When considering the notion of childhood it is significant to point out that it is a social construct without a firm and fixed status, and that understandings of childhood are not the same in every culture. The way writers portray children in their work depends on their own concepts of childhood, which in turn will be determined by their personal histories and their attitudes to the present audience of children. The novel Swallows and Amazons is, as Arthur Ransome freely acknowledges, a reconstruction of his own childhood, with ‘all the bits that might have been ever so much better’ added to the ‘best bits’ which had actually occurred (Cochrane, 1993). Ransome’s work epitomises the pre-war era of childhood freedom and adventure, and the novel can be situated in the midst of other classic adventures stories, drawing on the influences of Robinson Crusoe and Treasure Island, as well as Barrie’s Peter Pan and the imaginary Never Land. Swallows and Amazons is one of the most notable examples of celebrating imagination and play, evident in the opening scenes when Roger is first seen running zig-zag up a field pretending to be the Cutty Sark tacking into the wind. The Walker children’s experience of island life is part realism and part fantasy: they combine fishing and swimming with make-believe games about explorers, pirates, sailors, and naval battles. Cochrane cites Ransome as saying that his characters had ‘no firm dividing line between make-believe and reality . . . I and they slipped in and out of . . . the “real” life of the explorers and pirates half a dozen times in a chapter’ (Cochrane, 1993). Certainly, it is an extraordinary fantasy where adults become ‘natives’ and adult concerns are for the most part disregarded as their imaginary world quickly becomes ‘reality’, which can be seen in the passage in chapter 3 when the children are rowing to Wild Cat Island: ‘Here and there, close to the shore, there were rowing boats with fisherman. But after all there was no need to notice any of these things if one did not want to, and the Swallow and her crew moved steadily southward over a desolate ocean sailed for the first time by white seamen’ (Ransome, 2001[1930], p. 34). The combination of a healthy imagination and outdoor activities in an idyllic rural landscape results in a fantastical adventure for the children, one that is under-pinned by the foundation of family relationships and the security of home. The children look after each other, act according to strict codes and standards of behaviour, and Mrs Walker is the dedicated parent supplying provisions and reassurance when needed.
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Many adults regard this novel as one that captures the freedom, magic and innocence of childhood. Indeed, Ransome’s world is certainly one in which innocence is very much to the fore: there is no sexual interest and no realistic violence to introduce unwelcome adult concepts into the innocent idyll. Reynolds notes that for most of the twentieth century, there was an ‘unwritten code of practice’ regarding the content of children’s literature, which was not set by children themselves but by ‘what . . . librarians, parents and teachers wanted to see in the books they gave to children’, which resulted in the exclusion of sex, violence and ‘bad’ language (Reynolds, 2009, p. 102). Reynolds cites Rose as saying that the imposition of these boundaries had ‘much less to do with children’s tastes and development than with adult needs’ and their desire to present a specific image of childhood (Reynolds, 2009, p. 102). Idealising the child is much easier than confronting real children, and whether or not children did indeed manifest as ‘innocent’, this was the image preferred by adults, and the one perpetrated as an ideal in the fiction which children were permitted to read. Even though Swallows and Amazons stays well within the ‘boundaries’ described by Reynolds, positive aspects of impending adulthood, like the learning of skills or the development of independence, are carefully interwoven into the narrative and presented favourably. It might perhaps be compared to CS Lewis’ exclusion of Susan in the later Narnia books: emotional and spiritual growth are praised in the other children, but not in Susan who, it is inferred, has become interested in the adult world of sexuality. Ransome contrives to ignore the more down-to-earth realities of adult life, and his characters are comfortable, rather than sanctimonious, in their innocence. The intention to return to the island every year ‘for ever and ever’ comes from the worldview of a child; the understanding that whether they return or not, is that of an adult.
Reynolds also notes that ‘precisely because children’s books . . . were generally assumed to be good for children’ they were able to ‘fly under the cultural radar and . . . cross any number of official and unofficial boundaries’: she cites the preservation of the left-wing thinking in the United States under McCarthy as a notable example (Reynolds, 2009, p. 109). The ‘aura of purity’ which typified children’s literature could conceal a ‘wild zone’ in which there was ‘space for dissenters of all kinds’ (Reynolds, 2009, p. 109). This ‘space for dissension’, especially in regard to gender roles, is examined in some detail by Ken Parille in his critique of Little Women. Sara Wadsworth comments that nineteenth century children’s texts presented male characters in ‘encounters with the outside world’ and ‘active, extroverted adventure’ whereas stories for girls’ consisted ‘largely of sugar-coated lessons in morality and femininity’ (Wadsworth, 2009, p. 45). But Alcott takes a subversive stance towards society and gender roles. The headstrong and forthright character Jo March wants to be ‘the man of the family’ not a little woman; a soldier ‘dying to go and fight with papa’ not a ‘poky old woman’ stuck at home knitting (Alcott, 2008[1868], p. 7 & 9). Jo remarks wistfully on several occasions that boys are ‘jolly’ and have a ‘capital time’, but in fact, Laurie does not. Just as Jo is made to reject her writing as ‘shameful’ by Baher’s moral lectures, Laurie is deterred from his preferred career as a musician, first by his grandfather and then by Amy, who castigates those qualities in him which she perceives as ‘feminine’, saying ‘instead of being the man you might and ought to be, you are only —–‘ (Alcott 2008[1868], p. 392). Laurie is steered into a conformist model of ‘manhood’ by Amy who persuades him that a ‘real man’ is physically powerful, energetic, virile, and focused on business interests rather than the arts. Just as Jo is not allowed to manifest ‘masculine’ attributes, Laurie is not permitted ‘feminine’ ones. Despite the comparative freedom which Alcott allows her characters in terms of critiquing social norms and constructs of gender, they eventually return full circle to conformity. The ‘space for dissent’ in the text presents the potential for children to develop as individuals, rather than as adults wish them to, but the potential is never fulfilled. We are left with the impression that the ‘innocence’ of childhood, perhaps represented by the ‘castles in the air’ which the girls and Laurie create in their imagination, is a desirable state when young, and one in which all manner of fanciful ‘castles’ may be constructed. Adulthood, however, requires a loss of innocence and a growing knowledge and acceptance of the ‘real world’ in which men and women are obliged to adopt the roles set out for them by society.
Critic Peter Hunt notes, there was something of a revolution in children’s literature in the latter part of the twentieth century, in that ‘the new world belongs to the children reading more than to the children’s writers’ or indeed to the adults responsible for purchasing books on behalf of children (Hunt, 2009[a], p. 80). And because literature was coming to reflect the reality, rather than the romanticism, of children’s lives, the idea was put forward that ‘childhood is not necessarily, or even commonly, a nice place to be’ (Hunt, 2009[a], p. 80). The idyllic ‘safe space’ of Swallows and Amazons, even if it was based on the author’s own experience of childhood, was no longer perceived as typical. As Hunt says, adults, especially parents, were not represented as the source of stability and the fount of wisdom, but as ineffectual, even ‘violent or homicidal towards their children’ (Hunt, 2009[a], p. 80). In Junk for example, Tar has to watch out for his alcoholic mother and is regularly beaten by a violent father. Gemma’s parents try to do the same as many of today’s parents; that is they endeavour to protect their child from the big bad world of sex and drugs. But in seeking to control Gemma they only succeed in alienating her. When she runs away from home she proclaims her independence with the words: ‘It was. . . being on my own, having an adventure. Yeah. It was life. A big, fat slice of life’ (Burgess, 2003[1996], p. 58). Gemma’s rebellious attitude to life is at first quite liberating, but it soon becomes apparent that squatting in the city does not have the glamorous appeal of the fantasy. Freedom eventually turns to tragedy as both Gemma and Tar become addicted to heroin, having to steal and prostitute themselves in order to survive. The book came in for heavy criticism for bringing the subject of heroin addiction to a young audience, but Junk was written from the premise that children are far more sophisticated than adults realise, and that childhood ‘innocence’, as Rose asserts, is something constructed by adults for their own comfort, rather than an aspect of the real world. Julia Eccles writing in The Guardian newspaper online in 2006 comments: ‘while most parents thought they were being rather on the pulse to be offering Junk, they’d find their teenager had already readily devoured Trainspotting’ (Eccleshare, 2006).
Burgess suggests that one of the reasons teenagers rejected books which supposedly addressed ‘their’ issues and concerns was that such fiction continued to perpetrate a moral model in which there were clearly defined ‘good’ and ‘bad’ characters, and a ‘happy ending’ for those on the side of moral rectitude. Literature about drug culture portrayed drugs as ‘a kind of dark force that turned ordinary well-meaning people into evil shadows, like the Nazgul’ who could only be ‘saved’ by an innocent who ‘escaped corruption themselves by the skin of their teeth’ (Burgess, 2009, p. 316). This, he asserts, was nothing more than a fantasy, in fact, very similar to the fiction of an earlier era in which childish innocence defeats the threat of evil from the adult world. The idea that Junk ‘destroys children’s innocence’ is, says Burgess, a fallacy: there is no ‘innocence’ there to be destroyed. Much of the criticism levelled against the novel was that it refused to take a conventional moral stance: drug culture was not depicted as inherently good or evil, but simply as an integral part of the characters’ lives. As Burgess states, it depicted ‘people having a good time on drugs, all the fun of young people enjoying themselves, as well as the darker side – addiction, casualties, despair’ (Burgess, 2009, p. 316). The narrative was not constructed in a way that conveyed a moral message, in which childhood was invariably damaged or destroyed by drug use: it simply reflected the society of teenage drug users as the author himself had experienced it. On the other hand, Burgess is describing a world outside the mainstream with which he is personally familiar, but it is not the world of all children everywhere. As John Stephens comments, ‘it is an image of the reality of the society . . . at a particular time and place’ (Stephen’s, 2009, p. 323). Although Burgess denies the book carries a didactic message, it is difficult to ignore the warning about the bleak reality of drugs through the words of Tar: ‘If you don’t mind not reaching twenty there’s no argument against heroin, is there?’ (Burgess, 2003[1996], p. 166).
By contrast, Reeve’s Mortal Engine, makes no claim to social realism; it is a science-fiction fantasy which incorporates many of the elements of the traditional adventure story. Despite its futuristic setting it would seem to represent a return to an earlier model of children’s literature; we can certainly trace the influence of Treasure Island, for example. Reeve’s plot carries Tom away from his lowly occupation as a Third Class Apprentice Historian beyond the confines of the London Museum and, in the tradition of boys’ adventure books, into direct struggles with opposing forces. Underlying the narrative is a fairly standard bildungsroman, one which follows the various growths and developments of each of the three protagonists. Tom has an unwavering belief in the natural order of the town-eat-town world that is Municipal Darwinism. As he goes through the conventional processes of self development, discerning who is trustworthy and who is not, he begins to question his values and eventually opens his eyes to the dark side of Municipal Darwinism. Between them, Hester and Katherine seek to put right what is wrong through their individual quests: Hester to avenge the death of her parents, Katherine to prevent the activation of Medusa. It could be argued that the book presents a progress from innocence to experience rather than a depiction of childhood in which innocence does not exist at all. The genre distances the reader from their own experience as the concepts of childhood, adulthood and growth are presented in an allegorical form, rather than with the immediacy of Junk.
Kay Sambell on the other hand, in her analysis of Mortal Engines comments that Reeves manipulates the story to challenge reader expectations and ideas about issues such as gender, relationships, heroism, and narrative. Sambell points out how Reeve ‘inverts the male and female roles’, thus questioning the roles of ‘masculine’ and ‘feminine’ as social assumptions’ (Sambell, 2009, p. 383). Hester is an orphan with a hideously disfigured face. Robbed of her beauty and her childhood she defies many of the characteristics of the romantic child: she is an outsider, strong, independent and knowing, carries a ‘knife in her belt’ and has a shocking determination to kill. Tom in some respects is a traditional children’s story hero: likeable, has what might be termed a ‘noble nature’, but lacking in self-awareness. When he finally gets to save the life of his idol Thaddeus Valentine, Tom is thrilled: ‘After all those dull years dreaming of adventures, suddenly he was having one!’ (Reeve 2002[2001], p. 24). But when he is unexpectedly thrown off the city by Valentine and abandoned in the barren wasteland with only Hester for a companion, all he wants to do is get back home. Adventure is not quite what he expected it to be: ‘he had never imagined it would be so wet and cold, or that his legs would ache so. . .’ (Reeve, 2002[2001], p. 46). For much of the time Tom is afraid, even wetting himself when he first faces a Stalker. Hester shows him little sympathy: when she catches Tom crying, she responds by saying ‘I never cry . . . I didn’t even cry when Valentine murdered my mum and dad’ (Reeve, 2002[2001], p. 31). Katherine Valentine gets close to the romantic tradition as she is presented as the ‘perfect’ woman, an image of kindness and beauty, Tom wistfully describing her ‘as lovely as one of the girls in his daydreams’ (Reeve, 2002[2001], p. 22). Living in one of the one gleaming white villas of the rich in High London, Katherine is beyond reproach and above the realities of life. She is ‘innocent’ until she learns the truth about her father.
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Although Thaddeus Valentine is presented as a loving and caring father, this is not a text that necessarily celebrates family and family values. Both Hester and Tom have been forced to create and develop new concepts of family and community. After the murder of her mother Hester is rescued and raised by a surrogate father in the form of the immortal Shrike, a half human half-mechanical warrior, and brought up with scavengers in the ‘smallest, filthiest town she had ever seen’ (Reeve, 2002[2001], p. 94). Something of the pastoral is recovered in a small way when Hester recalls her early childhood at Oak Island, ‘the waves on the shores . . . her mum’s voice, the moor-wind with its smells’ (Reeve, 2002[2001], p. 95). Following the death of his parents in the Big Tilt Tom’s family becomes the Guild of Historians and his home the Museum. Later, the mysterious and charismatic Anna Fang becomes a kind of surrogate mother to both of them. The image of the family unit is somewhat radical, a-far-cry from the protected and cosseted representation in Swallows and Amazons or Little Women. Adults for the most part do not provide supportive or guiding roles, often acting out of self-interest. As Sambell points out, ‘Adults in Mortal Engines do not become the source of moral maturity, self-regulation, wisdom, or knowledge’ (Sambell, 2009, p. 381). Consequently, all three of the protagonists have their trust in adults damaged or betrayed. Reeve also takes the unconventional approach of killing off major characters unexpectedly, and unlike earlier traditional adventure stories, not all the villains get their just deserts and not all the heroes live happily-ever-after, as we see in the deaths of Katherine Valentine and Bevis Pod. Even though the book’s ending cannot be deemed ‘happy’ it can be termed ‘optimistic’: neither Tom nor Hester is left devoid of hope. The story puts faith in the ability of Reeve’s protagonists to improve the world. The text expresses a progressive ideology as the innate goodness of Reeve’s heroes’ triumphs over the corrupting influence of their culture with them ultimately emerging as metaphors for the need for social change.
We might conclude, then, that the romantic construct of childhood innocence can be seen as an adult invention, rather than an accurate representation of childhood as it really is. However, the extent to which this construct has been presented as a central element of children’s literature varies considerably, as does the degree of subversion which can be identified within the different texts. Nineteenth and early twentieth century fiction protected ‘innocence’ by ensuring that adult attitudes and behaviours were upheld, and ‘unsuitable’ elements excluded. In Swallows and Amazons the focus is very much on a ‘child’s world’, separate from that of adults, but still protected. As Hunt comments, it was only with the arrival of authors such as Blume and Cormier that the idealised model of the child, the family, and the school was explicitly undermined and challenged. Such literature was censored on the grounds that the reader’s innocence was being destroyed when in fact the entire premise behind the narrative themes was that the majority of children did not inhabit an idyllic, Edenesque world in the first place. Burgess argues that the social realist novel is a more authentic and honest account of childhood than the romantic construction, pointing out that any child who participates in normal social relationships will encounter sexuality and drug use, and that children’s literature should acknowledge this reality rather than substituting a fantasised, idealised world in which ‘heroes’ and ‘villains’ are clearly delineated. However, it is notable that Reeve’s futuristic, imaginative text, deliberately distanced from the harshness of social realism, has gained immense popularity. The young protagonists may not be ‘innocent’ in the sense of unaware, asexual beings, but neither are they depicted as having experienced all the harsh realities of adulthood at an inappropriately early age in the same way as the characters in Junk. The focus is on their gradual maturation, and the acquisition of experience: it is not so much a loss of innocence as a gaining of wisdom; Tom and Hester’s growth implying hope for the future. In addition, we are not carefully steered towards a conventional social construct of masculine and feminine as we are with the characters of Jo and Laurie in Little Women. In both the imaginative and the social realist texts there is a certain sense of ambiguity as endings are not conclusive, or necessarily happy. Katherine does not survive at the end of Mortal Engines, even the children in Swallows and Amazons are coming to recognise that some things may remain constant, but their own futures are unmapped and uncharted. Burgess’s characters are already in a state of flux, but as he says, to provide them with the prospect of a neatly-packaged happy ending would have shifted the whole narrative into the realms of fantasy, and reiterated an unrealistic image of childhood innocence which the novel is at pains to avoid. Junk reflects an ideological shift in the way children are perceived and is a-far-cry from the idyllic, innocent and optimistic stories of the past, such as Swallows and Amazons and Little Women. While neither Alcott’s nor Reeve’s characters can be classed as entirely romantic, Little Women is essentially a controlling and conservative text. Mortal Engines falls more in line with Reynolds view, as it highlights and emphasises the more radical elements of children’s literature.
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