Anila's Journey - book review

Mary Finn, Walker Books, 2008, $16.95 AUD, Pb, 315pp, 9781406306590

Anila’s Indian mother is dead. Her Irish father is inexplicably missing. When her guardian, Miss Hickey, relocates to Madras, Anila is alone. She finds employment with Mr Edward Walker whose intention is to travel up the River Ganges in search of a new, un-named, species of bird life. Anila’s task is to paint impressions for Mr Walker to take back to the Royal Society in London.

Their ornithological quest is not without jeopardy, however. While on the river they discover an outlaw salt depot set up to avoid the heavy taxes being imposed by the East India Company, rescue a boy who has been punished and left to die by his master, and visit the village Anila’s mother had left, long ago, and in shame. Through Carlen, Mr Walker’s assistant, Anila first hears news of her father. But she cannot decide whether Carlen is friend or foe.

The novel is told in a whimsical first person voice that shifts between past and present. From Anila’s youthful perspective we glimpse the darkness of her mother’s sexual exploitation and the despair that crushed her soul. Yet the novel is never without hope. Supporting characters are drawn with a delicate blend of good and evil that makes them fully human. From the outset we are drawn into their lush sub-continental world of eighteenth century Bengal.

Anila’s Journey has a Bardic quality that speaks of the author, Mary Finn’s, Irish origins and a fascination with India that is both detailed and compelling. The outcome is a story that reaches beyond time, culture and place to become a novel about humanity in a wondrous but imperfect world.

Why I work in the library ...

He was small boy and it had been a big afternoon, one of those afternoons when everyone decides to join the library. I’d had my quota of patrons who are unable to use the library catalogue. Added to which, in between signing up new members, the phone had not stopped ringing. In short, I was ready for my desk shift to end.

But, I still had half an hour to go.

He stood head and shoulder above the Reference Desk. He had a little black, basin haircut and skin the colour of honey. He had been waiting patiently. Here we go, I thought, imagining how the script might run.

Now before I continue, I would like to point out that I don’t generally think, oh no, when I see children at the reference desk. But do bear in mind it had been a long afternoon. And sometimes children, well, here is how it can be:

‘How can I help you? (That’s me by the way with a very big smile)

‘Have you got any Garfield books?’

‘Let’s see.’ (I rise from my chair and walk out from behind the desk). Do you know where to look on the shelves?’

‘Yes (earnest nod, wide eyes). ‘But there aren’t any.’

He’s right. There aren’t any. ‘Come back to the desk,’ I say. ‘We’ll have a look on the catalogue.’

After careful searching, I am able to confirm what the empty shelf has already told me. There are no Garfield Books (mental note – buy more Garfield books). ‘There are none at this branch,’ I say. ‘But I can get you one over from another branch.’

‘No, it’s ok.’

‘It doesn’t cost anything.’

‘No, doesn’t matter.’

Child goes in search of his second favourite book. It isn’t there because he likes the most popular books and ours is the busiest (but not the biggest) branch in the region. Child comes back to desk:

‘How can I help you? (Smile still wide).

‘Have you got any Master Q comics?’

‘Let’s see.’ (I rise from my chair and walk out from behind the desk). 'Do you know how to find a book on the shelves?' (I can’t miss this opportunity for a quick library lesson).

‘Yes (earnest nod, wide eyes). But there aren’t any.’

He’s right of course there aren’t any Master Q comics. ‘Come back to the desk,’ I say. ‘We’ll have a look on the catalogue.’

After careful searching, I am able to confirm what the empty shelf has already told me. There are no Master Q Comics (I make a mental note to ask for an extension of youth book budget). ‘There are none at this branch,’ I say. ‘But I can get you one over from another branch.’

‘No, it’s ok.’

‘It doesn’t cost anything.’

‘No, doesn’t matter.’

‘What about Tintin? I saw some of those on the shelf.’

‘It’s okay, I’ll keep looking.’

‘Or Asterix? (I just bought loads of Asterix).

No, thanks. I’ll be fine.’

Child goes in search of his third favourite book. It isn’t there. Child comes back to desk ...

Do you get the picture? The only variable in this, oft repeated, after school enquiry is the name of the book and the size of my smile. Sometimes I am able to scrounge around and find a recently returned book, or, introduce them to our free reservation system, or find a new item to capture their interest.

But sometimes they only want their favourite ... and it simply isn’t there and, if they can’t have their favourite, they don’t want anything else. Sometimes they are only at the library because their Mum doesn’t want to pay for after-school care. Other times, it is because Mum has been told they should be reading more. Quite often, Mum is simply using the internet and they have been told to: ‘Go and find a book.’

They are lonely and tired and a little bit bored and, unfortunately, I can’t help them.

Anyway, I still had half and hour to go – and he was a very small child.

‘How can I help you?’ I asked, cheerfully.

‘Where are the books on origami?’

‘Origami, hmm, let’s have a look.’

I do a quick keyword search because (and this may surprise you). I don’t know the Dewey Decimal System off by heart. My tiredness has evaporated, at this point because I might be able to help this kid. He has been waiting patiently, after all, and he appears to have a genuine information need (that’s library speak by the way) and just in case haven’t realised, we take information needs very seriously. They are sacred.

What? I hear you say, how can a request for origami books be sacred? You have a point. But do bear in mind that I work in a public library. An information need is a human need. It requires the patron to share something of themself with me: a burgeoning interest, an illness or struggle, a recent bereavement.

If you still don’t believe me, search the NSW white pages with me for a son who hasn’t been heard from in seven years. Look into the eyes of a man whose wife has just been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease, feel the enthusiasm of a recently retired woman for ribbon embroidery. Respond to the desperation of a student who has lost his copy of the play he is studying. An information need is sacred, a soul thing, and so is an interest in origami.

My hasty scan of the catalogue establishes the call number. It is 736.982 by the way. But rather than look through the many records, trying to establish exactly what we do and don’t have, I headed straight for the shelves. I like to do this with kids. They don’t want lists of titles and locations. They don’t want a scrap of paper with a Dewey number or a finger pointed in the general direction. They want a book in their hand.

I had noted that there were a number of items in the on the shelf, but none of them are junior books. This didn’t worry me unduly. I had not viewed every record. Added to which I had noticed there was a recently returned junior item on the trolley.

There were a number of books in the Folio section and more in the Non Fiction. More than his small hands could carry. He squatted down to look over the illustrations. I hovered anxiously over him. The diagrams looked pretty complex but, then again, you are talking to someone that after raising four children, can barely manage to fold a cloth nappy.

‘They look a bit difficult,’ I said.

No answer: he was too busy flicking through an array of mythological figures, animals, fruit, trees and flowers, all done in origami.

‘There's a kids’ book on the trolley,’ I said, to the back of his head. ‘I’ll go and get it.’

The kids’ book was perfect. Easy to follow diagrams, age appropriate language and step by step instructions. Even I could have made some of its simpler models. I smiled as I held it out to him, feeling absurdly like a fairy-god librarian in sensible T-bar shoes.

‘Thanks,’ he said, falling on it with a grin.

He was only a small boy with a black basin haircut and skin the colour of honey and an interest in origami. But when I finished my desk shift, twenty-five minutes later, he was still there, on the floor in the middle of the aisle with the books spread out around him. For a moment, I stood there and watched. He didn’t look up. He didn’t notice me. But I went to my tea break light of step and with a glow like halogen within.

That’s why I work in the library.

Seth has Finished School (Yeah!)

Seth is a special kind of kid.



He doesn't take life too seriously. At a recent Seventies party he dressed like this:



On his last day of school he dressed as a tissue box:



The night before last we attended Seth's Valedictory Dinner. It was our fourth Valedictory Dinner (I swear I had already hear the Principal's address three times).

It is difficult to make such an evening fun and entertaining while trying involve and congratulate as many student as possible. It is hard to feed hundreds of people, on a finite budget, and make the food unique and delicious(I swear my chocolate sauce came out of a bottle). But we got through.

Seth achieved academic excellence in a number of subjects despite the year's disruptions.

We are very proud of him.

Here he is at the function centre.



Here he is with some of his friends:



We didn't get a photo of him receiving his award. Andrew was the photographer on this occasion. He was up the front jostling, with all the other parents, like a footballer trying to take a mark. But when the moment came to take the shot, his finger hit the Power button instead of the Capture button, and the camera turned itself off. :-)

I am not sure what to say in his defence, except, that it was a school function, and he hadn't even had a glass of wine, and it has been one of those years, really ...

My General Absence of Creativity

I haven't blogged for a month. I am sure you have noticed.

I won't go into the details of why I haven't blogged (this is a family site). But close your eyes and think of all the things you pray your daughter will never do. Know this, our youngest daughter has ticked a number of those boxes over the last few weeks.

Andrew and I have been angry and desperate by turns. Not the best environment for creativity.

To be honest - I feel as together as cut grass.

But there are some other, good, things happening. I want to blog about them. But not in this entry - they deserve and entry all of their own.

Phoebe's 21st Birthday

Phoebe is twenty-one years old and we had a party.

Here are a few shots for the grandparents, aunties, uncles,host families and anyone else who might be interested. There are no photos of me because depsite having a sexy new outfit I looked somehow supersized. I will not be appearing on my blog until I have shrunk at least five kilos.


Of course we had a cake (I ate way too much)


We rearranged the house and garden


And there were balloons


And all the important people were there



Including this Fellow ... I don't know his name is but he keeps coming around.

The Historical Novel Review

Let me tell you about an extremely auspicious publication. It is called: The Historical Novel Review.

What? You haven’t heard of it. Where have you been hiding all these years?

It is simply the best magazine for readers and writers of historical fiction in the world.

It is the premier periodical for librarian’s, serious readers and writers. I would know because I subscribe to it.

In recent months the Historical Novel Society has taken a giant leap in the right direction. Let me detail their meteoric rise.

1. They let me subscribe

2. They let me join their online discussion list

3. I met one of their editors at the Melbourne Writer’s Festival (Hi, Marina)

4. They have a great children’s historical novel review editor (Hi, Mary)

5. No one is doing reviews of Australian young adult historical fiction

6. Except me!

7. That’s right, me!

8. In Issue 45, of the August 2008, HNR,there is a review by me.

9. Yeah!

Just in case you do not subscribe to this magnificent publication, I will reproduce the review in full.



A Rose for the Anzac Boys
Jackie French, HarperCollins, 2008, $15.99 AUD, pb, 260pp, 9780732285401

It is the year 1915. Margery (Midge) Macpherson is a seventeen year old New Zealand girl attending boarding school in England while her two brothers serve with the Australian New Zealand Army Corps (ANZAC) in Turkey and Europe. Midge leaves school to set up a railway canteen in France. She serves refreshments to the endless flow of soldiers returning from the front, relieves the local ambulance driver, and assists at a field hospital. Jackie French does not spare the reader. People die and are injured. But somehow she strikes a balance between the horrors and humanity of war that is appropriate to upper primary lower and secondary readers.

Each chapter is headed by a series of letters. I found myself poring over them, as if they had recently arrived in the post. The letters are written by Midge, civilian relatives, and others serving in military and medical capacities. Through them, we hear the voice of the era with all of its class consciousness, parochialism, hope and despair.

The narrative is framed by two contemporary events: ANZAC Day, 1975, as Lachie prepares to push his Pa’s wheelchair in the Biscuit Creek remembrance parade; and ANZAC Day 2007, where Lachie is marching as a soldier newly returned from fighting in Afghanistan. These chapters attempt to bridge the past and the present. It was not until halfway through the narrative, however, that I connected Biscuit Creek with Harry, a young Australian soldier Midge was befriending. Or until the final chapter, that I understood Lachie to be a descendant of Harry and Midge. I was disappointed to find the adult Lachie in military uniform. To remember the ‘war to end wars,’ was no such thing. But that is Jackie French’s triumph, the final thrust of her novel. She delivers it powerfully.

Pearls of Wisdom from the Melbourne Writer's Festival ...

The count down is on. My brother’s flight is scheduled to arrive at 12:40am. It is running late. We are now looking at 1:08. I have time to share my pearls of wisdom with you, snippets of disjointed information that I have picked up at the writer’s festival.

First, a quote:

Truth in her dress finds facts too tight. In fiction she moves with ease. (Tagore)

The experiences you write about can be quite ordinary. If you write about the ordinary with intensity and feeling it comes alive. (Alice Pung).

Don’t tell the reader a character’s feelings. Give them a way of seeing it, feeling it, hearing it. Arnold Zable, illustrated this by citing an example from a student he was teaching who hated writing.

Zable asked the kid what he did on the weekend.

He said: ‘Surfing.’

‘What was it like,’ Zable asked.

The kid said: ‘Awesome.’

Zabel asked him: ‘What was so awesome about it?’

The kid said: ‘Words can’t describe it.’

After a bit of too-ing and fro-ing, Zable said: ‘Close your eyes. Imagine you are on a surf board. Tell me what you see?’

The kid said: ‘The water is a wall like glass shimmering. (I can’t remember the exact words but it was very poetic).

Zable said: ‘Tell me what you hear?’

‘I hear wind rushing through a tunnel.'

‘Tell me what you feel?’

‘I rise on wings like a bird, flying.’

Zable then asked us. Do I need to tell you how he is feeling?

Tim Winton was asked what story model he used when plotting. He said he does not use any. Which is all very well, if you are a genius but not very useful for a pleb like me.

Robert Muchamore, a children’s writer, was inspired to write by his nephew who could not find anything to read. He said, the nephew still hadn’t read his books.

What did I learn from this? You can't please everyone.

Muchamore personally thanked us, the volunteers, for our assistance. I will be recommending his books heavily in future.

Emily Rodda talked about finding ideas in the ordinary, everyday and how they became fantasy. One such example came from watching a wasp drag a paralysed spider into its mud nest and sealing it inside for its young to eat. The children were delighted to recall an instance in which some of her characters were trapped in a mud cave.

Melina Marchetta said her stories always start with character and grow from there.

Lili Wilkinson said she writes a ‘zero draft,’ a draft that no one gets to see. From that she learns what she wants to write about and builds the ‘first’ draft.

Lili read Trixie Belden books as a child (among other things). She also used to chew her books. She showed us examples of books that had most definitely been munched. Remind me to check if she is one of our library patrons and suspend her membership.

John Marsden writes with the TV on in the background. He read Enid Blyton books as a child (yeah). I admired his honesty. He is a born storyteller. He is also a teacher. He directed one of his comments at some boys who were reading from a newspaper(ouch!).

Margo Lanagan likes an envirnoment free from distractions.

In Kate Mosse’s session I put my hand up and asked my first ever Writing Festival question. I attribute this newfound courage to my job share partner Philippa. She told me you get more out of a conference if you read the latest book of each speaker. I have spent the last week reading Labyrinth and have Sepulchre in my TBR pile.

Mosse’s books have two stories, a historical one and a modern one, intertwined and interlinked, but distinct. I asked if she wrote them separately or wove them together as she wrote.

She explained that she wrote the historical strand first, then the modern one, to keep their voices distinct. Then she went back and put them together, crafting cutting and shaping. Finally she wrote the last ten chapters, tying up all the stands and links.

I was pleased with her answer because it is how I imagined I would tackle it. More important by far was that immediately I asked the question, she looked up into the crowd, beyond the spotlights and asked:

‘Are you a writer?’

I called out: ‘A wannabe.’

She said: ‘Well, that is a good question, a writer’s question, and good luck with your book.’

It was the highlight of the festival for me.