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‘FOOTPRINTS’ (A NOVELLA FOR ADULTS) AND ‘SKETCHY BUSINESS’ (A NOVEL FOR YOUNG READERS) and ‘ALIENATION AND BOUNDARIES IN SELECTED WORKS OF TIM WINTON WRITTEN FOR ADULTS AND FOR YOUNG READERS’ JENNIFER EVERINGHAM BANYARD Student ID: 17639031 BA, University of Western Australia, 1979 This thesis is presented for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy of The University of Western Australia School of Social Sciences (English and Cultural Studies) 2013 2 ABSTRACT Western Australian author Tim Winton said that if we accept boundaries other people set for us then we’re just suckers. His comment reflects the hypocrisy and fickleness of many boundaries, and the flimsy foundation of alienation that may arise from being on the ‘wrong’ side of a boundary. The issue of alienation and associated boundaries is explored in each of the three components that comprise this creative writing thesis. The novella for adults, Footprints, set in Japan and in Broome, Western Australia, focuses the theme of alienation and boundaries on the WWII internment of the Japanese pearl diver Hiroshi, attempting to paint a picture of the human side of the Japanese population that was demonised en masse during the war. The novel for young readers, Sketchy Business, elicits the theme through the over-eager newshound Pollo, whose biased assumptions lead to damaging false judgements about a newcomer to her town, and through Pollo’s offsider, Will, who is having family troubles. The dissertation explores the concepts of alienation and boundaries as rendered by Winton in his novels Dirt Music and Lockie Leonard, Legend. It looks, in particular, at Winton’s manipulation of narrative elements such that Legend, though departing from several commonly accepted conventions of young readers’ fiction, maintains strong appeal to its young audience. 3 ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS My deep gratitude goes to Professor Van Ikin of the University of Western Australia who, over the years I have been under his wing, has been an unflagging source of good humour, patience, encouragement and astute advice. I also thank Winthrop Professor Brenda Walker who has provided secondary supervision and support throughout. I am fortunate to have had editorial input, too, from the wise and lovely Cate Sutherland, Children’s Publisher at Fremantle Press. I am indebted to the Graduate Research School of UWA for their coordinating role during my candidature, and for the travel grants that enabled my attendance at two conferences and first-hand research in Japan. I gratefully acknowledge, also, the Australian Government’s Department of Industry, Innovation, Science, Research and Tertiary Education and the University of Western Australia for their funding of this project. I have been helped along the way by numerous colleagues, friends and family members. In particular, I appreciate the practical and compassionate support of fellow writer, Vivien Stuart, and fellow appreciator of children’s literature, Gail Spiers. My mother, Margaret Everingham, I thank for proofreading, but, more importantly, for always thinking the best of me. May there be more time for get-togethers now. To my husband, Dennis, and daughters, Sally and Rebecca, who have hung in alongside throughout, I offer a bottomless thank you. Their lively interest and encouragement have made this project a pleasure, and while I might have completed it without their support, I wouldn’t have wanted to. Lastly, I wish to place on record my appreciation of author Tim Winton, whose writing has inspired, challenged, moved and delighted me over many years. 4 CONTENTS Page i. Abstract 3 ii. Acknowledgements 4 iii. Footprints (a novella for adults) 7 iv. Sketchy Business (a novel for young readers) 93 v. Dissertation: Alienation and Boundaries in 221 Selected Works of Tim Winton Written for Adults and for Young Readers vi. Bibliographies Bibliography for the Dissertation 285 Bibliography for the Creative Works 292 5 6 FOOTPRINTS (a novella for adults) Suna-hama ni Ashi-ato nagaki Haru hi kana — MASAOKA SHIKI A spring day — A long line of footprints On the sandy beach. 7 8 CHAPTER ONE He moves through grey-green shafts of light, his lead-cast soles raising puffs of sand, toward a patch in the seagrass darker than the rest. He stoops to lever the mollusc from its anchor, holds it to the portal of his helmet — at arm’s length to see its entirety. Smiles. Another beauty, its gnarly face nearly a foot across — far bigger than they pulled in shallower beds the previous day. The gamble to work the deep channel is paying off. He slots the shell in his bag with the rest. He sees the dark blur of Takashi on the other side of the lugger, bending to the sea floor. Nudged by the current, feeling the press of the greater depth, Hiroshi adjusts the valve on his helmet to allow more air. Six fat fingermarks slide by and angle away as one. His breath within his brass bubble sucks and exhales, sucks and exhales. The tomp-tomp-tomp of the air compressor forty fathoms above trembles down the air- hose into the space around his head like an infant heartbeat. It is eleven days since he saw her. Shinju. Eleven years, more, since he held her. She was womanly in a different way, not like before — her body fuller but her face hollow, the candle-glow of her hair, held off her neck now by metal pins, extinguished. The war and the eight years since had changed people. Times had been hard, perhaps harder on Shinju than him. He had lost a wife, yes, but sympathy was spread thin in his country since the war and he needed no share of it. While he had respected Koiko in their little time together and adored their daughter, Etsuko, he had never lost himself to Koiko as he had to Shinju. He hadn’t expected Shinju to be in Broome when he came back, but a tiny grain of him had hoped. He saw that now. After all the years, he hoped he might tender the kiss, the dream of which had pillowed him through their wasted years apart while he idled in camps enclosed by barbed wire. If Shinju was still in Broome with this kiss they might, at last, make their broken world whole. He had gone from citizen to prisoner and back again. Signatures on papers, government edicts. He had no more time for society’s categories and boundaries and what was thought proper — the war and time had ripped all that apart. Yes, he admits, he had hoped. Hiroshi scuffs a mollusc with his boot, bends slowly to prise it up and slots it in his bag alongside the others. He doesn’t see Takashi — a butterfly thought. 9 He was edging through the crowd outside the Sun when she appeared. There in front of him, no more than six feet away. He saw the tiny globes of perspiration glowing on her lip from the theatre bulbs above, then that fellow drawing up beside her, reaching down and touching his handkerchief to her lip that way. If only Shinju’s eyes had lifted to this man’s, Hiroshi would have slipped away. With time the jagged hole of his love for her might have filled with the sediment of life. But something had made her look his way instead. And he’d seen the flood of sorrow and the storm of bitter regret for the war and the ring on her finger. Hiroshi tried to turn but couldn’t. They had stood in the dust of Carnarvon Street, townsfolk milling between them, until their futures evaporated like summer rain, until the man with the handkerchief took Shinju by the elbow and pulled her away, not so gently. Hiroshi becomes aware of tugging on his air pipe. How many has it been? Four, his tender, Shoji, beckoning him to the surface? He peers through his helmet portals. Visibility is poorer than ... how long ago? The shafts of green have merged into brown, blurring shapes. There is no sign of Takashi. The current is eddying, stirring the sediment. Water pressure has changed, the fish are skittish. He adjusts his air valve and draws a long breath. Again, he feels tugging on his air pipe. He counts this time. Four. Far above, the crew will be eyeing the western sky where the clouds will be blackening, their hair strands lifting in the electric air. He has put others at risk. They’ll be wanting to get out of there, ahead of the storm that is on its way. He tugs four times on his breast rope, telling Shoji he’s ascending. Should he go straight to the surface this time? Plenty would. Like Koichi had. Koichi’s dead red eyes float before Hiroshi’s. No — he’s been down too long. He’ll stage as much as he can, as much as he dares. They’re far out to sea, far away from the decompression chamber in town. And he’s deep … so deep. Clinging to his breast rope, Hiroshi allows himself to be reeled slowly upwards by the crew on the surface, the tomp-tomp of the air compressor, the clinking of shells in his basket, the creaking of taut ropes a comforting confluence of sounds. He rises ten fathoms. He tugs on his line to stage. But there’s no pause in his ascent. He’s rising faster now than the bubbles of his exhaled air. The surface of the water has disappeared. It must be like dusk up 10 there, he thinks. Then he feels it, a distinct forward movement ... the slippage of the anchor, their lugger being pushed ... quickening … by strong wind.

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