Lost and Found

From Tots to Teens, StarMag

PETER PAN IN SCARLET
By Gerladine McCaughrean
Publisher: Oxford University Press
(ISBN:978-0192726209)

WHEN dreams begin leaking out of Neverland into this world, Wendy Darling believes that there must be something wrong and proposes a visit to Peter Pan’s home so that the problem can be found and fixed.

But many years have passed since Wendy flew with Pan. She is a grown woman now, with a daughter of her own. Her brother Michael has perished in the war and John is a husband and father, as are most of the Old Boys – who were once Lost Boys, until they were adopted by Mr and Mrs Darling when they returned from Neverland.

Only children can fly to Neverland, though, and so the adults don their children’s clothes and become young again. It’s a case of clothes literally making the man ... and child. And it is a theme that is repeated throughout Geraldine McCaughrean’s official sequel to J.M. Barrie’s Peter Pan, released worlwide on Oct 5.

Although I have always enjoyed McCaughrean’s books, I didn’t count on liking Peter Pan in Scarlet. However, I was spellbound from ... no, not the first page, but very soon after.

The story builds up slowly: We meet Wendy and the Old Boys and learn a little about their lives post-Peter; our memories of Neverland (red-skins and mermaids, crocodiles and cutlasses) are stirred; we are taken on an expedition to Kensington Park; babies are stalked and a fairy is caught. (It is possible that the fairy, Fireflyer, might just be even more annoying than Tinker Bell.)

The book blossoms once the “children” take off and head for Neverland: “second to the right and straight on till morning.” How things have changed though: Neverland has lost its eternal summer foliage and is now an “ocean of golden orange, and scarlet trees”; Peter wears blood red Virginia creeper and maple leaves, and has forgotten Wendy. He is “dying of boredom”; Tinker Bell has “run off”; the Lost Boys (those who came after the original gang) are all culled for “breaking the rules”.

But with Wendy once again in Neverland, the boy is raring to go, while Wendy and the others, now that they are once again children, forget why they have come back in the first place. Fixing problems is the last thing on their young minds; adventures and quests are uppermost!

And so, The League of Pan go in search of thrills and spills and the story unfolds to reveal secrets and wonders, horrors and terrors, dark deeds and deep disappointments. (By the way, if you can, re-read Peter Pan, the novel, and marvel at the way a seemingly minor although evocative detail at the end of the book has been developed into an important and powerful part of Scarlet’s plot.)

This stunning book celebrates and honours Barrie’s original work by staying true to his ideas and voice. It is also a triumph of McCaughrean’s imagination and inventiveness.

Like Barrie’s tale, this one is magical and exciting, full of action, suspense and danger, high jinks, fun and frolics. But it is also suffused with sadness and anger, resentment and regret.

The best of the action centres around an intriguing new character, the ringmaster Ravello, who comes to work as Peter’s valet when his circus is torched to the ground. He proves to be the key to the mystery of the changes in Neverland, and he himself is the greatest mystery of all. When all is revealed, don’t be surprised if you actually hear the pieces clicking satisfyingly into place.

As for the ending, it is one all mothers (or mothers of Mrs Darling’s ilk, at any rate) will love McCaughrean for. Think reunions and resolutions, closure and comfort. Think a book that is destined to be a classic. Barrie would be proud.

Short on Plot, Good for Snorts

From StarMag

Review by DAPHNE LEE

THE SILLY SIDE OF SHERLOCK HOLMES

By Philip Ardagh

Publisher: Faber and Faber, 64 pages

(ISBN: 978-0571227587)

THE NOT-SO-VERY-NICE GOINGS ON AT VICTORIA LODGE

By Philip Ardagh

Publisher: Faber and Faber, 64 pages

(ISBN: 978-0571223572)

Philip Ardagh has produced two books that I recommend to anyone who occasionally enjoys being rather silly and frivolous. Both are filled with pictures irreverently captioned by Ardagh and both made me snort, quite piggishly, with mirth. I came across The Silly Side of Sherlock Holmes first, although it was the second to be published. This volume comprises the original Sherlock Holmes illustrations from The Strand Magazine.

Ardagh has strung these pictures together to make a story, of sorts. There’s no real plot and no point (except to make the reader giggle). Holmes is made out to be quite mad and his relationship with Watson is presented in a rather dubious light. It’s all in the captions, but it also helps if you have a bit of sick imagination.

The other book, which I demanded from the publisher after reading Silly Side, is The Not-So-Very-Nice Goings On at Victoria Lodge. Here the illustrations are from The Girl’s Own Paper, chosen and arranged to tell a ridiculous, but nevertheless intriguing murder mystery.

I’d never really noticed how grim the people in Girl’s Own Paper illustrations look until I read Victoria Lodge. Everyone looks grave or disapproving, insulted or just plain miserable.

This makes the pictures ideal for the sort of silly nonsense Ardagh creates.

I’ve read both books several times and laughed a great deal each time. You can race through both in less than half-an-hour. So, no, you shouldn’t pack them to read on a long flight. Just have them ready for those times when you are in dire need of a laugh.

Silly Side and Victoria Lodge may also inspire you to hereafter caption every picture you see.

Magazines and the dailies will be full of your scribbles and your friends will be in hysterics over the most boring and mundane news photographs, thanks to your witty captions.

Or ... you may be told not to quit your day job. Well, if that’s the case, another peek into these books will cheer you right up!

From

A Love Story

From StarMag

Review by DAPHNE LEE

THE MIRACULOUS JOURNEY OF EDWARD TULANE

By Kate DiCamillo

Illustrated by Bagram Ibatoulline

Publisher: Candlewick Press, 208 pages

(ISBN: 978-0763625894)

EDWARD Tulane is a china rabbit, finely dressed, trimmed with real fur. He has jointed limbs, leather shoes and a gold pocket watch. He doesn’t sound very cuddly, but he is an exquisite object, specially made for a little girl named Abilene.

Abilene adores Edward and Edward ... well, Edward thinks he is “an exceptional specimen”. The rabbit never ceases to “be amazed by his own fineness” and takes Abilene’s love totally for granted. Why wouldn’t she love such a beautiful toy?

His feelings are unusual. Toys in books are normally totally devoted to the children they belong to, but Edward is content to be loved and admired. When he is thrown overboard a ship and separated from Abilene, his first thought is, “Is my hat still on my head?”

I felt Abilene’s anguish at losing Edward but there was no pity for the toy. I realised, as I read the book, that I didn’t really care very much for Edward’s fate, but instead became involved in and concerned about the humans around him. In a way this was a relief.

Stories of lost, forgotten and abandoned toys usually affect me terribly. I would be absolutely horrified if it were proven that dolls, teddy bears and other playthings felt miserable if they were thrown away or neglected. I don’t think my conscience could cope!

As it is, I weep copiously whenever I watch that scene in Toy Story 2 when the doll Jessie sings about the little girl who loved her then forgot her. And as much as I loved Russell Hoban’s The Mouse and His Child when I first read it more than 15 years ago, I have put off rereading it because the young clockwork mouse who longs for a family just breaks my heart.

And so I approached The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane with trepidation. I actually read the last chapter first: Ahhh ... a happy ending.

However, I knew from the cover-blurb that things would get much worse before they started getting better. Still, I wasn’t prepared for just how miserable the book would make me.

It was not Edward Tulane’s misfortunes that upset me most. As the story progresses, the proud rabbit learns to open his heart and care for the humans around him, but each time he is separated from someone he has grown attached to, it was their loss I felt more than his.

Normally, toys in fiction are so terribly pathetic because the authors depict them as though they are living, breathing flesh and blood creatures.

It is their fate to be at the mercy of humans, much the same way that a helpless infant is at the mercy of his parents or carers.

Illustrations add to the pathos of a toy’s suffering as it is often given human facial expressions and body language.

Edward Tulane’s countenance, however, is unchanging. He stares ahead, blankly, out of eyes painted a brilliant blue. Unlike many of his fellow fictional toys he cannot move on his own accord. The illustrations show him in many situations, but whether he is decked out in lovely silk outfit or in grubby rags, his eye are always empty, his body either limp or posed by human hands.

But the people whose lives Edward becomes a part of are unforgettable and their stories compelling and powerful.

Because the reader is privy only to what Edward sees and hears, there is much about these lives that is implied and left to speculation, but the characters are so fully realised that it there is always the desire to know more. Edward’s fairytale ending offers satisfaction and closure only to a very limited degree.

There are still several lives that continue to haunt me, even after more than a month since I completed the

book.

Although Edward goes through a lot of hardship, things happen to him, he moves on and, eventually, finds love and happiness. Even his bleakest moments in the book cannot compare with the heartbreak that is faced by some of the other characters.

The fates of the siblings Bryce and Sarah Ruth, for example, are unspeakable and in this instance, I wished for a miracle for them and Edward Tulane be damned.

It was the illustrations that initially drew me to this book. They are by Bagram Ibatoulline and are beautiful, mysterious and, in some cases, disturbing. The picture on the cover is intriguing and rather bizarre.

The image of a little rabbit, walking upright towards the lighted doorway of a large house provokes many questions. Is the rabbit Edward Tulane? Does this scene depict the start of his miraculous journey or the end? Does the door lead to a good or bad place? What lies behind it?

Edward looks very small and vulnerable. Interestingly, although you can’t see his face, this picture shows him at his most expressive and sympathetic. This is probably because it is the only time you see him “moving” on his own.

There is purpose and courage in his carriage and so, despite his insignificant stature (or perhaps all

the more because of it), you cannot

help but feel admiration for the little rabbit.

Ibatoulline’s richly tinted and detailed pictures work very well with DiCamillo’s simple writing.

He is faithful to the text and, apart from on the cover, illustrates quite literally what DiCamillo describes.

The result is a moving and realistic portrayal of life as something filled equally with beauty and horror, joy and sorrow, tragedies and miracles.

All things considered, a toy that showed more emotion than Edward does would probably have made this story too mawkish for comfort.

But a toy that showed more emotion would also have seemed, to me, more deserving of the happy ending Edward gets.

Perfect, in Every Way

From StarMag 2006

Byline: Review by DAPHNE LEE

THE WHITE DARKNESS

By Geraldine McCaughrean

Publisher: Oxford University Press,

272 pages

(ISBN: 0-192-71983-1)

I HAVE been in love with Titus Oates for quite a while now – which is ridiculous, since he's been dead for 90 years."

The reader gets a pretty clear idea what Symone, heroine of The White Darkness, is like from the first line of Geraldine McCaughrean's latest (and, in my opinion, best thus far) novel.

Captain Lawrence "Titus" Oates, one of the men on Robert Falcon Scott's ill-fated 1911 expedition to the South Pole, is not usually the sort of bloke 14-year-olds obsess about. but Symone, shy, sensitive and romantic, has neither the vocabulary nor the stomach for the preoccupations of the average 21st century adolescent. While her classmates discuss snogging and boys, she dreams about glaciers and snow storms and Oates.

Oates, who said, "I am just going outside and may be some time," and crawled out of his tent, never to be seen again, may be long dead, but to Symone, he is very real and her only comfort.

Oates is portrayed as attractive and gentle, with a wry sense of humour and the gift of saying just the right thing at the right time. It's easy to forget that he's a figment of Sym's imagination, so naturally does he fit into her life and on the page. It's as if she's conjured flesh and blood (and spirit – most definitely spirit) out of legend! (Well, in anycase, McCaughrean certainly has.)

This is a gift many teenagers possess – staring posters of their movie and pop idols into life, living life inside a book or, more accurately in this day and age, a music video or graphic novel.

It is Symone's "uncle" Victor, business partner of her dead father, and a sort of slightly dodgy fairy godfather and mentor, who first fills her head with chilly imaginings, buying her books about The Ice (lingo for the Antartic) and the North Pole; penguins, seals and boreales; Scott and Oates.

Uncle Victor plans a family trip to Paris, but at the last minute, Sym's mother's passport mysteriously vanishes. It turns up again, in Victor's coat pocket, once he and Sym are safely in the French capital. But before she can confront him with her suspicions, he announces that they will be going on an Antartic expedition of their own! Sym is so thrilled at the prospect that she registers, but doesn't quite manage to react to the uncanny sight of Victor chewing the SIM card of his mobile phone!

The pace, never slack in the first place, picks up even more from then on. Victor, it appears, has signed up for a package tour of sorts with a travel company called Pengwings. Among their travelling companions is a film producer, Manfred Bruch, and his hunky son, Sigurd, who proves to be quite a distraction for Symone (welcome or not, she can't quite decide).

The group journeys south, via Buenos Aires and Punta Arenas, and it's an adventure: Symone is surrounded by startling, colourful, ridiculous people, and stunning, long-wished-for, long-dreamt-of scenery. The excitement goes to her head like champagne, but thanks to Oates – ironic, practical, matter of fact, ever the voice of reason, offering her constant support, courage and inspiration – she never quite loses it.

And when things go wrong, when tragedy strikes and lives are threatened, it is Oates who saves Symone. Well, maybe it's her intense belief of his realness that pulls her through: the combination of facts read and memorised, the poetic licence of a television script, faded pictures, and her youthful, hopeful yearning for romance and passion creates a man whose love saves her in the nick of time.

When Symone looks back on her narrow escape, she is struck by the possibility that Oates was not simply a figment of her imagination. Something happened that cannot be explained away as wishful thinking or an active imagination. At this point in the story, the reader will experience chills – and it won't be for the first time.

The White Darkness is full of spine-tingling, breath-taking moments, thanks to the exciting, emotionally-engaging plot, McCaughrean's intoxicating, sparkling and magical way with words, and her heart-stopping portrayal of Captain Oates.

And of course, there's Symone, the most sympathetic, heart-breaking heroine since George Eliot's Dorothea Brooke. McCaughrean's description of Symone's interior world is beautiful and painful. It's the best thing about the book and that's saying a lot as there isn't a single superfluous sentence in what I think is the most perfect book to be published this year.

Between Angst and Boredom

From StarMag, 2nd July 2006
Byline: Review by DAPHNE LEE

ENDYMION SPRING

By Matthew Skelton

Publisher: Puffin Books, 352 pages

(ISBN: 0-141-32035-4)

WHILE browsing the shelves in an Oxford University college library, 12-year-old Blake Winters is “bitten” by a book. It is an old volume, with an unusual silver clasp shaped like a snake’s fang – it draws blood! Etched on the cracked leather cover is the name Endymion Spring, but inside, the book is completely blank.

However, as Blake gazes at its finely-veined pages, a verse appears on the paper before him. Intrigued, he decides to find out all he can about the book and soon realises that there are others who are also interested in it and who will stop at nothing to possess it.

Just who or what is Endymion Spring?

Well, in the beginning of the book, we learn that it is the name of a boy who lived in 15th century Germany and was apprentice to Johannes Gutenberg, the man credited with inventing moveable type. In this book Skelton suggests that it is Gutenberg’s patron, Johann Fust, who inspired the story of Faust, the man who sold his soul to the devil.

Historically, Fust sued Gutenberg, effectively bankrupting him. Opinions vary as to whether Fust’s actions were justified. Skelton simply adds supernatural elements to the bare facts, turning Fust into a power-hungry tyrant who has stumbled upon a book that contains the secrets of the universe. Trouble is, not only does the book choose to whom it wants to reveal these secrets, without the blood of a child to feed on, its pages will remain blank.

Endymion Spring unwittingly causes writing to appear in the book and hundreds of years later, Blake finds himself in the same powerful and dangerous position. At first the book is a welcome distraction: His parents aren’t getting on and his mother, an American academic, has “escaped” to Oxford (with Blake and sister, Duck, in tow) to do some research. Blake misses his dad and is angry as hell and bored to tears.

Blake’s first encounter with the book piques the reader’s interest, no thanks to the cheesy bit of doggerel that magically appears on one of its pages. But once he starts actively looking for clues, the whole exercise starts reading and feeling like a chore. Maybe it's because the reader is never ever convinced of Blake’s interest in the book. He’s intrigued, yes, but he’s snooping mainly out of boredom and, partly, to spite his mum.

The subplot, which deals with Blake’s relationship with his mother and the way he copes with separation from his father, is really quite tedious. Did Skelton decide that his hero needed to deal with some personal crisis to make him more believable and sympathetic? The way Blake handles his family problems simply makes him look like a resentful, unreasonable kid who has no intention of trying to understand what’s going on with his parents.

This is probably an accurate portrayal of a typical tween stuck in a place like Oxford University (“What? You mean the Bodleian doesn’t have a Playstation?!”), but it left me really disliking the brat. After all, children’s fiction is full of bratty individuals (Lyra Silvertongue for choice) who still manage to inspire affection and admiration. Not Blake though. His sister, Duck, is even more annoying, and most of the adult characters, who appear in the present-day parts of the book, are no better.

In fact, halfway through Endymion Spring I found myself thinking, “If only Skelton had stayed put in the 15th century.” The story of how the book comes to be and Endymion Spring’s escape from Fust is much more compelling than Blake’s adventures.

Certainly, Fust is a considerably more convincing (even fascinating) villain than the character who is finally revealed as Blake’s arch nemesis. Her transformation from merely slightly sinister to downright devilish is so abrupt and extreme that she might as well have been given cloven hooves, horns and a pitchfork.

By the time Blake’s quest comes to a contrived and hurried end, I was no longer interested in the lad. However, I did want to know more about young Endymion. What secrets did the dragon skin reveal to him and how did he resist the temptation to use the knowledge selfishly? Skelton needs to write another book and, this time, focus on the right boy.

A Real Princess

From StarMag

THE PRINCESS AND THE PEA
Written, illustrated and constructed by Lauren Child
Captured by Polly Borland
Publisher: Puffin Books
(ISBN: 978-0141381381)

EVERYONE knows the story of The Princess and the Pea. It’s a silly, absurd, snobbish story about a wishy-washy prince, his overbred parents and a dimwit of a girl who should have died of pneumonia but, unfortunately, probably married the said prince and bore many unassertive, indecisive, rather idiotic haemophiliac children.

OK, so you’ve guessed that it’s not one of my favourite fairytales. When I was in primary school, this older girl whom I hero-worshipped won a storytelling contest with it and it made me think less of her. Like, couldn’t she have chosen something less dumb? A real princess? Gimme a break! Boy, it really bothered my blossoming socialist sentiments ...

You see, in most versions of the story, there’s never any explanation as to what is meant by “real” princess. The queen and king are simply determined that their precious (paunchy and balding) son should marry a “real” princess. As opposed to a ... social upstart? A divorced princess-by-marriage? A foreign and not-so-real princess? A pop star whose first name happens to be Princess?

Whatever the case, the king and queen just sound totally, typically royal and stuck-up and fuddy-duddy! And their son seems like a spineless chap, happy to go along with their wishes so long as he can hunt and shoot and play billiards till the cows come home.

In the latest version of the fairytale, by Lauren Child, the prince doesn’t argue either, but at least it’s made clear that he doesn’t actually care about whether or not his wife is a real princess. This prince just agrees because he knows he will never get any peace unless he does. Ahhh! A man who knows how to compromise. He is also, writes Child, handsome (but “not too handsome, just handsome enough”), nice and romantic.

And his parents, the king and queen, are more reasonable than they usually are. This royal couple attempts to explain what it means to be a “real” princess. Above all, a “real” princess must have ? not beauty or wealth or status, but ? manners. “‘No one should ever travel without them,’ said the King.”

Oh, is that what being a real princess is all about? Well, that’s all right then.

Another mark of a true princess, according to the king, is that they never read their post (not so terribly well-mannered then).

Child’s princess lives in a tree house, has beautiful black hair and is fond of moonlight. Her home looks enchanting, a hollowed-out tree, with window all lit up and golden, cut in the bark. In her thank you note, Child mentions finding the piece of wood that serves as the princess’s house. The author/illustrator, whose picture books are usually a mixture of drawings and paintings, photographs and collages, goes 3-D in The Princess and the Pea.

Every picture in the book was painstakingly reconstructed using cereal boxes, paint and dollhouse furniture and accessories, some of which she made herself.

The characters are paper dolls, dressed in layers of paper and posed in the 3-D interiors. Each scene was then photographed by Polly Borland. The results are beautiful and awe-inspiring. And if you have always wanted a dollhouse, you will wish doubly hard for one after reading this book.

So I will be sexist and say that Child’s The Princess and the Pea will appeal especially to little girls – because of the dollhouse look of it, because of the paper doll characters; because it’s about a mesmerising princess. However, if you have raised your sons with open, curious minds, they will enjoy it too. My nine-year-old boy does. He thinks it’s jolly funny and insists that the pea must be enchanted since it manages to cause so much pain even through all those mattresses!

As for me, I am converted. From now on, this is the only version of the fairytale I’m allowing on my bookshelf!

P.S. 2nd August 2008 I have just one thing to add. I lent this book to two talented illustrators, both in their very-early 20s and both of them noticed that it's implied in the book that girls who read are boring. I never noticed, but now I do and I think that this is the one flaw of Lauren Child's version of this classic fairytale.

Saving Time

From StarMag

Review by DAPHNE LEE

THE NEW POLICEMAN
By Kate Thompson
Publisher: The Bodley Head, 409 pages
(ISBN: 0-370-32823-X)

I WISH there were more hours in a day.” I say that at least twice a week, usually while doing an uncannily good impression of a headless chicken – running to and fro, wings (arms) flapping, chest heaving.

Most of us, with jobs, lives, children and hobbies, know what it’s like to run out of time. We face this situation on a daily basis, dashing from day care to the office to the pharmacy and back again.

Most of us like to talk, fondly, a little sadly, about the good old days, when we were little and it took forever from one birthday to the next. Now time seems to go quickly for children too. What with school, tuition, music class etc, etc, our kids have less and less time to play, do nothing, and just be kids.

In The New Policeman, the people of the Irish town of Kinvara find that they have no time at all to spare. The old folk say that it’s because there is too much to do. It never used to be like this. The middle-aged Kinvarans, recalling their not-so-distant youth, agree. And the children wonder, “Is this really what life is all about?”

Just how and where does one find more time?

Fifteen-year-old JJ Liddy is tired out, having to juggle school, chores and his social life, which includes fiddling at the dances hosted by that his parents. Music is everything to the Liddys (JJ plays the fiddle beautifully) to the extent that his grandfather, and namesake, is believed (by some) to have murdered a priest who believed that jigging was an evil pastime! As a result, the Liddys have always been treated with reserve, if not suspicion.

Until recently JJ always assumed that it was because his parents weren’t married. Then Helen, his mum, tells him the story of the supposedly murderous JJ Liddy senior (of course, she insists, he didn’t really do it), and throws in the tale of how her own parents never married because her father simply drifted into town one day and then merrily drifted out again, leaving her mum pregnant. It’s then that JJ realises that his fiddle used to belong to his mysterious and absent grandfather.

Helen’s revelations touch a chord in JJ, somehow strengthening the bond between mother and son. Suddenly, it’s terribly important that he do something for her, so when she says that time is all she wants for her birthday, he promises her some. At first, this merely means pitching in a lot more round the house and on their farm, running errands and the like.

Later, JJ is told by a family acquaintance that it may be possible to get his hands on some actual time and he is shown the way to Tír na n’Óg, a parallel world, and a land of eternal youth, inhabited by the Tuatha de Danaan – gods or fairies or just humans with a bit of magical ability, depending on whom you ask.

Tír na n’Óg is, literally, a timeless place – eternally summer, sunny and bright, with no illness and no death. However, in the last 50 years or more (it’s hard to tell since there are no calendars or clocks in this world), the locals have noticed the slow but unmistakable movement of the sun, the passing of minutes, the passage of time.

Is there a leak in the “skin” that separates Tír na n’Óg from the outside world, a leak that is draining all the time from one place to the other? Obviously, having time (or the lack of it) means very different things, depending on which side of the skin you are!

JJ is determined to find the leak and seal it, but he finds himself increasingly distracted by Tír na n’Óg’s music, its people and its ... goats. The latter pop up here and there, in guises alternately hilarious and downright terrifying, and are the most obviously magical things about the place.

I like that about the book. I like that the magic isn’t laid on with a trowel and that there is a distinct lack of strange worlds, apocalyptic prophesies, mysterious sorcerers and rampaging mythological creatures.

Fantasy novels are all the rage these days, and many of them just overdo it. To make things worse, there’s often not a single original thing about these books. Hands up everyone who’s tired of reading about young heroes on whose shoulders rest the fate of the world!

The New Policeman’s hero may ultimately be saving time for all mankind, but his motives are refreshingly selfish and his problem so, so real. Finally, a quest we can all relate to, no matter how mundane and boring our lives are!

I really like this funny, inventive book with its lively, memorable characters, and interesting settings. I especially like JJ, who is a lovely combination of typical moody teen and generous, sensitive artist. Kate Thompson’s descriptions of him playing the fiddle are so vivid, I could almost hear the tunes and see the dancers jigging!

Thompson happens to have a MA in Irish traditional music and her knowledge and love for it has enriched the book and given it authenticity and heart. Each chapter ends with sheet music for an Irish ditty and I’m dying to know what these songs sound like.

According to the Tuatha de Danaan, all Irish tunes come from them and if you think you’ve made one up, you’re actually just playing “fairy” music that you’ve subconsciously absorbed when it “leaked” from their world. Now, that’s what I call truly magical!

P.S Kate Thompson's The New Policeman won 2005's Whitbread children's novel award.

Happy with an Ache

From StarTwo, 24th February 2006

Review by DAPHNE LEE

LOVE WALKED IN

Author: Marisa de los Santos

Publisher: Viking, 307 pages

(ISBN: 978-0670916177)

I ADORE happy endings! Don’t you? Doesn’t everyone? Actually, I remember a time when I didn’t. I wanted my reading matter to be full of misery, violence, hate and angst. I turned up my nose at books filled with love, kisses and smiles, and considered happy endings passé, even trite. But that was when I was young and foolish. Foolish! A blithering pompous ass, more like it!

Well, you’ve probably figured out that Love Walked In is a happy book with a happy ending. It’s not, however, the sort of happy book in which there is no sadness, hurt or heartbreak. Oh, there’s a great deal of tears and anguish and loss here. However, there’s also a lot of mending and healing and, by the final page, every broken heart is well on its way to being whole again.

So, it’s not a fairytale and not quite happily-ever-after – it’s happiness with a bit of ache on the side, because you can’t appreciate joy without sorrow.

The last time a book made me feel this way was Jostein Gaarder’s The Orange Girl. That was a lovely book too, made up of equal parts agony and ecstasy. Such stories are few and far between: Elizabeth Bowen’s A World of Love; Virginia Woolf’s Mrs Dalloway. Now this. And, of course, it being the age of unoriginal screenplays, it’s about to be thoroughly spoilt by being made into a film. Yes, de los Santos has sold the film rights of her first novel to Sarah Jessica “Carrie Bradshaw” Parker’s production company. And the film will star (surprise, surprise) Parker herself!

I knew this before reading the book. And so, when I was reading it, I kept getting these pictures in my head of Parker as Cornelia Brown, the heroine of Love Walked In. And you know what? They’d never stick. Parker is no Brown, never was and never will be. Blame it on Sex and the City, but, to me, the actress will forever be the girl who threw away the love of a good man to be with a lying, cheating scoundrel. That’s something Cornelia would never do. Not in a million years.

I admit it. I love Cornelia Brown. What a wonderful woman! I love her because she’s warm and loving. I love her wit, her generosity and her compassion. I love her because her favourite film is The Philadelphia Story, which, in my book, means she has impeccable taste.

Cornelia’s love for beautiful things is also lovable. She doesn’t love frivolously beautiful things like Manolo Blahniks and clothes she can’t afford but charges to her credit card anyway, but beautiful things like a falling-to-pieces antique chandelier that she buys for a song and then, with infinite patience and care, restores to its full and former glory.

Of course, her love for beauty also means that she thinks Cary Grant is “the best man in the world” and although this is something I cannot relate to or understand, I forgive her because even when a Cary Grant look-alike enters her life, Cornelia doesn’t allow this dream-come-true to cloud her better judgment.

Martin Grace, “a handsome stranger in a perfectly cut suit” walks into the cafe Cornelia manages and changes her life. In her words, “My life – my real life – started when a man walked into it”. She worries about how this statement sounds – will it be greeted with snorts of derision and scorn? It’s the sort of statement that countless love stories are based around and upon. A silly, romantic statement that usually means that the heroine is a melodramatic floozy. Not in this case though.

Because, when Martin Grace walks into Cornelia’s life, it really does change things. Martin Grace walks in and it changes the shape and texture and tone of Cornelia’s life and it really amounts to love walking in because he leads Cornelia to find true love, but only in a way that is totally unexpected.

That’s part of the book’s charm – that it isn’t as predictable as most chicklit tends to be. Apart from anything else, for once, the heroine’s biological clock isn’t going crazy; for once, the heroine isn’t defensive about being single; for once, she’s not obsessing about her weight or her job; for once, the male characters are beautiful but not gay.

And then, there’s Clare.

Clare is Martin’s daughter. Clare lives with Viviana, her mum who is lovely, loving and lovable until she loses it and abandons her scared and bewildered 11-year-old child. Martin, who has been keeping deliberately distant for years, suddenly finds that he has to be father to a child he doesn’t know and doesn’t love. What does he do? He hands her over to Cornelia.

Carrie Bradshaw? Sorry, but I can’t imagine what she’d do with a depressed 11-year-old. Probably mix her a Cosmopolitan and take her shopping at Sak’s. The good news is I don’t have to watch the film when it comes out (although I’m sure my curiosity will get the better of me) and neither need you. But even if you decide to, it doesn’t matter so long as you read the book first. You have to read the book first because you have to experience the beautiful story, witty heroine and elegant writing before Hollywood ruins it, which, I feel in my bones, it will.

Only the very cynical, very mean-spirited could fail to be heartened and delighted by Love Walked In. Reading it, I not only felt happy, but also thankful and thoughtful. That’s a good thing at any price. I cried over the final few pages and when I put it down, I laughed a crazy laugh that made my sons grin and dance like wild things.

“Why are you laughing like that, Mama?” asked my three-year-old.

“Because I’m so happy it hurts,” I said. That’s the best kind of happy, don’t you think?

Getting a Grip on Reality

From StarMag, 29th January, 2006

Review by DAPHNE LEE

Getting a grip on reality

ITHAKA

By Adele Geras

Publisher: David Fickling Books, 416 pages

(ISBN: 0-38560-391-6)

WHAT do the wives and children, and mothers and sisters of heroes do while these brave warriors are off slaying monsters and overthrowing villainous rulers? Storytellers tend to focus on the action and the excitement, while ignoring the lives of those who must sit and wait and wonder.

But years, even decades, might pass before the return of a wandering hero. In the meantime, it is unlikely that his loved ones are doing nothing except twiddling their thumbs. Believe it or not, life goes on no matter how much a man, even one as glorious as Odysseus, is missed!

Ithaka tells the tale of those left behind by Greek mythology’s most cunning conqueror when he goes to fight the Trojans: There is his wife, sad and lonely Penelope; his son, Telemachus, who craves the love and guidance only a father can offer; Antikleia, his mother who, unable to bear the grief of losing her son, ends her own life early in the novel.

Like Antikleia, many fear him dead, but Penelope has been told by the goddess Pallas Athene not to despair. Her husband’s life is literally in her hands, bound up with the threads she uses on her loom. So long as she continues to weave her tapestry, telling the story of his long journey home with her coloured wools, all will be well.

At the very centre of this tale is Klymene, the granddaughter of Odysseus’ old nurse. She and her twin brother Ikarios are Telemachus’ playmates, but her feelings for the young prince are changing.

Love makes Klymene acutely aware of everything about her, and with maturity and her growing awareness, come the ability to see and recognise the gods and goddesses who walk the streets of ancient Greece, meddling with lives of man according to their whims and fancies: Fishy-breathed Poseidon promises calamity for the royal household, ostensibly in revenge for Odysseus’ treatment of his son, the cyclops Polyphemus; Artemis rewards Odysseus’ faithful hunting dog, Argos, by keeping him alive despite extreme age and injury; and Aphrodite causes Penelope’s loneliness to escalate into lust for a boyhood friend of Odysseus’.

Yes, there’s never a dull moment in Ithaka. Throw a band of horny and violent oafs into the mix and you have a soap opera ready to be screened at prime time on HBO! Most of the action is seen through Klymene’s innocent eyes and so life in Ithaka is only as wonderful, fearful or tedious at it may seem to an awkward, impatient and moody, yet courageous and compassionate teenager who is just getting to grips with the world around her.

Then there are the other adolescent characters: petulant Telemachus; love-lorn Ikarios; flirty, back-stabbing Melantho; and sensitive, sweet Mydon. Really, Ithaka could be subtitled The OC, B.C! This isn’t as bad as it may sound (to some): Ithaka is, after all, a young adult novel. So the story is rightfully presented from an adolescent point of view and Klymene and company’s very natural, hormonally-driven hopes, fears and preoccupations give it a touch of realism, making it relevant and interesting to a young audience, even one that may not be attracted to tales inspired by mythology.

Interestingly, Geras makes the reader care so much about the people whom Odysseus has left behind that, when he finally appears in the book, you really couldn’t care less. It’s the others whom you are anxious for and curious about and it’s Klymene whom you wish the best for.

Ithaka is her story. And, while Penelope and her husband claim their “happily ever after” at the end of the book, the young handmaid is left on the verge of womanhood, facing the endless possibilities life has to offer. If only Geras would give us a more of this brave, bright, loving girl. If anyone deserves an epic of her own, it’s Klymene