In some ways Dancer in the Wings resembles Principal Rôle, with Isle of Skye taking the place of the Slavonian Alps in providing the scenic backdrop. There's actually a shout-out to the Slavonian setting of the previous book in this novel. There is however quite a bit of actual dancing in this book, as Annette pays her passage to Skye by performing on board ship. I think Dancer in the Wings was right at the tail end of the heyday of ballet books, as the swinging sixties was about to hijack the glamour of ballet with pop and fashion. No, I see that Hill kept writing ballet books until the mid-1960s, though she did switch tack after that to The Vicarage Children series, though I would have thought that vicarage children might be on their way out by then, too!
 

Principal Rôle

Principal Rôle was an impulse buy -- I have a weakness for Lorna Hill's Sadler's Wells ballet series, and this one, along with Dancer in the Wings, were a couple of titles I hadn't come across before, and I couldn't resist. This one is from 1957, and honestly, it barely qualifies as a ballet book! The ballet element is quite tangential. The story centres on fifteen year old (not eighteen, as the cover blurb claims) Princess Fazia of the imaginary kingdom of Slavonia, capital Drobnik, which all sounds quite Yugoslavian, except that it's vaguely nestled in the Alps somewhere. Anyway, it's been overthrown by Communists and her brother Leo is king in exile. So far, so Eva Ibbotson, and this novel shows that fascination with the Alps which was current in the early 20th century.

In fact, it's King Leo who is really keen on ballet, particularly one ballerina. We're told that though Fazia is an incredible dancer, she's not really that interested; and her young governess Elizabeth Lister, whose viewpoint we share in the first part of the book, did ballet at school but is far from professional standard. The story veers around quite wildly and comes to a screaming climax with one character catching on fire, a hospital bedside proposal, an assassination (off screen) and (spoiler) Princess Fazia assuming her Principal Rôle as... Queen of Slavonia (weirdly no one seems particularly worried that she might be assassinated).

I don't regret this purchase and it has a very pretty cover, but it's a very slight piece of work! My expectations for Dancer in the Wings are now quite low.
 

The Middle of Nowhere

I like Geraldine McCaughrean's books. I loved The White Darkness, and she's written 170 books and won numerous awards, so she's clearly doing a lot right. The Middle of Nowhere is a pacy, often frightening, high stakes drama set in the Australian Outback in the late nineteenth century. Comity's father is a telegraph operator on a remote repeater station; her mother has just died from snakebite. Comity is comforted by her friend Fred, an Aboriginal boy. But when the new assistant, Quartz Hogg arrives, he has brutal schemes up his sleeve...

As an historical adventure story, I enjoyed The Middle of Nowhere. But I did have a few problems, starting with the cover of my edition, which unlike the one shown here, features a silhouette of an Aboriginal figure in a stereotypical pose, standing on one leg and braced by a spear. I appreciated Fred's use of language throughout the book, but his ostracism from his mob didn't quite ring true -- I just couldn't believe it when Comity told her father, 'Fred has no people.' (This shunning was sort of explained in the text, but I didn't buy it.) There were other small weird moments, like when Comity's father gives her dollar coins, or when Horse suddenly changes gender for part of a chapter. I'm sure McCaughrean took pains to achieve historical and cultural accuracy, but small slips kept pulling me out of the story. Would I have noticed or cared if the novel had been set in, say, Venezuela? Absolutely not, and I'm sure I've brushed past the same kinds of errors in Eva Ibbotson's books that would have driven me crazy if I were actually Venezuelan.

On the other hand, McCaughrean doesn't flinch from showing the racism and cruelty of settler society (though Comity's family are almost too progressive to be true). So a mixed review from me. 

The Unwanteds

  

Another disappointing book, I'm afraid. Again, I don't think my opinion will hurt Lisa McMann, because The Unwanteds is a New York Times bestselling series of seven volumes and is evidently extremely popular! I borrowed it because I liked the premise: in the land of Quill, creative children are designated 'Unwanted' and 'purged' at the age of thirteen. However, instead of being chucked into a lake of boiling oil as they anticipate, they find themselves transported into a magical, colourful land where they can refine and explore their creative skills in safety. But a showdown is coming...

The Unwanteds is aimed at readers of 8-14, but that doesn't excuse the broad brush plot strokes, the liberal use of adverbs at every opportunity, and the thin characters. The cover blurb describes the series as 'The Hunger Games meets Harry Potter,' which is a stunning elevator pitch, and was no doubt irresistible to publishing executives. But unfortunately, for me, The Unwanteds never progresses far beyond the formulaic.  

Untwisted

Coincidentally, not long before I spotted Paul Jenning's Untwisted: The Story of My Life on the Allen & Unwin shelves (wow, I really did score, didn't I), it was recommended by my friend Kirsty Murray. It's a fabulous read, a candid, funny and often moving account of Jennings' background and career.

Paul Jennings didn't start writing for children until he was forty years old. Before then, he had an extraordinary career as a teacher and education lecturer, often taking on students with physical or mental difficulties, and teaching youth offenders at what was then called Turana. With his quirky, hilarious short stories and particularly after the huge success of the ABC kids' show, Round the Twist, Jennings found himself rich and famous, and able to indulge himself by buying lots of vintage cars and fairytale cottages in the mountains. However, he is equally frank about his own struggles with mental health and the toll that his ups and downs took on his relationships.

Untwisted is compulsively readable. Jennings is a master craftsman of the art of the plot twist, foreshadowing and the clever set-up, and this makes the story of his own life a real page-turner. I must admit that his stories never had a lot of appeal for me, but my kids loved them, and Round the Twist is of course a classic. I now have a fresh respect and admiration for this national treasure of Australian children's literature. 

A Sense of Story and A Sounding of Storytellers

 

A Sense of Story and A Sounding of Storytellers are not really two books, more like one and a half. A Sense of Story was published in 1971, featuring nineteen short essays about (then) contemporary children's authors, from the UK, the US and Australia. In 1979 came A Sounding of Storytellers, which contains fourteen essays, seven revised versions of pieces from the earlier book, and seven new ones.

John Rowe Townsend was himself a children's writer, and a thoughtful, interested and insightful critic. He names Philippa Pearce's Tom's Midnight Garden as a 'masterpiece'; he correctly points out Alan Garner's almost completely flat characters, but forgives him; he notes the currents of deep time slowly flowing beneath the surface of Rosemary Sutcliff's Roman novels. These collections showcase many of the favourite authors of my childhood; is it any wonder that, having picked up the second volume in a secondhand shop, I immediately ordered the first? I couldn't resist finding out what Townsend had to say about Joan Aiken, L.M. Boston, H.F. Brinsmead, Eleanor Estes, Madeleine L'Engle (he drily remarks that he can't like her Austin family as much as they like themselves!) and Patricia Wrightson.

There are also writers here I've never come across (mostly American), like Bill and Vera Cleaver, Virginia Hamilton and John Christopher. I'm also wondering why I've never read anything by Andre Norton. William Mayne, now disgraced and almost impossible to find as a result, appears in both books, long before his public downfall. Townsend also writes about his long-time partner, Jill Paton Walsh, with admirable objectivity. In many ways, these books were a meander down memory lane, and a very enjoyable one.

Swallow's Dance

Another treasure from the Allen & Unwin shelves (I told you I did well). Swallow's Dance is the middle volume of Wendy Orr's Minoan trilogy, though the three books don't share any characters. I already have Dragonfly Song, but I hadn't read the other two in the series. All three books are written in a mix of free verse and prose.

Swallow's Dance centres on Leira, a young girl from the priestly caste who is on the verge of going through her Learning to become a woman and a priestess in her turn when disaster strikes -- a devastating earthquake destroys her city and injures her mother's mind. Leira, her now child-like mother and their elderly servant Nunu become a close unit, with Leira having to assume responsibility for providing for them all in a strange city where they are not welcome.

Wendy Orr was inspired to create Leira after noticing a very individual snub-nosed girl gathering saffron on an ancient wall fresco.

Poor Leira has to face many dangers and suffering, both physical and emotional, before her more hopeful ending, though all her troubles are certainly not over and she doesn't know what has happened to half her family. The worst tragedies happen off the page, so it's not too confronting for young readers, and Leira is a resourceful and determined heroine, though she does have periods of anxiety and terror. The Bronze Age background is fascinating, and there is beauty and joy as well as peril and sorrow in Leira's story. I really enjoyed Swallow's Dance, and what a great cover from Josh Durham (who also designed the cover of Crow Country).

Charlotte Sometimes

I was so riled up by Ian McEwan's dismissal of children's books as not proper literature that I pulled out an old favourite to see if it would stand up to scrutiny. Penelope Farmer's 1969 masterpiece, Charlotte Sometimes, is less than 200 pages long, and yet it packs a punch more powerful than some novels twice the length. Every time I read it, it seems darker: the dank November weather, the austere boarding school corridors, the grieving Chisel Brown family in their cold dark house, in mourning for their soldier son, the neglected Japanese garden -- it all adds up to an eerie, haunting story, quite apart from the creepiness and gnawing anxiety of Charlotte's helpless swap with Clare from 1918.

Charlotte Sometimes is an evocative exploration of identity, fragmentation and fate. In some ways, it's a very small story -- at first, only Charlotte and Clare are aware of what's happened to them as they mysteriously swap places, though later Clare's sister Emily and Charlotte's friend Elizabeth also learn the secret. The sinking horror when Charlotte realises that she is trapped in the past, because of adult whims, and her utter helplessness to change the fact, is genuinely terrifying. Not much happens: Charlotte and Emily try unsuccessfully to get Charlotte into the magical bed one night, they gatecrash the Chisel Brown's seance, they are caught up in street celebrations at the end of the war -- but none of these events directly change the narrative. By denying agency to the protagonist, Charlotte Sometimes seems to break every rule of writing for children; perhaps this is what makes it stand out as genuine literature!

One of the absolute classics of the time-slip tradition, Charlotte Sometimes remains as vivid and disturbing as ever.
 

The Daydreamer

 

Take a look at this cover. What kind of book do you think this is? A horror novel? Some kind of weird erotic adult furry fantasy? No, it's a children's book. I'm pleased to note that later editions dial back the weird and have much more appealing, kid-friendly covers, so someone eventually realised this one was doing them no favours, with the intended readers at least, though I could see Ian McEwan's adult fans picking it up.

I must confess that I did not greet The Daydreamer in the right spirit. For a start, the first sixteen pages are printed twice -- okay, not McEwan's fault, but it's sloppy (I expect better from Vintage). But then, get this -- from the Preface:

We all love the idea of bedtime stories... But do adults really like children's literature? I've always thought the enthusiasm was a little overstated, even desperate... Do we really mean it, do we really still enjoy them, or are we speaking up for, and keeping the lines open to, our lost, nearly forgotten selves? ... What we like about children's books is our children's pleasure in them, and this is less to do with literature and more to do with love.  

Well, I respectfully disagree, Ian. And how is the gall of the man, to say this with such confident authority, in the preface of a book written for children? He may as well say, kids' book are crap, here's a crap book I've written, hope you like it. It all reinforces my view that this first edition at least, was pitched  squarely at adult readers of McEwan, not children themselves.

The Daydreamer is not bad. Peter has an active imagination and he finds himself caught up in all sorts of hypothetical situations. Three of the seven stories involve body swaps: with a cat, a baby and an adult. In other adventures, he makes his family disappear with vanishing cream, tricks a burglar and defeats a school bully (using cruelty rather than violence -- though he feels bad about it afterwards). Because this is Ian McEwan, there is a definite creepy undertone to some of the stories, especially the one where his sister's dolls come to life. But the final story, where Peter finds himself suddenly grown up and in love, doesn't seem aimed at children but at nostalgic adults, and I suspect the whole book was really written from this point of view.

 

Not Just a Witch and Dial a Ghost

I've now read almost all of Eva Ibbotson's novels for adults, but not so many of her books aimed for children. I found these two in one volume in a secondhand shop. Not Just a Witch was first published in 1989, Dial a Ghost in 1996, but they are both the kind of timeless, old-fashioned middle grade story that retain a lot of, as the kids say now, 'charm.'

There's a satisfying (but not too graphic) amount of gore and creepiness in both these novels, and child protagonists are firmly to the fore. Not Just a Witch centres on two witches, one who can turn people into animals, another who can turn people in to stone, and their child friends who foil a dastardly plot to take advantage of them both. Dial a Ghost features a friendly family of phantoms, an orphaned heir, a ghost and haunting matchmaking agency, and two pairs of obnoxious villains (one alive and one dead). Both novels would make great bedtime read-alouds for a child with a sense of humour and an appreciation of the macabre -- maybe not one who's susceptible to nightmares!

Dreams and Wishes

I spotted Susan Cooper's Dreams and Wishes: Essays on Writing for Children in a second hand bookshop. It's inscribed on the flyleaf: To Mary -- Write, write, write!!! -- but not signed. I'm wondering now if that inscription could possibly have been written by the author? And I wonder who Mary was?

This collection has been put together from various articles and speeches that Cooper gave in the 1980s and 90s. There are some interesting stories about how her famous series, The Dark is Rising, come to be; the first volume, Over Sea, Under Stone, started life as an entry in a competition for a family adventure book, and the magical elements only crept in during the writing. Cooper was also very concerned (some things never change) about a drop in children's reading for pleasure, and the fact that some children spent three or four hours a day watching television, passive in front of a screen. As I read this, I couldn't help thinking, oh boy, Susan, you don't have any idea what's coming down the line...

I hadn't realised that this seemingly most British of writers has actually spent almost her whole adult life in the US -- perhaps that's what gives her descriptions of Wales and Buckinghamshire their potency. She agrees with a thesis I have heard before, that the writers of the so-called Golden Age of children's literature in the UK were shaped by growing up during the Second World War, when the battle between Good and Evil was played out literally above their heads and all around them. It's a persuasive argument. Susan Cooper is still with us, she is ninety, almost exactly the same age as my mum, and I am the same age as her children. The Dark is Rising was a formative text for me, as I'm sure it was for many fantasy, and other, writers -- long live Susan Cooper.
 

Dragons in the Waters

Madeleine L'Engle's 1976 novel Dragons in the Waters was another find from City Basement Books. I looked at it quickly and it didn't ring a bell, so I was pretty sure I hadn't read it before. And it didn't ring a bell as I was reading it, either. But lo and behold, when I went to file it on my bookshelf, what should I discover but... another copy of Dragons in the Waters! Oh, dear. I'm not sure when I first acquired it, but it must have been a long time ago, and it seemingly made No Impression Whatsoever on my reading brain.

You would think it would be memorable, because it involves a ship sailing to Venezuela (I paid extra attention to that because Venezuela is in the news at the moment -- and particularly because the plot line concerned smuggling, which is the issue that Trump is objecting to). It also centres on a stolen portrait, an idyllic indigenous community, a flawed white explorer... This makes me think that this book might have stayed with me more securely if I'd read it more recently, because it does deal with subject matter in which I now take a keener interest than I did say, fifteen years ago. Not saying that I necessarily agree with the way that L'Engle handled those topics, but I certainly had opinions about them.
 

Meet The Austins

A browse in City Basement Books in the city yielded a handful of prizes, including a couple of Madeleine L'Engle books. I wasn't sure whether I'd already read Meet the Austins, until I came to the very last chapter and remembered the grandfather who lived in a stable by the sea, with the stalls lined with books -- that stayed with me! Lucky Grandfather.

L'Engle's books often contain some kind of paranormal or other-worldly aspect, but Meet the Austins is firmly set in the everyday world. The Austins are a big, loving, slightly chaotic family which is stretched when they are joined by ten year old Maggy, suddenly orphaned when her pilot father is killed. Maggy is quite difficult to handle, not surprisingly. Twelve year old Vicky is our narrator, and she leads us through various episodes: Maggy's confronting behaviour, Vicky's own poor judgment which leads to a serious injury, a visit from a mysterious woman who is not who she seems to be, and finally the visit to Grandfather, where little brother Rob goes missing. It's all very wholesome and the family are mostly thoughtful and considerate, though they do make mistakes. 

Meet the Austins was published in 1960 and it is an old-fashioned book in some ways, though the Austins are a wonderful model for gentle parenting (mostly -- there is some spanking). A lovely comfort read, with enough philosophical questioning to keep it from being too complacent. 
 

The Westing Game

Ellen Raskin's 1978 middle grade mystery The Westing Game is one of those books that completely slipped under my radar -- as it was published just before I finished primary school, I think I just missed falling into the right demographic at the time, and remained blissfully ignorant of it thereafter. But with over 200,000 ratings on Goodreads, it's clear that other people did manage to find it!

The Westing Game reminded me of how much I adored Encyclopedia Brown and Nancy Drew as a young reader, and I'm sure I would have lapped this up. Sixteen strangers are drawn together to solve the mystery in Sam Westing's will; how are the heirs connected to Sam, and how do the clues fit together to expose his murderer? The heirs are paired together in seemingly unlikely duos, but it turns out that each has something to offer the other. For me, there was more satisfaction in seeing the heirs help each other than in the eventual solution of the mystery.

The Westing Game is a slim novel (another one borrowed from my book group friend, Sian) and I raced through it. It's supremely entertaining, the diverse characters each has an unexpected side, although they're sketched broadly, and the mystery is just complicated enough to be intriguing. And shin-kicking Turtle Wexler is a heroine to love.
 

My Brother, Finch

Continuing my exploration of CBCA Notable books, next comes My Brother, Finch by multi-award winning author Kate Gordon. Initially I was put off by this bleak brown cover; then I was put off by the peculiar formatting of the text, with line breaks between each paragraph. This is a very sad little book, focused on twelve year old Wren, whose brother Finch vanished three years ago on a family excursion, along with another young girl, Ava. Wren's family is shattered; her mother has thrown herself into investigation, her father is deeply depressed, Wren's former friends have drifted away. But when eccentric Freddie appears, it seems that she and Wren might become friends -- do they have more in common than Wren realises?

My Brother, Finch is a beautifully written, poetic book about grief and loss, and the particular pain of open-ended anguish that attaches to 'missing.' There is no happy ending here, though there is some light in the darkness. I've read reviews from adult readers who found it profoundly moving and helpful, but I suspect it might be a book that speaks to adult readers more easily than young ones. I hope that anyone who needs it, young or older, finds this book and loves it.
 

The Star of Kazan

I think I've now read just about all of Eva Ibbotson's books, but The Star of Kazan is a particularly good example of her formula. Reading an Ibbotson book is like sinking into a warm, fragrant bath; it's wonderful comfort reading. The Star of Kazan features an orphan girl (as usual, kind, generous and good at cooking!) who is unexpectedly whisked away from her close community in Vienna by a noblewoman claiming to be her long lost mother. The twist is that, while Annika's Viennese 'family' was warm, happy and comfortable, the grand household at Sittal with the von Tannenburgs is cold, miserable and poverty stricken. But wait! Some good fortune comes Edeltraut's way... but is it connected with Annika?

There is the usual cast of kind, capable boys, a courageous horse, some gypsies, a loyal bookish friend, delicious food, a cruel boarding school, missing jewels, and generous dollops of humour and pathos before everything comes right in the end. I can't believe I lasted so long without being exposed to Eva Ibbotson's work; it is so delightful. I would class The Star of Kazan as a children's book. Though some of her other novels straddle the line between young adult and adult, this one is perfectly safe (apart from one reference to suicide).
 

Arthur Ransome and Capt Flint's Trunk

For a Swallows and Amazons fan, Christina Hardyment's Arthur Ransome and Capt Flint's Trunk was a pure delight from start to finish. Published in 1984, it came out forty years ago -- less than the 37 years which had passed between the publication of the final S&A book in 1947 and this labour of love.

Hardyment visits the locations of all the S&A novels and hunts for real life parallels in geography and characters. The lake of the first adventures is a combination of Coniston and Windemere, but most of the terrain seems faithfully copied from one or the other (with the exception of the Swallowdale valley, which she leaves for future readers to pin down). She is greatly aided by the contents of Ransome's trunk, now in an archive, which contains notes, drawings, maps and unpublished material, much of which is shared here.

Hardyment was also able to interview many of the children (now adults) who inspired the characters, like the Altounyan family (including the real life Titty and Brigit!) and gather their recollections of Ransome. Most of these people are sadly dead now, so it's wonderful that Hardyment took the opportunity when it was available. She explores some of the waterways by windsurfing -- much easier for a solo sailor! -- and includes many photographs of Ransome, his boats and various children posing for the book illustrations.

One marvellous inclusion is a draft first chapter for Peter Duck, showing Captain Flint and the S&As beginning to invent the story of Peter Duck, which was eventually published without this framing device, but showing how different the final book might have been.

Arthur Ransome and Capt Flint's Trunk is the kind of treasure I scour Brotherhood Books for -- a delicious treat and one I will definitely devour again.