The best fiction – as it’s occasionally noted – often comes out of personal experiences, however much or little they are disguised or adapted on the page.
Reading Mary Norton’s Bedknobs and Broomsticks for the first time reminds me that the author – who went on to write the series beginning The Borrowers – will have certainly drawn on what she’d experienced as a child herself, and then during the second world war as a working mother with four children.
So when, in the first part of this novel published in 1943, a trio of young children are initially sent from London to the Bedfordshire countryside by their mother and get themselves into all kinds of scrapes, we may suspect that it’s informed by events in her own life. Well, maybe not quite in the way that its subtitle – how to become a witch in ten easy lessons – suggests.
Carey is ten – ‘about your age’ – Charles nine, Paul six, and all three are sent one summer in the early 1940s to stay with their humourless aunt in Much Frensham, Bedfordshire. Much like the Pevensie children they’re largely left to their own devices, provided they stick to the required etiquette for meals and bed times. ‘One day slipped into another and all the days were alike,’ we’re told, ‘until Miss Price hurt her ankle. And that’s where the story begins.’
For the youngest, Paul, has seen Miss Price at night, in the sky, on what looks like a besom broomstick, and now they find her near their aunt’s, clearly hurt and shaken from a fall – from a broomstick. The children, concerned but also excited, help her to her cottage and make her reluctantly promise to work some magic for them in return for not revealing her secret.
And here’s where the finial from Paul’s metal-framed bedstead comes in. He carries in his pocket the bedknob unscrewed from his bedframe; after Miss Price bespells it, the bedknob takes the bed wherever in the world Paul wishes if he twists it one way; when turned the other way the bed can travel into the past. In The Magic Bedknob part of the compendium one excursion in particular ends in near disaster, meaning that the children risk never returning to Bedfordshire again. Yet two years later in Bonfires and Broomsticks circumstances take them back to Much Frensham, with the possibility of at least one further trip, travelling back a few centuries.
To reveal much more of the plot would be to spoil the enjoyment of reading the initial instalment and its sequel for the very first time, so I’ll restrict myself to general comments. I must begin by saying how much I enjoyed this. Unlike some fiction from this period the language hardly feels dated and, despite obvious indications that the story isn’t set in recent decades, is extremely readable. Norton’s skill is in speaking to a dual audience: like Edith Nesbit she knows, without being condescending, what appeals to young readers; but the adult reader can also appreciate the perceptive humour in the writing and experience the shock of the familiar as she lays bare how cunning children can be and how unpredictable some grown-ups may prove.
It won’t surprise anybody then that amongst much high jinks is also depicted genuine distress and jeopardy, with the threat of banishment, incarceration, execution, and loss. The children are well delineated – Carey is clever and caring but also wheedling, Charles is more sensible and thoughtful, Paul innocent and frequently literal- minded but also observant – yet let’s not forget Eglantine Price who while appearing a sharp old maid is nevertheless resourceful, becomes surprisingly fond of the trio, and is in many ways as childish as her young friends.
And while we don’t actually learn how to become a witch in ten easy lessons, what we do come to know and understand – loyalty, courage, acceptance, love – will offer rewards that are greater and longer-lasting.