Five children and all the rest

Edith Nesbit has been a landmark ever since I read Five children and it exactly forty years ago. I didn't read it as a child, because it wasn't available; I read it as a scholar of children's literature, and of fantasy in particular. I bow to Lewis Carroll and George Macdonald, but all children's fantasy goes back to Nesbit. Her magic code (my coinage, which eventually became the title of my PhD thesis) is as central for fantasy as Asimov's three laws of robotics for science fiction.

I wrote my second academic article, in Russian, on Nesbit in 1979, and it was later revised and published in English in the inaugural issue of Marvels & Tales in 1987. Nesbit's fantasy novels were key texts in my PhD. I taught Five children and it in every course I could squeeze it into.

I don't worship authors, and I have never been particularly interested in Nesbit as a person, but last year I happened to visit her grave.

I am sceptical of sequels and prequels, especially written by someone else. (I have written an infuriated essay on so-called sequels to Winnie-the-Pooh, The Wind in the Willows and Anne of Green Gables). But if done well, they can be wonderful. Jacqueline Wilson's Four children and it was a joy to read.

Some days ago I stumbled upon Kate Saunder's Five children on the Western front. I must admit that I had not read anything by this author, but I was intrigued by the title (and it acknowledged “inspired by...”). 

It was, obviously, very different from Wilson's witty and hilarious book, a playful travesty rather than a proper sequel. I could not help comparing Five children on the Western front with A.S. Byatt's The Children's Book, which is one long, idyllic prologue to the Great War where all title characters die. The mother is of course modelled on Nesbit. 

Five children on the Western front starts with a glimpse of the idyll, portrayed in Nesbit's trilogy, and moves on quickly to the War, with a prolepsis suggesting that two boys of the adventurous five, whom Nesbit calls exceptionally lucky children, will not make it. The reader's privileged knowledge over the character is a tremendously attractive feature for me, as a professional as well as pleasure reader. It makes my guts turn. There they are, the five children – actually six, with an additional sister, cleverly called Edie, short for Edith. There they are, once again exceptionally lucky to meet their old friend the Psammead, on a warm and sunny autumn day of 1914. Cyril is an officer, about to be dispatched to France. Everybody knows that the war will be short, maybe a couple of weeks. If the Psammead knows otherwise he keeps it for himself.

It is a powerful book. It is perfectly stylised: just enough “beastly” and “A1 brick” to feel Nesbit-y without overdoing it. The characters are developed in a remarkably believable and tactful way, from their never-wishing-to-grow-up pastoral to inevitably-growing-up in the shadow of war. I would say, Nesbit couldn't have done it better herself. She most probably couldn't have. The Great War had this effect on writers: they hid in the Hundred Acre Wood with Just William and Swallows and Amazons. But from a hundred years' perspective, it feels profound: all early twentieth-century children's literature children would die in the Great War. I don't believe literary characters have a life outside the text, but this book makes me change my mind.

I have now lived in the UK almost seven years, and even before the centenary last year I had been deeply moved by the Great War indelible trauma. The collective memory doesn't shout: “Hooray, we won the war”, as many other nations do. Instead, it soberly and respectfully mourns its children. 

In a country churchyard

I have never been particularly interested in writers. I have had the privilege of meeting quite a few great writers, but it was exciting because they were interesting people, not because they were writers. I seldom visit writers' homes and museums, and when I do, I never feel anything special, never a sense of awe, of seeing the actual desk, the actual pen or inkwell. The only really weird feeling I had was in Thomas Mann's house in Nida, where I truly sensed the writer's presence, just for a moment.

But every now and then a writer's home can offer something amusing, such as Dickens' works in his museum in London, from which he had public readings and that have notes in the margins: “Raise voice” or “Significant pause”.

Last week I was on a holiday in Kent, and my friend Morag had told me that one of the numerous churches in Romney Marsh had E. Nesbit's grave. Now, I do have a very special relationship with Nesbit, or rather with her books, but I had never bothered to find out about where she lived and died. Yet the goal of finding a grave is more enticing than simply visiting a number of very similar – unless you are an expert – churches. But there was nothing about Nesbit's grave on my guidebooks. The Lonely Planet England guide was conspicuously brief on Kent; the authors must have had unpleasant experiences. None of the many local guidebooks and folders in the cottage we were renting showed any recognition of one of the greatest British children's writers. I gave up, because combing through twelve churchyards is not my idea of a relaxing holiday.

We were driving along the coast, actually looking for a reasonable road to take us home to the cottage when I saw a sign to Romney Marsh Visitors' Centre. I like such institutions, absurd as they are with their guidebooks, maps, ceramic birds, cheap binoculars and bad coffee. The coffee was exceptionally bad, and the brochures hardly promising, but I have a habit of picking up any readable materials, so I picked up one about the churches, and then – wow! “The grave of E.Nesbit, the author of The Railway Children”. The Railway Children is not my favourite; frankly, I have never understood why it is considered a masterpiece, but never mind. St Mary's in the Marsh was just a few miles away by a horrifyingly winding road, and there was no parking except at the nearby pub that I had no intention to visit.

I don't know what I had expected, but probably a conventional grave. I should have known that Nesbit's grave would be unconventional. I have repeatedly told a story about Nesbit, the origin of which I don't remember, so it may not be accurate and in fact may be about someone else. The story goes: two ladies are exchanging gossip, and one says: “Have you heard that E. Nesbit has died?” “Has she really? So unlike her”. 

Book of the week: Four children and it

I don't like sequels to famous books written by other writers. I dislike them so much that I have written a academic essay about them: sequels to Anne of Green Gables and Wind in the Willows and Winnie-the-Pooh. If course, it being an academic essay, I cannot just say that it's rubbish or wrong or morally unacceptable, but must provide solid academic argument. Which I hope I do.

If I were writing this essay today, I would use Jacqueline Wilson's sequel to Edith Nesbit's Five Children and It as an example of a hugely successful endeavour. Can it possibly be because Jacqueline Wilson is such a brilliant writer?

I won't give you any spoilers, because if you, like myself, love Five Children and It, you will start smiling already on the first page.

If you haven't read Five Children and It, you must read it first because otherwise you miss the point. So now, you have two book tips for the price of onw.