The Dolphin Crossing - Book Review

The May, 1940 Dunkirk evacuation, Operation Dynamo, has inspired a unique subset of children's fiction. A rough search online throws up about a dozen titles, most of them highly regarded or at least well-remembered.

While writing about the events for this year's anniversary, here, I was reminded of a title I'd read myself as a kid. The acid test was that the essentials of the plot stayed with me, even though I'd completely forgotten the title and author.

Some searching (again online) tracked it down: it was the 1967 work The Dolphin Crossing by Jill Patton-Walsh. Ironically, after getting a copy from my local library on inter-library loan (Carnegie's 'internet'), we realised that Bev had an adult fiction book by the same author on the table, purely by chance, also from the library.

The 1974 Macmillan cover.

After moving it from table to book pile and on to other places around the house, I finally read it over the last few days. Perhaps my reluctance to re-read it was wariness about potentially losing the magic of a book I'd discovered and enjoyed as a child. Thankfully that was not the case.

The Dolphin Crossing is a tightly plotted, tough and concise work. It tells the story of two boys 'safe' in England who make friends as the Germans advance through the Blitzkrieg and surround the British army at Dunkirk. Getting an idea of what's going on, they take John's father's small powerboat across the Channel and help in rescuing the soldiers. The narrative structure does not fulfil your lazy expectations - so common in formulaic storytelling these days, and there are some shocks. I'll say now, before moving on to potential plot spoilers, that it's highly recommended for children and adults as an insight to the reality of those tough days off a French beach.

The author manages on that tricky line between sanitising for a children's audience (actually for parents; children seem able to handle any amount of fictional blood and guts, injustice and so forth) and presenting what the reality may have been for a couple of boys taking their boat into this war zone. Another theme is that of the conscientious objector. And as this review here notes, the view of those conscientious objectors was very different in 1940 and the 1960s.

(Don't go further than here if you don't want some big clues as to what happens.)

The ending is both credible, upsetting and open-ended as the reality was, and is in such real situations. An online discussion here focuses on the 'obligation' of an author to provide what I'd call a 'neat' if not happy ending. (This same discussion touches on several other books about the story of Dunkirk.) The discussion puts a formulaic expectation about fiction above narrative, especially a narrative told using fiction as 'truth', seeming closer to the reality than any report of the real events could be. Unpalatable though the ending is, it rings true. Changing it would equate in anticlimax to the Victorian 'happy ending' version of Romeo and Juliet.

Much of the book focuses on build-up: to Dunkirk (although we, and the characters, don't realise that Dunkirk is the storm that's coming). Wrapped in a believable narrative, the focus is on the boy's day-to-day life and their reactions and maturing in facing the challenges of civilians in wartime. The author created one boy as the sailing son of the coastal manor house, his new friend a London evacuee. What could have been a cliché on the level of Lady and the Tramp is neatly avoided, and while both boys are more idealistically-driven than any I've encountered, they are both rounded, credible and very human characters, as are those around them. Only the fathers are stock characters, mostly absent.

It is only in Chapter 12 that they arrive at Dunkirk, three-quarters of the way through the book.

Now they were moving in southwards, and that great cloud of black smoke a few miles to the right must mask the town and port of Dunkirk.

The sun was shining. The whole scene looked like one of those great paintings of sea-battles, with modern ships instead of galleons. All around them, up and down the coast as far as they could see, there we're ships of all sizes. Big naval ships painted silver-grey were standing off-shore, and among them a motley collection of cargo and passenger ships. Beyond them was a stretch of patchy water, blue and indigo, and green in the warm light. And across these wide shallows hundreds of little ships were swarming. There were wrecks too; small boats capsized and drifting, and larger ones grounded…

Prior to that is all build-up; including two passages on the nature of courage. The first shows both how far from a Boy's Own version this is and that it had to be written by a sensitive, in this case, female, author, who had been a child herself in wartime Britain. John, at home, hears a radio report, and realises that 'our' front has collapsed, and that the Germans are winning.

John sat still. Fear, he remembered, from a lesson in biology in school, is a protective mechanism. Some chemical is pumped into the bloodstream, and it makes you feel like this, and produces the necessary action - usually flight. In the case of a chameleon, change of colour to match the surroundings; in the case of a hedgehog, rolling into a bail; in the case of soldiers, fighting back; in the case of young boys and women sitting at home in a country at war, no action is appropriate. But the chemical in the bloodstream, which does not understand this, continues to produce a feeling of acute discomfort, till action is taken.

He was trembling. When he noticed it he felt a wave of contempt. He set himself to stop, and in a few moments was still, and rigid in his chair. Then he determinedly ate another mouthful of bread and marmalade. He would be in the navy one day, able to fight back, he reminded himself. Then he stopped over the thought. He and Pat would be able to fight; his mother and Mrs Riley would always be in this horrible sitting-and-waiting trap. For women fear was always a thing to be suffered, never a thing to act upon. He was awed. It occurred to him for the first time that his mother was as brave as his father.

I marked this passage for mention in the review before, intriguingly, arriving at another on the same topic. I'd carried this concept with me to this day since reading it here; it was startling to realise where I'd taken (what I still regard as an excellent concept) from.

Of course, Pat was being very plucky about it ... but there was far worse to come. John's father had told him once, talking about Crossman, that courage wasn't something you always had lots of, or always had none of; courage was like water in a bucket - you had a certain amount, and it got used up. The bravest man on earth could run out of it, if things went on too long, Daddy said, and it could take years to get the bucket filled up again.

It may be important to note that this isn't a moralising tale, despite perhaps the impression given by the extracts above. It can be best summarised as a fictional sketch of the reality of Dunkirk. It is solidly anchored in the facts of those days and that battle; one of the key ships the boys work with is HMS Wakeful, and her real history is crucial to the story -- and the theme about the futility and waste of war. Other than the youth of the protagonists, there's nothing to say it's a book only for children.

HMS Wakeful. Via Wikipedia

It is, I think, ironic that the edition the library got has a 'Goldfields' stamp (for the local Victoria, Australian library network) on the front; in so many ways the story seems as far from where this normally sits as fantasy fiction does from our reality. Equally far flung is this, a much more academic review of The Dolphin Crossing [warning plot spoilers] hosted on an Australian university website for an academic based in Western Canada -- and all about a British story set off the coast of France.

But as was noted recently in History Today magazine, children (and adults) need to encounter experience far removed from their own; that 'relevant' is a negation of the diversity of experience we need; and that fiction, and history (as here) can enable better understanding, mental tools and, yes, empathy and humanity. It may have taken about 30 years to complete, but that was a re-reading which was worthwhile and a review well worth doing.

James

Affecting an Effect

It's good to be an editor, most of the time, but there are some areas...

Credit to the literate and open xkcd webcomic of Randall Munroe, details here.

Footwear economics in fantastic fiction

So, you might think that footwear as economic theory would be unlikely to crop up once, let alone twice in fantasy fiction. But that's the case. The more recent version I'm aware of is over on the Discworld - the Samual 'Boots' Vimes theory of economic unfairness. From the book Men at Arms, by Terry Pratchett:

The reason that the rich were so rich, Vimes reasoned, was because they managed to spend less money.

Take boots, for example. He earned thirty-eight dollars a month plus allowances. A really good pair of leather boots cost fifty dollars. But an affordable pair of boots, which were sort of OK for a season or two and then leaked like hell when the cardboard gave out, cost about ten dollars. Those were the kind of boots Vimes always bought, and wore until the soles were so thin that he could tell where he was in Ankh-Morpork on a foggy night by the feel of the cobbles.

But the thing was that good boots lasted for years and years. A man who could afford fifty dollars had a pair of boots that’d still be keeping his feet dry in ten years' time, while a poor man who could only afford cheap boots would have spent a hundred dollars on boots in the same time and would still have wet feet.

This was the Captain Samuel Vimes 'Boots' theory of socio-economic unfairness.

And Pratchett then goes on (in later books) to use Vimes' thin soled cheap boots as a recurring plot device, which is a direction we are not going in.

Unless a reader knows otherwise, there's one other example of science fiction footwear economics, which, once examined, seems to lead off in all directions. Before Pratchett came Douglas Adams with his 'Shoe Event Horizon'.

[But first a digression. Now the primary problem with Adams work is what is the definitive text of the Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy, given its reverse development and reconstructions from radio to book to TV to film. So there's multiple 'authoritative' versions.]

This is the text from the Hitch Hiker's book, The Restaurant at the end of the Universe where (in chapter 10) one of the characters has the abandoned planet he's on explained to him:

'Many years ago this was a thriving, happy planet - people, cities, shops, a normal world. Except that on the high streets of these cities there were slightly more shoe shops than one might have thought necessary. And slowly, insidiously, the numbers of these shoe shops were increasing. It's a well known economic phenomenon but tragic to see it in operation, for the more shoe shops there were, the more shoes they had to make and the worse and more unwearable they became. And the worse they were to wear, the more people had to buy to keep themselves shod, and the more the shops proliferated, until the whole economy of the place passed what I believe is termed the Shoe Event Horizon, and it became no longer economically possible to build anything other than shoe shops. Result - collapse, ruin and famine. Most of the population died out. Those few who had the right kind of genetic instability mutated into birds - you've seen one of them – who cursed their feet, cursed the ground, and vowed that none should walk on it again. Unhappy lot.'

For those who want more, there's the longer, more detailed version from the (original-original) radio series, transcribed here.

All that seems a bit, well, science fiction, doesn't it? Don't worry, that nice Berlusconi chap in Italy brings it back to a kind of 'reality' (as much as Italian politics is ever 'real'). From the 'In the Dark' blog, the blogger finishes a post on current economic and academic crises:

Looking around for a bit of good news, I could only manage this. If you’re worried about the future of UK universities and scientific research then consider how lucky you are that you’re not Italian. Owing to budget cuts imposed by the Berlusconi regime, several Italian institutions will no longer be able to pay scientists’ wages. Responding to this situation the Italian premier replied with all his usual tact and intelligence:

"Why do we need to pay scientists when we make the best shoes in the world?"

It's not just Berlusconi's looks that are superficial and bizarre.

Of course like much of Adams' writing it had a solid anchor in his experience. According to this website, Adams:

...had gone to London's Oxford Street where, quoting him, "You can't throw a brick without breaking a shoe shop window". Despite every shop stocking thousands of shoes, none had a pair which was the right size, price, or colour, or which was comfortable, durable or stylish without being outrageous.

Working off his frustration, Adams invented the planet Brontitall, whose civilization had collapsed into the Shoe Event Horizon. Not content with one poke at the industry, Adams also invented the predatory Dolmansaxlil Shoe Corporation, whose name is created by taking syllables from the names of well-known London shoe stores: "Dolcis"; "Freeman, Hardy and Willis"; "Saxone"; and "Lilley and Skinner".

All these stores were owned at the time by the British Shoe Corporation which dominated the UK footwear market and was the largest footwear retail company in the world.

For those that remember Oxford Street and those brands, suddenly Adams idea doesn't sound quite so far fetched - or funny - after all. For those not paying attention to this shoe-shop economics (most of us) they went through a convoluted economic disaster and collapsed - although not triggering the global financial crisis (as far as I've been able to establish. So far).

Extra: meanwhile, reality does seem to be trying to catch up, with this article in the New York Times picked up by Fledgling Otaku, who provided the earlier transcription of the Hitch Hiker's radio version. In America:

For months now, consumers have been hunkering down in an economic storm, buying only what they need to survive, like groceries, diapers, medicine — and shoes.

Shoes?

The American public, it would seem, cannot carry on without new shoes. Boots, booties, sneakers, pumps — for the last few months they have all been selling well as the broader economy struggles toward recovery.

… Among the more curious explanations proffered for the relative strength of shoe sales is that women — who make up the lion’s share of the American shoe market — get an emotional lift from shoe shopping in a way they do not when trying on jeans and cocktail dresses.

What a bizarre journey. I'd just thought it an interesting coincidence in writing tropes, unlikely to be or become a core theme (unlike the intergalactic credit, or 'little did he know') yet it turns out that there's a lot more to it than we thought.

James

Images extracted from the photo of a shoe sale sign, Melbourne, 30 July 2010. 'End of Civilisation' Sale?

Drunken Grocer's Apostrophe

A fine example of the Grocers apostrophe, but this time for drinkers. (For the non-Australians, a 'pot' is a beer glass measure. The full range of Australian beer drink measure glasses is remarkably confusing, as seen here.)

Under 'Misuse' the Wiki page on the apostrophe has the following:

A 2004 report by OCR, a British examination board, stated that "the inaccurate use of the apostrophe is so widespread as to be almost universal". A 2008 survey found that nearly half of the UK adults polled were unable to use the apostrophe correctly.

Some have argued that its use in mass communication by employees of well-known companies has led to the less grammatically able assuming it to be correct and adopting the habit themselves.

Certainly it's like shooting fis'h in a barrel to find thes'e nowaday's.

More details here.

James

Writer at Tiffany's

From the film Breakfast at Tiffany's, this dialogue may hit note with any writers out there.

It is 1961. Escaping from an unwanted date, Holly invades Paul's room through his window, while he is lying in bed and starts poking around his things, and starts questioning him. She asks:

WHAT DO YOU DO, ANYWAY?

I'M A WRITER, I GUESS.

YOU GUESS? DON'T YOU KNOW?

O.K., POSITIVE STATEMENT. RINGING AFFIRMATIVE. I'M A WRITER.

THE ONLY WRITER I'VE EVER BEEN OUT WITH IS BENNY SHACKLETT. HE'S WRITTEN AN AWFUL LOT OF TELEVISION STUFF, BUT QUEL RAT. TELL ME, ARE YOU A REAL WRITER? I MEAN, DOES ANYBODY BUY WHAT YOU WRITE OR PUBLISH IT OR ANYTHING?

THEY BOUGHT WHAT'S IN THAT BOX.

YOURS?

MM-HMM.

ALL THESE BOOKS?

THERE'S JUST THE ONE BOOK, 12 COPIES OF IT.

"NINE LIVES, BY PAUL VARJAK."

THEY'RE STORIES.

MM-HMM. NINE OF THEM.

TELL ME ONE.

THEY'RE NOT THE KIND OF STORIES YOU CAN REALLY TELL.

TOO DIRTY?

YEAH, I...SUPPOSE THEY'RE DIRTY, TOO, BUT ONLY INCIDENTALLY. MAINLY THEY'RE ANGRY, SENSITIVE... INTENSELY FELT, AND THAT DIRTIEST OF ALL DIRTY WORDS - PROMISING. SO SAID THE TIMES BOOK REVIEW, OCTOBER 1, 1956.

1956?

THAT'S RIGHT.

THIS IS KIND OF A RATTY QUESTION, BUT WHAT HAVE YOU WRITTEN LATELY?

LATELY, I'VE BEEN WORKING ON A NOVEL.

LATELY, SINCE 1956?

A NOVEL TAKES A LONG TIME. I WANT IT EXACTLY RIGHT.

SO, NO MORE STORIES.

WELL, THE IDEA IS I'M SUPPOSED TO NOT FRITTER MY TALENT ON LITTLE THINGS. I'M SUPPOSED TO BE SAVING IT FOR THE BIG ONE.

DO YOU WRITE EVERY DAY?

SURE.

TODAY?

SURE.

IT'S A BEAUTIFUL TYPEWRITER.

OF COURSE.

IT WRITES NOTHING BUT SENSITIVE, INTENSELY FELT, PROMISING PROSE.

THERE'S NO RIBBON IN IT.

THERE ISN'T?

NO.

OH.

Credits: Script here, Image from here.

Why Write? Money?

This from the New York Times Paper Cuts:

Writing Stiffs

By JENNIFER SCHUESSLER

A 2008 study of the creative economy from the National Endowment for the Arts reported that full-time “writers and authors” earned a median annual salary of more than $50,000.

That may not make you feel rich in Manhattan (or even South Dakota, which scribblers are apparently abandoning in droves), but a nifty chart put together by Lapham’s Quarterly suggests that some of our great writers didn’t do any better in their day jobs.

According to the chart, Charlotte Bronte somehow survived on $1,838 a year, adjusted for inflation, working as a Yorkshire governess. (Room and board were included, but laundry was not.) William Faulkner made about $18,000 as a postmaster, though the job apparently allowed plenty of time for mah-jongg and poetry.

Tempted to bail on the creative life and go to law school? Think again: Kafka brought down only about $40,000 a year doing legal work in a Prague insurance agency, though he did get to ponder such subjects as “Measures for Preventing Accidents From Wood-Planing Machines.”

(Do today’s novelists pay enough attention to the workplace? More on that question here.)

Worth a look at the comments after the original post, too. I liked 'the art tells you what to eat.' observation. Brings a while new meaning for 'not hungry enough for success'.

James

Read any good books lately?

When I thought of this blog, I thought that there'd be no problem coming up with numerous books we'd read that we wanted to comment on here, hopefully for feedback. Sometimes they might be bad ("Avoid this one.") but what's been interesting is that there's been several books I've read or part read recently which have proven so ~ average ~ that I don't even want to acknowledge their existence.

Odd.

The image above comes from a blog post in the Walrus, which takes a look at the volume and nature of the mass out there. It takes a lot to want to destroy a book. (I've only ever thrown away a couple - Clive Custler having a work of tripe claiming to be one that went in the bin as I decided it needed to be removed from circulation...)

James