Appeared in Viewpoint 8 (4)
Summer 2000
Robyn Sheahan-Bright
Dubosarsky’s ‘voice’ is like no one else’s. Most writers would like
to think that you could say that about their body of work, but there
are only a few writers whose novels are characterised by Dubosarsky’s
distinctiveness. First, she writes with extraordinary clarity and simplicity.
Her books are timeless in this regard and ageless in their appeal. Most
read as if they are fables or allegories. Take the beginning of The
Game of the Goose (Penguin, 2000 0670894389 $17.95pb) for example,
There were three children: Fred, Rowley and Rabbit. Fred was a girl,
Rowley was a boy, and Rabbit was small. Rabbit was a boy too, but because
he was only six, sometimes the others forgot. Via the subtleties
conveyed in a very few words, you are presented with a world of possibilities.
And you are soon made further aware of those possibilities, when it
is revealed that the children are not only neighbours, but have one
important thing in common.
They are ‘only’ children. And in the space of one perfectly crafted
first chapter we are presented with an enticing scenario: three lonely
children are suddenly thrown together when their parents decide to demolish
the old fence between their houses and build a new one. In the meantime,
the ‘invisible line’ between properties is briefly maintained then crossed
by the delighted children, and ‘the biggest backyard in the world’ is
born. It’s become a space ripe for adventures, and these three children
sense that they are destined to share some exciting times.
Secondly, Dubosarsky draws her reader into a secret world governed
by rules only she could dream up. When the children decide to form a
‘club’ and to use Rowley’s mud-brick cubby as headquarters, they decide
on a secret name, and not even the reader is privy to the password.
Then they find ‘The Game of the Goose’ in a Salvation Army shop, and
its potential is immediately discernible, though why it’s so important
to own it, is not immediately obvious. The board game eventually leads
them into a complicated adventure in which they are each ‘tested’, and
during which they each grapple with those two universal issues – hope
and salvation.
Thirdly, she is a master of characterisation – the people she imagines
are breathtaking in their immediate veracity, quirky mundanity and irresistible
appeal. As soon as they appear, you are drawn into their concerns, adopt
their vision, despair of, but love their winsomeness. Rabbit is an obsessive
six-year-old, He cleans his teeth all the time, even in his sleep.
Rowley, the ‘funster’, hates school with a passion. For Fred, boredom
was the worst thing in the world. And they’re all very determined;
having had no brothers or sisters, they’re used (ominously) to getting
their own way.
At the heart of all the ‘surreal’ exposition at which she is so adept,
is always the fact that Dubosarsky loves to empathise with children.
She gives us their angst and their fearlessness; their poignant attempts
to understand the frailties of adults who act in ways which are impenetrable
to them. Why do their parents want a fence at all? is what Fred,
Rowley and Rabbit ask themselves. What is a fence for? Rabbit is terrified
when Fred’s mother comes out of the house wielding a chopping knife.
Who knows what she’s capable of? Isn’t she the woman who forced him
to eat mashed potato, on that night long ago, when he stayed the night
with Fred’s family? Dubosarsky deftly summons up almost unbearable empathy
for the painful moments in a child’s life, Rabbit watched him without
moving. His little mild face was so angry, so tragic, Rowley couldn’t
look at him.
This book is different, though, to her earlier works, in one respect,
in that usually the ‘magic’ lies in the every day; in the sort of celebration
of ‘the extraordinary in the ordinary’ which has been so well defined
by that other masterful writer, Margaret Mahy. Here, though, we seem
to encounter ‘real’ magic (or have the children simply ‘willed’ these
adventures on themselves, via the force of their imaginations?). Whatever
the source, this ‘magic’ is as entrancing as the ‘ordinary magics’ of
earlier tales, by this classically gifted writer.
In essence, you know when you’ve breathed the air Ursula Dubosarsky’s
books exude that she is a person who could not have been anything but
a writer. She’s an absolute natural. Is this a book for teenagers? Who
cares? None of her books are classifiable. They’are enigmatic and original
and boundaries definitely don’t suit them. This one is charmingly presented
with line drawings, chapter headers and cover art by John Winch, and
these illustrations are delicate interpretations of the action. It’s
another treasure for the bookshelf where you store those works reserved
for times when only a work of humane and ‘satisfying’ magic will do.
Robyn Sheahan-Bright is a Queensland reviewer.
This article appears with kind permission from the author Robyn
Sheahan-Bright, and from the team at Viewpoint: on Books for Children
and Young Adults. You can visit Viewpoint at http://go.to/viewpoint