Author Archives: residentjudge

‘The Arsonist’ by Sue Miller

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2014, 304 p.

Sue Miller and Anne Tyler are my comfort food reads.  I must confess to occasionally confusing the two authors and their works, but I happily grab either of their new books when I see them on the shelves at the library. (Having said that, I realize that I haven’t read Anne Tyler’s Spool of Blue Thread which has probably received the most ‘literary’ recognition of any of her recent books in terms of its recent Booker Prize shortlisting).

Even though Sue Miller has a couple of years on me, I feel as if I have ‘grown up’ with her, right from the first book of hers that I read, The Good Mother (long before I started this blog). I’ve followed her characters through marriage separations, repartnerings, and more recently through her autobiographical book on watching a much-loved parent subsiding into dementia.  I like her domesticity, the leaving and returning to home, the regrets and anxieties and the lived-in-ness of her books.  Yes, there is a similarity between them all, set as they usually are, on the east coast of America amongst educated, progressive-leaning middle-class people who seem familiar.

This book follows the pattern. Set in 1998,  Frankie, a forty-ish aid worker has recently returned from Kenya (ah! snap! another synchronicity!  She’s obviously been to Lamu, as I have, too!). After yet another failed romance and rather jaded by the whole humanitarian aid phenomenon, she’s not quite sure what her next career move is to be, so she takes a few months at her parents’ home in Pomeroy, New Hampshire. Her parents, Sylvia and Alfie, have retired full-time to Pomeroy to what had been the family holiday home, but it is becoming increasingly clear that Alfie is sliding into a type of dementia. Meanwhile Frankie finds herself gradually drawn into the small Pomeroy community as it becomes increasingly edgy and brittle after a series of fires are lit in the empty, or darkened, homes.  She is attracted to Bud, another recent arrival to Pomeroy who has come to take over the ailing local newspaper, and her feelings are reciprocated.

I concede that many readers would find this soporific and banal (and a little part of me feels this at times). As with other Sue Miller books, these characters live very much in their heads. But perhaps this is why I enjoy her books so much: reassurance that other people have their own internal dialogues as well!  The question of the arsonist’s identity serves as a who-dun-it device to tie the book together, but really- I just enjoyed observing and vicariously living through the characters who seem familiar enough to be friends, but different enough to be interesting in a domestic, voyeuristic way.

An interesting dedication

There’s been talk over the last couple of weeks about Malcolm Turnbull’s personal story. I was interested to see the dedication in his mother Carol Lansbury’s book Arcady in Australia, published in 1970 after she had married John Salmon in New Zealand.Lansbury_Turnbull

“To my son Malcolm Bligh Turnbull a seventh-generation Australian”.

This Week in Port Phillip in 1841: May 16-23 1841

WARNING: Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander readers are warned that the following post contains names and images of deceased persons.

There are three indigenous deaths that were mentioned in the news this week, each demonstrating a different aspect of frontier clashes between indigenous Australians and settlers.

DEATH OF ‘JACK’

Well, I think that we all knew that this wasn’t going to end well.  In the last posting of This Week in Port Phillip 1841  dated May 8-15, we read the report of the surgical amputation of the leg of ‘Jack’, an indigenous prisoner brought down to Melbourne to face murder charges over the death of a convict overseer. Such drastic surgery, and not unexpectedly….

On Sunday at about noon, the Aborigine named “Jack” upon whom amputation was performed a few days since, died in the Hospital. Ever since the operation was performed “Jack” has exhibited considerable symptoms of restlessness, tearing off the bandage, and continually getting out of bed, thereby injuring the stump and causing inflammation, which terminated in death. (PPH 18/5/41)

AN ATTACK UNPUNISHED

An extraordinary edition of the Port Phillip Herald on 19 May reported the Supreme Case of R v Jenkins and ors. In this case William Jenkins, William Martin, John Pennington, Edward Collins and Robert Morrison were jointly indicted for shooting at an aborigine, with intent to maim, disfigure and disable him, at Cumberland Creek. They were also charged with a second count of intent to do grievous bodily harm.

In a detailed breakdown of the case, Paul Mullaly explains that the ‘disturbance’ took place in early February 1841 on the Boral Creek outstation of the Lodden River station owned by Messrs Dutton, Darlot and Simson. There had been rumours from the local aborigines that the ‘Goulburn blacks’ were coming to kill shepherds and steal sheep, and so the accused men, all assigned servants (i.e. convicts) went to the outstation one evening, followed by Henry Darlot the next morning.  The next afternoon, there was a confrontation between the assigned servants, some of whom were armed, and two Aborigines known as Tommy (otherwise Goudu-urmin) and Abraham (or Jemmy- named in the PPH article as  Manharger-bun).  Morrison was grabbed around the neck by Abraham, who tried to take his pistol, while other aborigines were nearby, stealing items from around the outstation.  The white men claimed that spears were thrown at them and that they fired in response. Abraham and Tommy were wounded and Morrison was released without injury.  It is likely that Tommy died (although there is no mention of a body)  but Abraham did survive.

The matter came to the attention of Assistant Aboriginal Protector Edward Stone Parker who was responsible for the Loddon District. He instituted an enquiry, and took depositions from the men involved. And that was the problem.  According to the practice at the time, the accused could not give evidence on oath, only a statement about the evidence already collected.  The common law maxim “no one is bound to accuse himself” (or nemo tenebatur prodere sipsum for the Latin-readers amongst us) applied, and in Blackstone’s words the fault of the accused was ‘not to be wrung out of himself, but rather to be discovered by other means, and other men’.  But what if the only people present were all accused, with the only other witnesses excluded from giving evidence because they were Aboriginal?

Parker submitted the case to the Crown Prosecutor, James Croke, who chided Parker for taking depositions from men who were alleged to have committed the offences. Parker replied that there was another witness, Joseph Maddox, who rode up after the shots had been fired.  During the case, which Judge Willis recorded in his casebook, Joseph Maddox was the only witness.  At this point the Crown Prosecutor ‘relinquished the proceedings’ and Willis directed the jury that the “prisoners were perfectly justified in shooting in self defence”. The prisoners were acquitted.  Willis upbraided Parker for taking improper depositions- a theme which the Port Phillip Herald took up with glee in an editorial on 21 May headed “THE BLACK PROTECTORS

If anything be calculated to arouse the indignation of a free, and besides, a British people, to a sense of the wrongs they have suffered, and the awful dangers to which they are exposed by the tyranny of the Protectorate, and the attempted subversion of the principles of the British constitution by its ignorant officials; and if there be any thing that will come home to the feelings or address the reason of a should-be protecting Government, it is the case to which we have now adverted.  The whole system of the Protectorate is rotten at the core; reform cannot be introduced; its constituent elements are subversive of every principle of equity, or justice, and being thus radically bad, must be wholly extirpated from the province.  The Protectors as a body, instead of a blessing, have proved a curse to the community at large, and as such we will not lose sight of them until they are removed from place and power.  (PPH 21/5/41 p.2)

A DEATH IN CUSTODY

Along St Georges Road in Northcote, in front of the oval that abuts the Aboriginal Advancement League, there is a large mural.  It was originally erected in a temporary car-park on Ruckers Hill in 1983, but was shifted to its current location in 1988. It became increasingly dilapidated and in 2013 it was dismantled, digitally photographed, updated and re-erected and stands proud and confronting again.

 

Probably the most disturbing section of all shows two indigenous men chained together around the neck.  The image came from Western Australia in the early twentieth century, but in May 1841 a similar case came before the Supreme Court in Port Phillip.

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On December 6 1840 mounted constables Michael Goodwin and Thomas Connock arrived in Melbourne with an indigenous prisoner, Jag.ger.rog.rer, known as ‘Harlequin’. He was about 19 years of age, and had been arrested on warrant near Yackandandah and brought to Melbourne for trial. He was delivered at the watchhouse in poor health, with a chain around his neck and died on 8 December. It had been a eight day journey of 153 miles, with Jag.ger.rog.rer chained and on foot for all but 14 miles.

The Aboriginal Protector, George Augustus Robinson wrote a long report on ‘Harlequin’s’ death in his journal on 10 December 1840. There was quite a bit of official discomfort about this death in custody.  James Croke wrote to La Trobe that

I must candidly confess that the disease of which Harlequin died was superinduced by the manner in which he was made to travel (and that there is evidence of that fact I am quite satisfied) the escort are as guilty of his death as if they had shot him without justifiable cause. (Croke to La Trobe 12 Feb 1841 VPRS 19 41/232)

In a later letter Croke said that he thought that not just the final two escorts, but all constables responsible for Harlequin’s custody should be examined. This was carried out, after some skirmishing between Police Magistrate Simpson and Protector Robinson over responsibilities for conducting inquests and taking depositions. The case came before Willis in the Supreme Court on 17 May 1841 when Goodwin and Connock were charged with manslaughter. A report of the case from the Port Phillip Gazette can be found here and Willis’ notes from his Case Books with a commentary from His Honor Paul Mullaly can be found here.

The journey that ended so tragically for Jag.ger.rog.rer went like this:

On 29th November 1840 Sergeant Rose of the Mounted Police took Jag.ger.rog.rer into custody from Ewing’s station. At this time he reported him to be in good health and able to work well. He was marched 14 miles to the barracks on the Hume, a seven-hour journey. On arrival,  the handcuffs were removed and replaced with a small horse chain, weighing from half a pound to a pound, and a padlock weighing a quarter of a pound. This was done, the court heard, because the chain “was considered the easiest way of securing the black, so that he could travel without pain”. Sergeant Rose then handed him over to the charge of Troopers Byers and Rowley who took him the ten miles to Barber’s station, at the rate of about three miles and a half per hour. They slept the night there, with the prisoner secured by handcuffs on his wrist, a pair on his legs and a chain passed through and secured on the outside.

The next day they set off at 7o’clock, with Jag.ger.rog.rer reported to be in good health, eating his bread, meat and tea well. It took all day to reach Mr Reed’s on the Ovens River, a distance of 35 miles. He was handcuffed the whole way, with the chain held by one of the troopers. “Harlequin spoke so much English as to make himself understood, but made no complaint of being tired, or that he wished to stop.”

On 1 December they departed Reed’s station at 7.30 and arrived at Broken River, 30 miles distant, at sundown where he was given into the custody of Corporal Kershaw. The corporal started off the following morning with Jag.ger.rog.rer secured by a collar chain, the leather around his neck and the strap through a link of the chain, with a padlock. They travelled 28 miles along a bushy road that was not easily travelled.  Harlequin rode two miles, and they stopped at one of the Seven Creeks.

On 2nd December they proceeded to the Goulburn, about 29 miles. About twelve miles before arriving, Jag.ger.rog.rer complained of a pain in his side after eating heartily. He was permitted to rest for two hours and travelled the rest of the journey on horseback.  He was handed over to Sergeant Keely who was told that the prisoner had complained of a pain in his side. They stopped here for a couple of days

On 4th December it was reported that Jag.ger.rog.rer (Harlequin) was sick, that he coughed and appeared very ill. On 5th December he was given into the charge of  Goodwin and Connock to take him to Melbourne as quickly as they could. A chain, four feet in length, weighing about two pounds and covered with cloth was placed around his neck. It was reported that the chain was not a noose, and could not tighten around the neck.  The prisoners, who were not ordered to stop at any particular place, travelled about 35 miles that day, stopping at Mr Green’s station.

They arrived in Melbourne at about 4.00 o’clock on the 6th December and he was taken to the Watch-house. By this time he had a ‘dog chain’ around his neck and the chain was so tight that it was not possible to pass a ringer between the chain and Jag.ger.rog.rer’s neck.  His face was swollen, he had difficulty breathing and when the chain was removed, he threw himself down on his back.  Dr Cussen was called and when he attended he found Jagger-Rogger sitting on the floor of his cell, rather hot and feverish, but Cussen conclused that “he had all the symptoms of a man who was excessively fatigued”. However, the next morning, the fever was worse and he was removed to the hospital where he was administered a mild purgative.  On the 8th he was given more active medicine but died either that night or early the next morning.

The doctor considered

the fever to have been caused in this  case both from fatigue and mental depression. …[He] did not think that travelling 75 miles in two days in the month of December in Australia Felix, with chains on the hands and neck would be sufficient to cause death, providing there was no undue pressure on the neck.  The pain in Harlequin’s side must have been spasmodic or muscular; if it had been inflammatory, it would have gone on so rapidly as to have impeded the journey in a very short time. Never saw a case where mental anxiety caused a fever so rapid in its effects as to cut off life in two or three days. (PPH 18/5/41 p.3)

This was the end of the Crown case. At this point, Willis told the jury that, on hearing the evidence, he was duty-bound to instruct that there was no culpable excesses by the prisoners; that Dr Cussen’s evidence showed that the pain in the side was not caused by the manacles, and that he had been treated kindly and given provision whenever he had stopped.  The jury immediately returned a verdict of not guilty “deeply regretting the loss of life occasioned by the neglect of some parties”.

[I haven’t been able to find any information about the distance usually travelled when escorting prisoners.  The speed of 3 miles per hour seems to be a generally acceptable walking pace today, but I cannot imagine that this speed could be sustained over rough country. The only image that I have been able to find of a prisoner escort dates from 1855 where S.T. Gill sketches five prisoners being transported in a cart. It is not clear whether they are chained by the neck or not]

References:

Paul Mullaly Crime in the Port Phillip District 1835-51 (Hybrid, Melbourne, 2008)    pp.  61-62; 353-357; 365-369

Judge Willis Casebooks  http://www.historyvictoria.org.au/willis/index.html

 

 

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Exhibition: Somewhere in France

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Baillieu Library’s current exhibition ‘Somewhere in France: Australians on the Western Front’ is on show until 26 June 2016.

Our commemorative attention has been directed towards the Western front this year,  now that the Gallipoli commemorative caravan has moved on. This exhibition is not, as you might expect, mired in the trenches but instead looks at life away from the front, as young soldiers, nurses and volunteers explored villages, attended theatre performances and encountered new food and culture.  There’s a particularly chilling gas mask on display in one of the cases which reminds us that the front was always present, and the mention of listening to a gramophone while in the trenches highlights the paradox of a war fought along such a small ribbon of contested land.

The exhibition displays contemporary diaries and letters, photographs and ephemera drawn from the University’s collection of material donated by former students, most particularly Ray Jones and Alfred Rowden White. Current day students have researched the material and created two short video presentations based on the stories of Melbourne soldiers and Red Cross workers who ended up ‘Somewhere in France’.

For more information see here.

 

‘Cat’s Eye’ by Margaret Atwood

Cat's_Eye_book_cover

1988,  498 p.

You don’t look back along time but down through it, like water.Sometimes this comes to the surface, sometimes that, sometimes nothing. Nothing goes away.

Nothing has gone away for Elaine Risby, the main character and narrator of Atwood’s 1988 novel, Cat’s Eye. Returning as a fifty-year old artist to her childhood home of Toronto as the star  of a retrospective of her work, memories return of her unhappiness amongst a small group of neighbourhood childhood ‘friends’. The experience has stayed with her, even though she shrugged free of their power and went on to establish herself as a notable painter. As she walks through the gallery retrospective of her painting – a legacy that she is well aware could be turned to cinders in seconds with a splash of  fire accelerant and a match –  we see from her descriptions of her paintings that she has been painting out the pain from this childhood experience for the rest of her life.

Elaine’s early years were unconventional as her peripatetic family followed her father, an   entymologist, on his research field trips. Once she and her brother reached school age the family settled in suburban Toronto which, in these post-WWII years, was staid and judgmental. Although her parents did not attend church, Elaine did so with Grace Smeath, a neighbourhood friend.  Her mother, whose unguarded comments revealed her hypocritical disdain for Elaine, appeared  over and over in Elaine’s paintings for decades afterwards. The small friendship group was joined by Cordelia , a supercilious, controlling bully, who manipulated Elaine by spurning, then sporadically embracing, her as part of the ‘in’ group, the ultimate intermittent reinforcement (and punishment). Atwood captures well the small degradations and the petty cruelties that girls, in particular, seem to be able inflict on each other, seemingly invisible to parental observation.  This isn’t completely true though, because Elaine’s mother was clearly aware of the bullying and Cordelia’s part in it, but obviously felt at a loss to know how to deal with it.

So, it came as somewhat of a shock when, suddenly emboldened, Elaine shrugged free of their influence and, paradoxically, began to bully Cordelia herself.  I began to suspect that Elaine was an unreliable narrator, and that perhaps she was a bigger monster than Cordelia.  But instead Atwood held this change in roles in an uneasy tension, although I don’t know that I’m completely convinced by the sudden switch in power in the relationship. Bullying is a complex phenomenon, though, with such paradoxical emotions and manoevres being played out, and our expectations of adult intervention have changed a lot in the last decade.

I suspect that much of this book is autobiographical, if not in its exploration of relationships, then in its depiction of post-war Toronto and the artistic life. Atwood handles switches in chronology deftly, as you’d expect a writer of her calibre to do. I read the book with an insistent sense of doom, expecting with each page-turn that Cordelia would re-emerge or that the bullying would suddenly reveal itself as a much darker, more insidious act.  Atwood does well to hold her reader in this anxious state for so long- not that it’s a particularly pleasant place to be.

Movie: Brooklyn

I was surprised to look back at my review of Brooklyn and find that I was muted in my appreciation of the book.  Let me proclaim in a big loud voice, then, that I absolutely loved the film.  Of course, having read the book, I knew what was going to happen and so every scene was pregnant for me with its later sorrow and complexity.

It was rather disconcerting to see that Nick Hornby was credited for the screenplay over Colm Toibin as the original author, especially as the film was so faithful to the book generally (with perhaps a reservation about the explicitness of the ending). What a strange priority.

It’s beautiful, as is Saoirse Ronan. One of my favourite films for the year so far.

And so…

Who IS this ridiculously happy person?

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‘Caledonia Australis’ by Don Watson

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1984, republished  1997 (this review) and 2009. 255 p. & notes.

Actually, I hadn’t intended reading this Don Watson book at all.  I was reading the first chapter of his more recent, award-winning book The Bush and found myself reminded that before Watson was a Monthly correspondent, a commentator on public discourse or Paul Keating’s speechwriter, he was a historian.  His book Caledonia Australis was already on my bookshelves, and having recently had the experience of reading two books from the edges of a historian’s career as I did with Michael McKernan (see here and here), I decided to put the more recent book aside in order to return to Watson’s earlier book.  After all, I reasoned, it would do a disservice to the earlier book to read it after the larger, more mature work, honed by over thirty years of writing.  My assumptions were unfounded. I haven’t yet returned to The Bush but Watson’s Caledonia Australis,  a more consciously historical work, stands proudly on its own two feet.  Watson was a damned good writer in 1984, just as he’s a damned good writer in 2016.

We see in this 1984 book the subtlety that Watson would later display in his exploration of Paul Keating in his Portrait of a Bleeding Heart.  It does not have the trappings of an academic text: it does not have footnotes or an index and its reference list is only loosely tied to the chapters.  It does, however, make a strong historical argument which has maintained its currency- has indeed become stronger- since its initial publication in 1984 and reissue in both 1997 and again in 2009.

The first part of Watson’s book is not about Australia at all, but instead the Scottish Highlands.  I’d heard of the Highlands clearances, but I’d assumed that people were shifted directly from their Highland ancestral homes onto ships to the New World as part of a global diaspora.  But, as Watson points out, there was an in-between period where Highlanders were forced onto the coastal edges where they were forced to work in kelp-harvesting. Kelp was prized as an industrial additive for the soap, linen and glass industries and had become lucrative when imports of Spanish barilla (a salt-tolerant plant) were heavily taxed during the 1790s.   The shifting of the Highlanders to the coast and the attempted suppression of the language and culture of this ‘backward’ people was seen as an ‘improvement’ measure that, fortuitously for the large lords, freed up the land for the importation of sheep. When the duties on barilla and salt were reduced in the 1820s, the kelp market collapsed, and it was at this juncture that the ‘improvers’, especially on the isles of Skye and Mull,  looked to emigration and particularly the large, clan-based Scottish emigration schemes in Canada and Australia.

And so, by Chapter 4, we have ‘Highlanders at Large- the Kurnai at Home’. Both by an accident of timing and also as a result of clan networks, Scottish settlers explored and appropriated the lands of the Kurnai people of what we now know as Gippsland but which  Scottish explorer Angus McMillan christened ‘Caledonia Australis’.   Across the seas come the Highlanders, a clan-based culture, where the land was the basis of their identity, where history and legend were passed through song and dance, where the supernatural world co-existed with the natural one. And here in Chapter 4 they meet the Kurnai with a parallel culture, with similar qualities to their own:   clan-based, with land as the basis of their identity, history and legend passed through song and dance, with a co-existent supernatural and natural world. There was, however, no recognition of these affinities. Charged with their Calvinistic faith, the former Highlanders dispossessed the Kurnai, turning over their land to sheep just as had happened to them in Scotland.

In the second half of the book Watson hones in on Angus McMillan,  who has been lionized as one of the pioneers of Gippsland in both myth and physical memorials. McMillan is, in effect, the Highlander in Caledonia Australis writ large.

Angus_McMillan_portrait

Angus McMillan Wikipedia

Watson traces the rivalry between McMillan and the driven, publicity-conscious professional explorer Strzelecki in their competing claims to have ‘discovered’ Gippsland. The Highland temperament manifested itself in both exploration and frontier settlement behaviour.  Clan connections and a shared sense of righteousness drove the Scots settlers into their dogged but ultimately fruitless search for the White Woman of Gippsland. Their prickliness, pride and sense of mission had a much darker side as well.

Watson writes:

There were three types of squatters on the Australian frontier: those who thought that their right to the land was qualified by an obligation to treat the Aboriginal inhabitants with kindness; those who believed that their right was conditional only on extermination; and those who combined murder with kindness. (p. 223)

The squatters of Gippsland, Watson writes, were fickle and dangerous and McMillan exemplifies this third type of squatter. McMillan

-half steering his way, half being blown-arrived in the new province and from that moment seemed to embody every paradox the frontier could throw up: making its history and being made by it, writing its story and engineering its secrets, living through all manner of triumph and torment and leaving a legend which put his life beyond our reach, ending up a cliche, a block of stone (p. xix)

When the nephew of his patron Captain Macalister was killed by Aborigines, McMillan was most probably responsible for drawing together the ‘Highland Brigade’ of his neighbours and retainers who, bent on revenge, massacred between 60 and 150 Indigenous Australians at the Warrigal Creek massacre, and beyond.  Yet, this same man was also lauded for his “sympathetic interest” in indigenous people and became in the last years of his life the Aborigines’ protector.  Murder and kindness: a chilling combination.

In his introduction to the 1997 edition of this book, Watson writes that his original intent in writing this book was

to give a more sympathetic portrait of the pioneers than any I had ever encountered.  I wanted to give them blood as well as bones; religion, motives, choices, memories, identity, ancestors, an inheritance of their own (p.xxvii)

This doesn’t sound like the aspirations of a historian whose work, through this book,  became associated with those derided by the New Right as promoting ‘black armband history’. We know, from Watson’s later work on the deadening effect of managerial language and ‘Weasel Words’ that he is impatient and dismissive of ‘political correctness’. But, he argues, “It can hardly hurt a mature society to know that its founders were capable of evil as well as good.  An immature society can only benefit”(p. xxvi)

Hence the importance of McMillan:

The harder we look at McMillan the more we see the patterns of our collective experience and the elements of our contemporary dilemma.  The harder we look at him the more signs we see of the kindness and brutality, self interest and charity, memory and amnesia, decency and hypocrisy that has characterised public and private dealings with Aboriginal Australia from the beginning to the present day.  And the harder we look at the society McMillan came from the more we see how the dispossessed everywhere tend to follow the same path to material and spiritual poverty: in the nineteenth century the Australian Aborigines were not the only ones to be first cast as dangerous and unruly savages, and then left stranded between pity and contempt- and then thrown still further adrift from humanity by Social Darwinism. (p. xxviii)

No: this process had engulfed Highlander society, which in turn subjected the Kurnai people to the same fate.  The last words of Caledonia Australis are “..the irony was lost”. Irony, at its most powerful, does not need a spotlight or announcement, but emerges quietly and insistently out of the material itself.  Just as it does in this book.

Movie: The Silences

I only just caught this at Cinema Nova before it disappeared. It’s a documentary memoir by feminist film maker Margot Nash, based on her own family story.  In her voice-over that opens the film, she explains that after her mother died, she and her sister couldn’t agree on the epitaph to put on her grave.  They both had a very different view of their mother, and this is Nash’s reflection on the ambivalent feelings she holds towards her mother and the secrets that lay within their family.

Visually, the documentary is a montage of images from photograph albums and clips from Nash’s other films, and it relies heavily on Nash’s voiceover to provide the narrative thread. What power a story-teller has in her hands, to expose others and mould a story to make it hers! And yet, just as when reading a book with an unreliable narrator, I found myself resisting her questions and her reworkings, largely because I was uncomfortable with the self-centredness of her endeavour.  While seeking nuance and adult explanation, there is still a childish, underlying protest at being locked out and being given only partial knowledge.  The film maker, who is very present in this documentary, is older than I am. Does she not have (as I do- along with most older people, I should imagine) an accumulated store of regrets, elisions, utterances and actions  that she, too, might want kept secret- or at least, private? Can there be no generosity in respecting others’ secrets? I found myself feeling complicit and disturbed by this movie, although I’m pleased that there was no pat solution, but instead a very human ambivalence.

‘A God in Ruins’ by Kate Atkinson

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2015, 400p.

This book is a ‘companion’ to Atkinson’s earlier book Time After Time. It’s odd- my recollection is that I very much enjoyed that book and yet when I look back at my review, I obviously had reservations.  It’s strange how one’s lasting impression of a book can differ from the response immediately upon finishing it.

SPOILER

In the earlier Time After Time, Ursula Todd’s brother Teddy, RAF pilot, was missing after a bombing raid over Germany, presumed dead. The  Ursula character had several alternative lives presented within the pages of the one book, and in one of those Teddy reappears at the end of WWII after two years in a German POW camp.

It is this particular scenario that  is explored in this more recent book A God in Ruins. In this stand-alone iteration, Teddy survives over 70 flights and three tours of duty, an almost incredible feat given the attrition of pilots in bombing raids over Europe, and lives to a very old age.

This later book glances off Time after Time, but is not at all dependent upon it.  In fact, you could read this book without any awareness that there is another book until, perhaps the last few pages.  It’s a narrative told straight, albeit with chronological jumps between Teddy’s childhood, his old age, his marriage to his childhood sweetheart Nancy, the birth of his daughter Viola and her anger at him that blights his old age and the childhoods of his grandchildren.  There are rather long stretches of his flying experience which are obviously carefully researched and stop at just the point where the reader’s interest wanes- one of the hallmarks of a writer well in charge of her material but conscious of her readers.

The book seems as if it’s going to be a departure from Time After Time in that there’s only one plot, albeit chopped up and rearranged in its narrative structure.  It was a plot that engaged me completely as I found myself laughing at Teddy’s grand-daughter’s wry asides, feeling disturbed by Viola’s harshness with her father when he was such a good man, and sad to watch illness and old age gradually quash people I had come to care about.  And then, in the last pages, down come all the narrative walls as Atkinson again throws the whole conceit of the book back up into the air, just as she did in Time After Time. I felt disappointed, as if she’d revealed herself to be a bit of a one-trick pony.  The book closed with a fairly academic essay on the nature of fiction.

I suppose that my dissatisfaction with the ending proved the points she made her theorizing about fiction and narrative but dammit- I felt betrayed.  Mind you, as soon as another book comes out, I’ll forget about it just as I did when I opened this book with such anticipation thinking to myself “I love Kate Atkinson”. Perhaps it’s a love where absence makes the heart grow fonder.

My rating: 8.5/10

Sourced from: CAE bookgroups

Read because: a face-to-face bookgroup read