Billabong series, Mary Grant Bruce

Australian Women Writers Gen 2 Week 13-19 Jan. 2019

The author of this guest post is Michelle Scott Tucker (MST of Adventures in Biography) whose Elizabeth Macarthur: A Life at the Edge of the World came out in April (2018). Lisa (ANZLL) and I were at the launch party to wet the baby’s head, and within weeks the book was into a second print run. During 2018 Michelle became Executive Director of The Stella Prize, Australia’s pre-eminent literary prize for women writers.

Michelle’s essay on her childhood love of the Billabong books leads AWW Gen 2 Week. Thank you Michelle.


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The books, old and musty, were stashed at the back of a cupboard for want of shelf space. They’d been there for quite a while. A friend of my mother had owned them once, but had passed them on, suggesting vaguely that “Michelle might like them.” I was in primary school, probably, an avid reader but not much tempted by the heavy, old-fashioned tomes, with no dust jacket or blurb to hint at what lay within.

Not tempted until boredom drove me, one weekend, to dig out those books. Reader, I was transported.

My newest favourite character, Norah Linton, lived with her widowed father and beloved older brother on a huge and prosperous farming property, called Billabong, in country Victoria in the early 1900s. And oh what jolly adventures they had. I would eventually discover that there were 15 books in the series (the cupboard held maybe only 5 or 6), but even within the first, A Little Bush Maid (1910), heroine Norah at the age of 12 manages to save, quite separately, the lives of two men and a valuable flock of sheep. One of the men was a deeply grateful lion tamer (!) but her family seemed more impressed by the saving of the sheep. It’s all very Enid Blyton meets the Australian bush, with effectively parentless children going on picnics and having improbable adventures. In one of the later books, they discover enough gold to start their own mine… Norah, however, was always appropriately modest about her efforts, and rightly so, because far more important to her – and to me, marooned in deepest darkest suburbia – was the ordinary, day to day life of the farm.

On Bobs, her perfect pony, Norah raced her brother Jim and his two best chums across the paddocks. Accustomed to working beside her father, Norah mustered cattle, thought nothing of driving a cart seventeen miles to the nearest town to collect the mail, looked after a menagerie of pets, and fished in a nearby river.  Norah is, in short, a paragon but she is painted with such love and good humour that her character fairly lifts off the page. And, in a very Australian way, the books are genuinely funny. The children are realistically prone to pranks and teasing. They fall in the water, they fall off horses, and the boys fall asleep in the drawing-room after dinner – only to be gently awakened by Norah pouring a “trickle of water on their peaceful faces. Peace fled at that, and so did Norah!”

First published between 1910 and 1942, Mary Grant Bruce’s hugely popular Billabong books influenced, alongside Banjo Patterson and Henry Lawson, our concepts of The Bush and Australian identity. Her work “was characterised by fierce patriotism, vivid descriptions of the beauties and dangers of the Australian landscape, and humorous, colloquial dialogue celebrating the art of yarning.”

The Billabong books, and Bruce’s two dozen or so other books for children, championed the values of independence, mateship, hard work (for women and children, as well as men), and bush hospitality. The children age as the series progresses, and several of books of the series follow Norah’s brother Jim, and his best mate Wally, as they serve in WW1 – so even the ANZAC spirit gets an airing (even though they served in the British Army, rather than the Australian one – it all makes sense at the time).

But, and sadly there always seems to be a but, my beloved Billabong books belong very much to the era in which they were written.

Almost every writer I know cites Enid Blyton as one of their favourite childhood authors. She transported them in a way few other writers could. But almost every writer I know is also sorrowfully aware that once you’ve grown up there is no going back to Blyton’s magical worlds. The racism, the class barriers, the gender stereotypes are just too distressingly obvious to make Blyton an enjoyable adult read. And so it is for Billabong.

A footnote to later editions, published in the early 1990s, noted that “Some of Bruce’s earlier works are considered to have had offensive and dated content, particularly in regards to racial stereotypes of Australian Aborigines and Chinese and Irish immigrants, and her earlier belief in the theory of Social Darwinism. More recent reprints of the Billabong series have been edited to remove controversial material.” I haven’t looked into those later editions, and frankly I’m not sure how all the ‘controversial material’ could possibly be removed without materially altering the story, because there certainly is a lot of it.

The Linton family are very much lords of their Australian manor, ruling in a benignly patronising way. The house (large enough to have ‘wings’) is staffed by a doting cook and various ‘girls’. The decorative front garden is maintained by a Scotsman, the vegetable garden and orchard at the rear by Chinese Lee Wing (and oh isn’t his silly accent funny!) Numerous unnamed men work the farm itself with one of them, called Billy, seemingly assigned to be the children’s personal slave. Billy is never, ever described without with an adjective like “Sable Billy” or “Dusky Billy” or “Black”. And in case the reader hadn’t quite caught on, he is also variously described as careless, lazy or – just once – as a n—-r. At 18 years of age Billy is older than the children and, according to Norah’s father, the best hand with a horse he’d ever seen, yet the children casually order him about and call him Boy. Billy, like every 18 year old bossed by a 12 year old girl, living without friends or family, and with no girlfriend in sight, seems perfectly content with his lot.

The class barriers are there too, in the patronising colloquial dialogue and simply in the assumptions of the day. Norah, left at home for several days while her brother and her father are away, will inevitably be “desperately lonely with only the servants to talk to.” A stranger who might otherwise be mistaken for a tramp is immediately identified, when he speaks with a cultured accent, as “not your ordinary sort of swagman.”

Crucially, though, gender stereotypes are played with a very light hand. Well, sort of. We are talking about books written a hundred years ago.

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Mary Grant Bruce (1878-1958) was herself born and raised in country Victoria, in East Gippsland. At the age of twenty she moved to Melbourne and fairly quickly made a modest living as a freelance journalist. Her first Billabong stories were serialised in the Leader, before being published in London by Ward, Lock & Co. The success of the first led to an ever-increasing demand for more, until Bruce was producing a book each year, in time for Christmas. She didn’t love the Billabong series quite as much as her fans, and she eked them out – one year producing a Billabong book, the next a stand-alone title, and the following year another Billabong book. She married an army officer, lost two of her three children in tragic circumstances, and lived variously in Ireland, Australia and England. She was, in her day, one of Australia’s most successful writers. She has, in this day, very nearly been forgotten.

Bruce was a typical country conservative who, just as many do now, believed that men and women were equal, but necessarily separate. Bruce herself wrote that “the position of women in Australia today is largely what the pioneer women made it. They took their place definitely, equal fellow-workers with men, the more secure because no one had any time to talk of women’s rights.”

In Norah, Bruce epitomises the self-reliant country woman who can hold her own with a man, without becoming (or threatening) one. Norah is, categorically, the star of the Billabong show. She loved music, and was a good cook but “lived out of doors, followed in Jim’s footsteps wherever practicable (and in a good many ways most people would have thought distinctly impracticable) and spent two-thirds of her waking time on horseback…her chosen pursuits brought her under the discipline of the work of the station…she had all the dread of being thought “silly” that marks a girl who imitates boyish ways.”

For Norah, her brother and father are at the heart of all she does and loves. Male activities are valuable and worthy, female ones much less so.  Norah “had no little girl friends” partly because none were closer than the town seventeen miles away but mainly because “little girls bored Norah frightfully.” Little girls, apparently, are prone to prattle about dolls, and play dress up and ‘ladies’. “When Norah spoke of the superior joys of cutting out cattle or coursing hares over the Long Plain, they stared at her with blank lack of understanding. With boys she got on much better.”

Reader, c’est moi. Or so I wished. While I lacked a prosperous county estate and a fine, well-bred pony full of life and go (yet without the smallest particle of vice), I spent many happy hours with Norah enjoying hers. Her esteem of male pursuits echoed my own, as did her disdain for most things girlish. I too was a little girl always seeking her brothers’ and father’s approval. I sobbed when Norah’s pony died, and was on tenterhooks until Jim and Wally came home safe from the war (spoiler alert – they come home safe from the war). Norah and the boys grew up and married but they never really changed at all, and I loved being part of their world.

But it’s a world long gone now, if it ever was, and that’s for the best.

The Billabong books, in their original unedited form, remain readable, funny and even entertaining. They are also profoundly disturbing. Their value now is more for their insights into a not-so-distant historical period and mindset, rather than as a book that a modern child might thrill to read by torchlight, under the covers.

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Want to know more?

Yes, the now famous Australian biographer Brenda Niall’s very first book was about Billabong. She and Alison Alexander must have been cross, though, about their books coming out in the same year!

 

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15 thoughts on “Billabong series, Mary Grant Bruce

  1. I didn’t have an Australian childhood so I’ve only ever once tried to read a Billabong book and that was in post-university adulthood – when my eyes were opened to “the racism, the class barriers, the gender stereotypes [which] are just too distressingly obvious to make Blyton an enjoyable adult read”. So I read the Billabong book through that lens and was appalled (though I kept quiet about it, since everyone I knew had nostalgic memories of MGB).

    It raises an interesting question, which every teacher librarian has to confront. If, (as was my practice), the librarian does not replace the battered Blytons and Billabongs, well-meaning nostalgic parents often donate new copies of these relics. What (apart from taking a *very* long time to process them and make them ready for borrowing, and occasionally ‘losing’ them) should a teacher librarian do?

    I do not think that a single reading of Blyton or Billabong will turn an otherwise nice child into a racist snob. The problem is that there are so many of these books in their interminable series, that even a keen reader may end up reading nothing else for a year or more, while those who labour over print may reach secondary school still reading them. It’s not so much that children will absorb the horrid values of these books as that they take away time for reading much better, thoughtful books.

    My approach was to read them lots of exciting contemporary Aussie books with characters and settings and issues that Aussie kids could relate to, with multiple copies available so that they could read them while waiting for a Blyton to become available on reserve.

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    • That’s a very thoughtful, and thought provoking response, thank you Lisa, especially for me as I tend to give children older books as presents. I could say that neither Michelle, nor you, nor I grew up to be racists BUT I have taken the last 60 years to realise just how much racism and sexism are built into every day life, including my own, and the British Boys Own books I grew up on are part of that. As a young father I concentrated most on guns and violence, and the kids, not always unwillingly, would deconstruct with me the death-dealing heroes they so much enjoyed watching. And I think that has worked. But it always get back to family, doesn’t it, not what we say but how we behave, as parents and grandparents.

      So yes, bring them up on ‘good’ books and give them the background to recognise ‘bad’ books.

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      • I think family influences are important, but I also think they can be counteracted in both good and bad ways. (By schools, TV, books, peer groups &c). The best we can do, as parents and in my case as an educator, is to set a good example, discuss issues openly, and create awareness. After that, we just have to hope for the best, as our parents did with us.

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  2. Bill – thanks for requesting this post. It’s the first thing I’ve written for pleasure in ages, and I really enjoyed it.
    Lisa – I think your approach to steering children towards fabulous books is incredibly sensible. I loved growing up with Norah, but I’ve since had to unlearn many of the things MGB (and Enid Blyton!) ‘taught’ me. Although MGB did pass on some sensible things – like always ensuring that a farm gate swings freely, in case you ever have to escape from a charging bull (advice I apply every day…) – her world views were imposed on me far more subtly, and I guess insidiously. We’re all still learning how to call out bias that, when we were young, we didn’t even recognise as such. Today’s kids, I reckon, are far better off reading texts written this century (although not, of course, necessarily ABOUT this century!)

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  3. Hi Michelle, it’s lovely to read your work here:)

    I think Australian kids are incredibly lucky. Most people not in the industry don’t know that Australian children’s books – from picture books to ‘chapter books’ and children’s novels – are highly regarded around the world. When you think about how bookshops are dominated by US and UK YA and adult books, and then take a wander round the children’s shelves where almost every book is Australian you can see the wealth of wonderful books to choose from. My problem in the school library was that I just didn’t have time to read the kids everything I wanted to…

    However, from a parent’s POV, it’s not so easy to know what’s out there. I used to review children’s books on my professional blog, but I never had time to do enough of it. IMO there’s a real need for an independent children’s book review site to help parents and children know what’s new.

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    • Just to chip in for a moment – my local indi bookshop Crow Books which I’m always happy to promote refuses to separate out Australian YA, which makes present buying just that much harder.

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      • I hear you, and I like finding all the Aussie books altogether too. But OTOH from a bookseller’s POV it might mean that people stumble on an Australian book amongst the others when perhaps they might not have looked at an Aussie-only shelf.
        IMO the biggest problem that Australian YA has is that there doesn’t seem to be a dedicated, independent, high quality social media review site for people to follow. The #LoveOzYA hashtag was an attempt to promote Aussie YA but I don’t think it’s ‘cool’ enough for its target group who are probably all on Instagram or YouTube now. (I’d like to be wrong about this, but today’s tweets for example are just the names of books from various publishers and from someone publishing a spreadsheet…)

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  4. I had a student once ask me if I thought we should hold old books to the same standards of fairness (when talking about racism, sexism, etc) today. We had a long conversation, but one thing we both focused on was how people didn’t wake up one day and realize that judging a person on his/her skin color or gender or nationality or culture is dehumanizing. I understand that see the institutionalized racism, sexism, and xenophobia takes a lot more work. But just looking at a person and thinking, “Yes, this is a person. I should give this person the same dignity as all other persons” seems like something we can judge throughout time. We’re not smarter today than we were before. I think people saw the benefits of dehumanizing and “othering” various groups. For these reasons, I DO tend to judge old books more harshly than other readers.

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    • Yes. I think in the end we can only judge books the way we read them now. The wealth of the British Empire and therefore of the British diaspora was based on the subjugation of people of colour and we must acknowledge that their literature reflects that.

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      • That is worded nicely — better than what I wrote. However, I’m not the kind of liberal who then says we must never read such books. It’s safer to read and experience something on the page that encounter it nakedly in real life.

        *side note* There was a question on Jeopardy! tonight that I got right because of your blog. I knew the answer was West Australia. 😀

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