She boobled down to the dirreny sonce
Alone, unarmed, her tickery jonced.
“What me? What my? What cooliers lie here?”
She whinnied furverly in the ghoulian ear.

And up he rose like a miney bront,
Waving his tammons in a sleery flont,
“Don’t wake me, don’t shake me,” the ghoulian gristled,
And piped his phantoms across the spistles.

A ploon bellowed out over the sheel
And she ran as fast as her miggens could reel,
“No more dirrenies,” she whispered aloud
And sluped back down to sleep on her mound.

The above is Sarah Crossan’s take on Lewis Carroll’s nonsense-but-makes-total-sense versifying in ‘The Jabberwocky’, as composed by her mouthpiece in her novel, ‘Apple and Rain’. Her eponymous heroine (Apple) constructs this verse to entertain step-sister Rain, but excels at non-jibberish poetry as well, a fact she keeps very much to herself.

It’s a very fine novel, short-listed for this year’s Carnegie Medal. Some critics have likened its writer to UK YA legend, Jacqueline Wilson – and it is easy to see the similarity. In itself this is high praise. Ultimately Ms Crossan missed out to Tanya Landman’s ‘Buffalo Soldiers’ for the gong. Another title by Sarah C, ‘The Weight of Water’, had similarly been previously listed.

‘Apple and Rain’ deals with a splintered family trying to bring itself together, only to create new fractures. Apple is a sensitive soul – delighted, on one hand, to have her mum back after a long period of estrangement, but devastated to lose her one true school friend to the ‘in-crowd’, led by a particularly bitchy piece of work. Rain is the strange little sister our Apple never knew she had until her mother returned skint and deflated from chasing the rainbow on the other side of the Atlantic. We can forgive Apple, in her excitement at her parent’s reappearance, for treading all over the feelings of her nan who has largely, as well as strictly, raised her. The freedom under her mother’s control is at first heady, but she soon realises it comes at a cost.

Apple’s hoped for romantic entanglement with a much older boy doesn’t, to her embarrassment, eventuate, but she finds a much more worthy and age-appropriate soul mate soon after. This latter lad is a delightful creation by Crossan, one of the best features of the work. In the end both young gentlemen come through with flying colours, helping to put Apple’s world to rights.

When asked, in a recent interview, what prompted this particular narrative the author explained, ‘I wanted to write a book about just how important grandparents are but wanted to look at what would prompt a parent to leave a child. I have a child myself and I can’t imagine abandoning her ever, but people do this all the time. Why and how? These are the questions I wanted to explore.’

Although the answer to those queries are complex, the novel is anything but. It’s not a taxing read and nor does it wallow in sentimentality. Apple eventually finds she is no powder puff and with some help, finds the feistiness to snub her nose at her detractors. Unfortunately the device she uses to conspire this to happen is somewhat hackneyed – I was hoping for a less ‘Home and Away’ and more originality.

That being said, this is still a marvellously engrossing tale being told. I particularly enjoyed the character of Apple’s English teacher – a kind soul addicted to poetry, trying to inspire his students with the Brit greats. He’s on Apple’s wavelength and appreciates her own fine attempts at poetsmithing, once he unearths them. He is attuned and caring enough to step in when his talented pupil is about to sink.

Time flew as I powered through the pages of ‘Apple and Rain’, so it is with interest I await the arrival of SC’s new offering. She has set herself an impressive challenge with the subject matter – conjoined twins. I’m sure she’ll be up to it.

Sarah Crossan’s website = http://www.sarahcrossan.com/

Mitsuko was from Hagi, Japan. Her father was a potter, the last of thirteen generations excelling in producing the pots his town was nationally noted for. His daughter, instead, became a Lolita Girl. By sixteen she had moved to Tokyo, rebelled against an overly strict guardian aunt and joined street sub-culture. Young ladies, in her chosen group, dressed in the presumed style of Nabokov’s main claim to fame, although Ms M had no idea that her chosen icon had any origin other than Japanese. Even within this genre their were sub-sects. Mitsuko chose to be a goth Lolita.

Mitsuko also became a rental-sister. It is a real job – a much needed one. Just Google it if you are in disbelief. Their calling is to work with hikikomori – young people, usually male, who lock themselves for years sometimes in their rooms, obviously causing great concern for their families. Girls such as Mitsuko are hired to coax them out. They offer nothing of a sexual nature, but trust that the procedures they employ will arose so much curiosity the lads will emerge blinking into daylight. It is largely a nocturnal profession as this is when the young recluses are active in their digital worlds. Such a hikikomori was Yukio. Mitsko charmed him out – but then the relationship became much more and the two fell in love. By this time, to her surprise, she had discovered the true origin of the notion of Lolita and soon she and her partner became devotees of the Russian master. Before he became a resident of the US, the author lived in Berlin for a short period and the Japanese pair travelled to the snow-blitzed German capital to check out the landmarks of the writer’s time there. Whilst visiting one of these they were cajoled into joining a small group who met regularly to share their impressions of the various works by the great man. These gatherings form the basis for Gail Jones’ evocative novel, ‘A Guide to Berlin’, taking its title from a Nabokovian short story.

Cass, an Australian, Victor (American), as well as an Italian pair, Marco and Gino, make up the remainder of the group. Initially they spend time pontificating on the author’s oeuvre, but eventually they branch into their own tales, courtesy of their ‘memory speak’, a play of words on the name of the author’s autobiography. These are a particularly compelling mechanism to set us up for a love affair within the group, some jealousy over that – and ultimately a tragedy that tears the group asunder.

Jones’ wrote the novel during her own visit to a Berlin quaking under the weight of one of the cruellest winters in memory. Her own little flat, over looking a cemetery – see cover photo – is also Cass’ base for her stay. The abode where Nabokov lived during his Weimar years was close by.

My first encounter with the sixty year old novelist was ‘Five Bells’. It could almost be a companion piece to ‘AGTB’. As the title of that book may indicate, it was set in Sydney, but followed the same template – that of relating the stories of a quintet who link up in a random manner. In this case, instead of all being followers of a particular literary giant, they all happened to be in the environs of Circular Quay on a particular day. In this Jones’ newbie, it’s a sextet. This relates to the symbolism scattered throughout – the six pointed Star of David, the shape of snowflakes – as well as being the author’s sixth offering.

Gail J, as with Nabokov, is a sublime wordsmith. I’ll be honest – I tried to read ‘Lolita’ once apon a time and had to give it away. But through Jones’ book his love of wonderful, largely redundant, words shone through. Here’s a few examples to try on for size: leminscate – the shape of infinity; conchometrist – one who measures the curves of seashells; drisk – a particularly European type of drizzle; ophryon – the third eye, site of headaches, migraines and epilepsy; – ensellure (the one I particularly like) – the concave depression formed in the lower back.

Interestingly, in reading some of the background to the book in the media, it was pointed out that there are far more courses in Australian literature available in Germany than here in Oz – one university even specialising on Gail Jones herself.

The telling of the this tale by the Australian is coolish, almost reserved in tone as befits the numbing chill of the darkest season in Mittel Europe. She almost holds her characters at arm’s length, making the reader feel little warmth for them. As this is a deliberate device, methinks, the novel loses nothing for that approach. Her prose is skilfully composed and that is the attraction. Her clever eloquence ensures that reading ‘A Guide to Berlin’ is never less than fascinating. And I suspect, as with ‘Five Bells’, it will linger in one’s mind eye longer than many a warmer tome.

‘It was wrapped in brown paper and tied up with string. I had no idea what was inside, but I had to promise not to open it till she died.’

And he kept his promise, did journalist and later gallery owner, Joseph Mulholland. Until he opened that gift to him he had no idea who she had been. She never spoke of it during their friendship. At the time she passed over the present to him Joe’s daughter was battling leukaemia so he had much on his mind as he stashed the parcel away in the back of a linen cupboard. It was later, in 1969, when his neighbour did finally succumb to mother time, that Joe, who in the meantime had been invited to be executor of her will, remembered his vow from years before. What he found when he retrieved that package eventually bought Margaret Watkins back from obscurity – so much so that in 2013 Canada Post commemorated her on a stamp issue.

He thought he knew her back story pretty well. Margaret and Joe had become firm friends and on many occasions, over the years, had talked long into the night about their lives – but she never let on. To him she was the sweet elderly lady who shared the street with him. Nothing in her tales prepared him for what was revealed the day of the opening of her gift to him; her gift to two nations. Inside were thousands of photographs and negatives – a treasure trove of memories, a treasure trove of art. Joe Mulholland is now in his seventies and is Margaret Watkins’ champion; the keeper of her flame. Thanks to his efforts to bring her in from the chill of obscurity Watkins is now recognised as being ‘…a highly distinguished and important figure…’ in the story of photography. It is significant that two countries, Canada and Scotland, claim her as their own as galleries line up to display her oeuvre – an oeuvre partially contained in that package.

Watkins was born in Hamilton, Ontario in 1884. In 1913 she moved to Boston, gaining employment at a photographic studio. From that point on the art became her life – until circumstances took a more notable future in it away from her. But even after she ceased snapping, later events showed it was never far from her mind. She took photography seriously from the start, enrolling in Clarence H White’s Maine Summer School. White was a notable practitioner and not adverse to having relations with his students as well. That may or may not have been the case with Margaret, but he quickly caught on that she had the chops to make a name for herself and became her mentor. This led to one of her career setbacks. He willed her his artistic legacy, but was challenged in court by his widow. Bizarrely it was found that Margaret was entitled to his photographic images but she was ordered to sell them to the spouse for a fraction of their worth.

By 1920 Watkins was the editor of a leading journal as photography became increasingly well regarded as an art. She was also freelancing for advertising agencies. She taught her skills as well, passing on her knowledge to others who, like her, could see photography as their calling.

But then family called and she felt obliged to leave all she had achieved behind her and start anew across the Atlantic. Four aged aunts were in dire need of a carer and Margaret felt obligated. For a time she could continue on, establishing herself in Glasgow and taking on commissions that saw her travel around Britain and across the Channel. As the aunts became even more frail, though, she was forced to restrict herself to snapping industrial Glaswegian landscapes and the city’s denizens.

After Joe opened his package he wondered if more lay in her large residence opposite. It did – an incredible cache was found, much of it now housed in Mulholland’s own shop-front for her talent – Glasgow’s Hidden Lane Gallery. He found advertising images, her work in social commentary and luminously lit nudes. He also unearthed an image of her as a young lady and found it difficult to reconcile this ‘…imperious…’ self portrait with ‘…her dark hair tied in a chignon, looking down her nose, regally, at the camera.’ with the old dear of his friendship.

The images he uncovered proved that Margaret W was a most versatile practitioner. Her early still lifes, such as the one featured on the Canadian stamp in her honour, ‘The Kitchen Sink’ (1919), caused some controversy amongst critics. Most, though, were of the opinion that, what she produced with these, were ‘…composed like a painter and tended to see ordinary things as very beautiful.’ There were also her portraits of the celebrities of the day taken in her Greenwich Village studio, including that of great composer Rachmaninoff. After being removed from the New York scene she was more limited in what she could produce. Now it tended to be more the everyday recording of what she discerned around her. Eventually her nursing duties made even this difficult and she more or less gave the game away, disappearing from view until her recent rediscovery. But her moment had really passed the day she left the US.

Outwardly, according to Joe, she remained chipper till the end. He did find evidence in her abode that all was not as it seemed. There was a scribbled note that gave an insight to the real condition of her mind, to the effect that she ‘…was living in a state of curdled despair…I’m doing the utmost to cope with a well-nigh hopeless situation.’ He also found she had packed her bags to return to the scene of her days of photographic pomp – to return to New York.

Anne Quirk is Margaret Watkins. The sublime novel, ‘The Illuminations’, has bought Watkins’ story back and to a wider audience in the guise of a fictional protagonist. Anne has dementia. Her memories of the past are fragmentary. She is struggling to remain semi-independent – not in a fine house next door to Joe M, but in supported accommodation. Here there is also a neighbour who takes her in hand, helping her through the day so she can cope. Maureen has had her troubles too, but she has commenced to piece together Anne’s back-story. Anne’s aggrieved daughter Alice fills in some gaps too, but it is with conflict-damaged soldier Luke, her grandson, that she shares her greatest bond. Through Luke, author Andrew O’Hagan presents all the ugliness of our current Middle East involvements. Luke has returned from Afghanistan battered and bruised mentally. He takes to the Mulholland task, once he discovers a similar trove of photographic images, to bring Anne back in from the cold. So it is potentially win-win. Anne’s legacy gives him something to focus on, he gives her one final escape from the fog that is enveloping her mind.

And then there’s Harry, her mysterious lover from the post war years who encouraged her with her artistic pursuit. When it really counted, though, he left her in the lurch. A terrible tragedy followed that caused Anne to lose much of her will for a while. In her memory Blackpool, where her liaisons with the married beau occurred, was the place where she was happiest. So, at the end, that’s where Luke takes her. In doing so the remainder of her story is unravelled. Even the Beatles get a cameo. The pair arrive in time for the famous illuminations that light up the resort each year. By now the reader realises that the future of both these characters is on the up and up, even if poor Anne no longer has the wherewithal to fully realise that. This is helped immensely by a letter from a Canadian gallery, one that had cottoned on to her historical worth as well.

Through Anne Quirk, Andrew O’Hagan, together with good neighbour Joseph Mulholland, have seen to it that a champion of early women photographers has re-emerged and taken her rightful place. As for the novel itself, it is a fine and worthy book. By the end it is, as well, a compelling read. It was long listed for the Man Booker, but sadly didn’t make the final cut. Pity that. O’Hagan’s ultimately very moving and positive tome is thoroughly recommended by this reader.

Who you gunna turn to if you need a good belly-laugh from a book??? Well, Mr McInnes is as capable as anyone writing in Oz today to entice great guffaws from me and his latest did not let me down.

It is an art-form, is writing comedic prose. It’s been a while since I’ve emitted even chuckles from my book-reading. Probably the last to induce such-like was Nick Earls’ glorious publication from last year, ‘Analogue Man’. Earls writes fiction. So does McInnes – and he does okay at that too, but it’s his volumes of memoirs that really do the trick for me. ‘A Man’s Got to Have a Hobby’ was such a complete joy. I laughed so much it bought tears to the eyes. Tears featured as well with ‘Worst Things Happen at Sea’ – but for a very different reason. It was co-written with his now deceased wife, Sarah Watt – and for the delight in question the author delves into his past again. Tears came for both happy and sad reasons in ‘Holidays’.

In this recalling of the past he again displays what a memory he has – I wonder if he kept a diary. For the life of me I can only remember childhood incidents in broad stokes. He brings them to us in fine detail. Most of the gut-clenching humour came in the first half – it tendered to peter out as he started to become a tad more deep and meaningful – but this is not to say the final chapters were lesser for that. They just spoke more of the human condition. And the ending – the final stanza, was, well, just heart-wrenchingly beautiful.

The man can write and it helps that you can picture him in the scenarios he weaved as the central figure. He’s graced our screens for a few decades now, first coming to my attention in the never-to- be-forgotten marvel that was ‘SeaChange’.

The book opens on Brisbane’s Redcliffe Peninsula, setting of William’s childhood and his scallywag adventures. His yarn about the Kosy Korner Karavan Park was priceless, a rib-tickler of the first order. For our young hero the Peter Stuyvesant fag ads on tele in those days were the height of sophistication. The only place he could imagine in his world as a possible location for such-like to be made in Brissy would be said Kosy Korner. It would surely be where the international jet-setters would go to smoke and drink martinis, served to them by the pool by stunningly sexy women in bikinis. Or so he thought till he actually braved the grounds of the place.

Another adventure of his youth – this time of an amorous nature, when he was obviously much older, involved being naked and draped in beauty contest sashes. His love interest led him to meet a certain Mr Tait, the travel agent who never travelled. Why would he? He had visited the opening of Wrest Point Casino down in Hobart and saw Jerry Lewis perform. No holiday could surely top that so why waste money. His life ambition now was to sell some punter a Scandinavian vacation. I wonder, as does McInnes, whether he actually succeeded.

It seems the television star has a soft spot for Hobs. ‘Hobart is a beautiful city, perhaps the prettiest of Australian capitals, with marvellous restaurants and glorious landscapes.’ Of course these days the jewel in the crown of the city’s gems is MONA. One day, at a loose end in our burb, he sought advice at reception. ‘The bloke behind the desk brushed one side of his porn-star moustache with his forefinger and then said, ‘Go to the museum mate. The museum’s a good place.’ And so it turned out, although he was bemused at the number of kiddies that were on the loose in a place supposedly just for grown-ups. He reported the place was, in his estimation, most impressive. ‘The eclectic scale and verve of the collection is stupefying, moving and glorious.’

Being such a public figure, our author on vacation is recognised by many – but sometimes the punters get it confused. At various times they thought they had been greeting him as bonkers former Labor leader Mark Latham, sex-god Colin Firth, ‘Wait There’s More’ Demtel Man (Tim Shaw) and even, not Jeff Kennett, but his brother!!! The one that was much to his horror was being mistaken for execrable Sam Newman of ‘Footy Show’ infamy.

So many glorious stories William McI tells in this tome. There’s the bush pilot, on being informed that stormy weather lay ahead in the flight, offered to play Patsy Cline, Buddy Holly and the Big Bopper for the already nervous author. Then there is the perennial problem of what to give up for Lent. One year he decided it should be his propensity for swearing. To get around the difficulties that involved he decided to insert a more suitable word instead. For some reason he hit on yallop – the surname of a former test cricket captain – but of course he spun this yarn out too to make it hilarious.

It’s a bonza book this. McInnes gets my recommendation for a guernsey in our National Living Treasures list and I’ll be yalloped if you’ll find a funnier read this year. It’s full of all that’s wonderful about our great, taking the yallop, national sense of humour.

‘A seven year old and his grandmother allegedly murdered by an uncle in Western Sydney – my home town. A mother allegedly belted to death by her enraged husband on the Gold Coast. A woman shot dead at a McDonalds nearby. This is not the Australian way. There is a huge problem lurking behind the front doors of Australia and its name is domestic violence. To me there is simply no excuse, no reason to ever hurt a woman. For someone to hurt a woman is a thought process I can’t comprehend.’ Michael Clarke, September, 2015.

So the recently retired test captain wrote for the press after returning from a post-Ashes holiday with his wife Kyly. He’s only one of a number of prominent Aussie blokes ‘manning-up’ to make their revulsion clear. Our Australian of the Year, the remarkable Rosie Batty, has become the face of this one of the scourges of the nation, along with obesity and the so-called ice epidemic. The latter two are newish and seemingly intractable issues needing to be confronted. Domestic violence has always existed and maybe always at this present day level – but that doesn’t mean it is in any way acceptable. That it’s being dragged out into the light and into our collective consciousness can only be beneficial – a start.

And domestic violence features prominently in Maureen McCarthy’s new offering ‘Stay With Me’. It is quite a read; quite a journey the author takes her many, many fans on with this.

Tess, emanating from a not entirely functional family situation herself, leaves Melbourne for a schoolies-type break up in Byron. There she encounters a much older man in Jay – he’s not a toolie as such, but is a local with similar intent. And he focuses on young Tess. He is quite unsavoury. We can pick it but she is too naive to know – despite her new found friends on the far north coast trying to warn her off him. With his car, a ready supply of dollars and attentive charm she is quite smitten and decides her future is with this fellow. Big mistake. In the blink of an eye she is trapped and realises too late his true controlling colours. A child, Nellie, comes along. Far from improving matters, Jay’s behaviour becomes more drug addled and violent – not only towards her, but the little one as well. Jay’s whole family is dodgy, but for a while his mother provides the only none-to-sympathetic refuge. However, a chance meeting provides the most unlikely of ways out, thus commencing a road trip back to family and a possible escape from the horrors of life with a truly horrible man. But can she really hide from her vicious partner with distance? Or will this new male, who takes her under her wing, cause more problems than he solves?. Can she trust any male?

Harry, who has the makings of her saviour, is somewhat battered too in ways – but eventually delivers her to the succour of the remains of her family. Now, finally, is she safe, particularly as Jay’s past has caught up with him? Even though she knows he’s under lock and key, his threat still casts an unnerving shadow over the remainder of the tale. The reader is fully aware that how it all pans out may not be pretty. We expect the odious fellow to reappear at any tick of the clock. In this case, fiction is little different to reality.

‘Stay With Me’ is compulsive reading. Previously McCarthy has gifted the nation the irrepressible young women of ‘Queen Kat, Carmel and St Jude Get a Life’, but as a character Tess wins our hearts as much. If the prose is a little over-cooked initially, once the novel is in its stride this scribe was reluctant to put it down. McCarthy has been a tad uneven in her offerings of late – but here she is at her out and out best. I defy any reader not to be riveted, willing Tess on as she, Harry and Nellie wend their way down inland highways to the perceived safety of the family homestead outside Leongatha. We all delight as her formerly estranged rellies gather around to shield her from her constant fear of her worst imagined outcome. Unfortunately many women, as scarred and scared as the courageous Tess, have no out. In the real world, as in the fictional, total safety may only be fleeting. I know this book will surely ‘stay with me’. In our current climate it is almost essential reading.