One Animal's Moving Story

Sydney Morning Herald

Monday August 22, 2005

Sonya Hartnett

An antique store held the magic ingredient for a book about war, writes Sonya Hartnett

I'VE always known that one day I would write a novel for children. It was the books I read as a child that made me want to write, and I dreamed of writing a story that would be as beloved by its reader as those childhood books were loved by me.

I didn't want this novel to be frivolous, something that would be read once and forgotten: I wanted it to be sweet-natured, maybe funny, but mostly I wanted my children's book to be about important things, the way Charlotte's Web is about important things: trust and loyalty, courage and understanding, loss and joy.

Then one evening I watched on television a documentary about the World War II evacuation of soldiers from the beach at Dunkirk. I sat with my dinner growing cold, amazed by the tale of fishing boats that crossed the dark and dangerous English Channel to rescue Allied soldiers stranded in France in WWII.

I'd learned about Dunkirk at school, but I had never really thought of what the ordeal must have been like, how frightening it would have been, how brave the fishermen were, risking their lives to play this small but incredible role in the war.

Watching the documentary, I realised that the evacuation could become the core idea around which I could build a children's novel. It had all the traits I hoped to write about: adventure, courage and loyalty; trust, secrets and peril. Dunkirk also involved the worst aspects of war - pointless death, terror and despair - and any novel set amid war would, I felt, be cowardly if it ignored these facets of conflict.

Yet I didn't want my book to a bleak thing: I wanted it to be honest, but also joyful. The war and its horror could take place in the background, but at the front of the novel I needed a different story, something charming and endearing, something about peace.

Unfortunately, I didn't know what the charming thing could be; so I shelved the children's novel in the hope that one day, eventually, inspiration would come.

A year later, I went to Ballarat to give a talk about writing. I arrived early, so to fill the time I went window shopping. I love antiques, and when I came across an antique shop that was having a sale I couldn't resist stepping inside. Locked in a glass cabinet at the back of the shop was an assortment of small and pretty trinkets, and one of them was a donkey made from silver.

It was a dainty thing, little enough to hide in a hand, but well-crafted, sturdy and strong; the expression on its face was cross. As soon as I saw it, I knew I was looking at something around which the children's novel could revolve.

The silver donkey itself was gorgeous, a thing any child would want to hold and keep; more important, donkeys embody endurance, forgiveness and bravery, exactly what I wanted the book to be about.

The silver donkey bore no stamp saying where it had come from or when, and the shop owner didn't know its history: the donkey is mysterious, answering no questions about itself, and around its silence I created the soldier who owns it, a quiet man who keeps secrets.

The novel would be about war, but war seen through the prism of admirable animal, a beautiful trinket, courageous children, a lonely man.

The Silver Donkey took about eight weeks to write. As I wrote, I kept the donkey on the table beside me. I often stopped and looked at it, holding it while I puzzled over problems.

I had planned a sad ending for the silver donkey - it was going to be melted down - but having the donkey close throughout those weeks made me change my mind.

The story and its readers deserved better than an unhappy ending, and so did the little statue itself: I remembered the book was about joy, not sorrow.

I take the donkey with me now when I give talks about the novel. People always love to see it: once, a woman offered to buy it. I said, "No, I couldn't, sorry, the silver donkey is not for sale."