Alice and her ‘Aunt Hen’ arrive at our very own wonder of the world, the Pink and White Terraces, in 1886, as the mountain prepares its worst beneath them. Hen is hiding under her large hat shrouded with tulle and showing jaunty rings, a dramatic touch, suggesting someone not recently bereaved but in communion with the dead. Indeed she is a charlatan, playing psychic tricks on paying customers and hiding behind her fakery. Alice is escaping the life of a working girl in Melbourne. Despite her horrible past she is beautiful and savvy, with a kind heart for fellow sufferers. She deserves better than Hen. They are not the only tricky characters in Tarawera in the days before the mountain erupts. Another newcomer, Cyprian Marsh, has been on Alice’s trail from Australia.
Lauren Keenan (Te Ātiawa ki Taranaki) is making a name for herself writing strong women’s stories of our past told from alternating Māori and Pakeha viewpoints. Both The Other Catherine and her previous novel, The Space Between, follow this device. It soon becomes clear that, though the lives of these women from the outside may appear very different, their lived experiences have distinct similarities. They struggle, love and fear, find joy in small things, have unfulfilled desires and hope for a better future. Throw these experiences into a colonial context: women’s lack of agency and political power, poor sanitation and health, hard work and lives dependent on the mercy of men, and you’ll find a compelling story.
It’s a dull title, but apt. Sophie stands there a lot, waiting around for people to need her. I thought Meg Mason’s previous novel, Sorrow and Bliss was a terrifically clever (and dare I say funny in the context of mental illness?) description of an awkward, dysfunctional woman. I loved it. I felt such sympathy for the character. But my God. Sophie. There’s nothing particularly funny in this story, not funny haha, not funny peculiar, not funny clever, which is a shame as Meg Mason is absolutely capable of all three. But if you’re feeling down and enjoy a bit of schadenfreude to cheer you up, Sophie’s your girl.
I had bought Night, Ma and left it on my table for a while, wondering if I really wanted to go there when there were nice, frivolous, bouncy books still on the pile to read. I finally opened it with trepidation, still bewildered as to why writers turn themselves inside out to offer up all their innermost vulnerabilities. I’m a late-comer to the intimacy of memoir. Now of course I recognise it is this very vulnerability that makes the genre so compelling. Human nature recognises and engages with truth, and truth is at the heart of every great story. Perhaps we connect with memoir in a more primal way than fiction and feel every scene, every touch, with far more intensity because it’s not just made up out of some frivolous author’s head, or some AI bot. Here’s the truth, as one woman sees it. Night, Ma comes alive through Elizabeth Knox’s almost subcutaneous observations of the people closest to her. And that’s fascinating.
Craig Cliff’s The Mannequin Makers was such a hit for me recently, I thought I’d give another of his books a whirl. Nailing Down the Saint sounded suitably quirky and it is, indeed, a very odd book. Lots of it I just didn’t get. So much of the detail – music, film, cultural – was out of my frame of reference so the nuances skipped past me. Wet Sprocket and heavy metal TOÄD, anyone? George Costanza’s answering-machine message? I didn’t look any of this stuff up, though it might be funny. And the story rambled on for a very long time without me ever really understanding whether the protagonist was winning, whether he was a genius or a sad weirdo, what the point of the story was. But you know what? I loved it. It felt authentic, in a way even the best New Zealand books seldom do.
I asked my book guru for a book with plot. I’m writing the outline of a potential novel which needs a properly complicated sub-plot – the sort where a bloke does one little thing that he shouldn’t and things snowball dramatically to a killer twist at the end. Not my usual type of writing, or reading for that matter. “Read The First Law of the Bush,” said Phil. So I did.
Ingrid Horrocks’ book, All her Lives, currently shortlisted for the Jann Medlicott Acorn Prize for Fiction (UPDATE – yay!! She won!!), contains nine short stories of women across different generations. The stories span from a tenacious woman chasing stolen silver on the Norwegian coast in 1795 via a Berlin nightclub in 2005 to a woman who visits her son in prison, today. The stories are elegantly constructed, totally different but all the same, each telling of a woman negotiating her place to stand amongst the men around her. If you’re looking for the voice of the Universal Woman she’s here, in these collected works, in a consideration that runs through all these lives like a subcutaneous layer of fat. Simply: How do I, as a woman, negotiate communication with men?
I’m always delighted when I find a terrific New Zealand historical fiction from the past that I’ve missed. The Mannequin Makers was published in 2013 by Penguin and now on my list of top NZ hist fict to recommend. This is no sweeping saga of real events, rather a strange small town rivalry that mostly takes place in a shop window. With mannequins. Sounds quirky? Well, yes, in the sense that the story is unconventional and miles away from the usual immigrant saga, but it thankfully misses all the usual shit that comes with ‘quirky’, there is no manufactured cheesiness or forced charm, no ‘found family’ of misfits. Craig Cliff soars above all that.
I reviewed Mandy Hager’s Strays & Waifs as part of the great Kapiti fiction theme – there are so many good reads coming from that stretch of coast. Something in the wind, perhaps. Strays was the first gutsy read in the series ‘Chasing Ghost Mysteries’, now followed by book two, Revenge and Rabbit Holes, which again, is a mix of thriller, mystery/crime plus ghost story, with a healthy dollop of Mandy Hager’s signature ‘fight for what’s right’ theme. I like a book that’s high on entertainment but still manages to have decency anchored in its body.
I’ve had a great run with publishers Cuba Press — Mary and Paul and all the other dedicated workers who have supported their efforts to publish local books, beautifully. It was Mary’s very cool idea to get some of their authors metaphorically on a bus tour for a gig in Hawke’s Bay.
THURSDAY 12 FEBRUARY, 6PM HAVELOCK NORTH LIBRARY Free event. Refreshments. Books for sale. RSVP: books@wardini.co.nz
Poets Michael Fitzsimons and Simon Sweetman (well known music reviewer) will be there, and Andrew Wright channelling the extraordinary Shirley Bagnall Metcalfe and her life in the early days between two rivers, Tracy Farr with the brilliant novel Wonderland which has left me star-struck and championing her for the Ockhams this year (obvious choice, I know), me talking history and murder and colonialism, and all tied up in a bow by Mary McCallum, novelist and publisher of Cuba Press… but also on this night wearing her poet’s hat and tackling the hens with her collection of read-out-loud poems.
That’s a lot of writers gathered together for an evening, and all keen to yabber about poetry, novels, writing, publishing, life. Come along and join us for a hell of a night.
The Wonderful Wardini Books will have books for sale.
Featuring:
Michael Fitzsimons, High Wire: author of Michael, I Thought You Were Dead.
Simon Sweetman, The Richard Poems: author of The Death of Music Journalism.
Andrew Wright, My Three Rivers: the unpredictable waters of rural life.
Tracy Farr, Wonderland: Marie Curie and an early Wellington circus family. What? Yes!
Cristina Sanders, Ōkiwi Brown, colonial Wellington and its degenerates.
Mary McCallum, Tackling the Hens. Both the name of her fab book of poems and also an apt description of what she’ll be doing on the night, probably.
