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Click here for two good bits of news about Uncle: Plan to republish the books, and a new Uncle site with lots of pictures and info.
"Uncle is an elephant. He's immensely rich, and he's a B.A. He dresses well, generally in a purple dressing gown, and he often rides about on a traction engine, wich he prefers to a car. He lives in a house called Homeward, which is hard to describe, but try to think of about a hundred skyscrapers all joined together and surrounded by a moat with a drawbridge over it, and you'll get some idea of it." And here is an extract.
The Uncle books by J.P.Martin were a series of stories made up for his children by Methodist minister John Percival Martin, about a rich and benevolent elephant, and his continuing conflict with the Badfort Crowd (you could take whichever side you wished - my son tended to root for the Badfort Crowd.) When J.P.Martin was very old (he'd been born back in 1879), back in 1964, the first of six Uncle books were published by Jonathan Cape, and the rest came out after his death, which was in 1966. (Uncle, Uncle Cleans Up, Uncle and his detective, Uncle and the Treacle Trouble, Uncle and Claudius the Camel and Uncle and the Battle for Badgertown.)
They had a burst of success, were recognised by critics as a brilliant and inspired addition to the Nonsense Tradition in English literature. And they were superbly illustrated by Quentin Blake. Then for some strange reason they vanished, and are out of print, and you can't even find them in many library catalogues. And I've never met anyone outside my family who remembers them.
But I'm not quite alone.
Here are three web sites that recognise and value Uncle. All are very well worth visiting - the second has an amazing set of links. Below is a helping of Uncle borrowed from these sites, just to give people an idea of why I'm enthusiastic, a bit of biographical detail about J.P.Martin, and some sample rave reviews. And if anyone has any more information, email me.
http://homepages.enterprise.net/scruss/uncle.html (Stewart C.Russell of Glasgow)
http://www.ibmpcug.co.uk/~owls/homeward.html (The Owl Springs Partnership, based in Ireland)
Here is a site, by Tony Bannister, with lots about Uncle, including especially Quentin Blake pictures -and a proposal for an animated version. http://www.video-design.demon.co.uk/
Two good bits of news:
I've just heard that there are plans by Random House to republish the first two Uncle books in July - go to Stewart Russell's website to find out more.
About John Percival Martin: He was born in Scarborough, Yorkshire in 1879. In 1902 he entered the Methodist ministry. For some years he was a missionary in South Africa, and later served as a chaplain in Palestine in the First World War. Soon after World War II he went into semi-retirement in the village of Timberscombe, in Somerset, near Minehead, (where they have a great tradition of parading a "horse"), where he continued to serve the small chapel there until his death in March1966. The Uncle stories were made up for his four children. Thirty years later (during which time the Uncle stories had a measure of underground popularity), soon before J.P.Martin died, the first of a series of six Uncle books came out, edited by his elder daughter.
Here is what the reviews were like:
Observer: "A classic in the great English nonsense
tradition" - Naomi Lewis.
"I do most truly recommend this great and glorious
fantasy" Mary Treadgold.
New Statesman: "At last presented with all the
enthusiasm and care it deserves" - Penelope Mortimer.
Guardian: "A great achievement of sustained
storytelling."
Books and Bookmen: "A character likely to rival Toad as
a classic children's favourite."
Listener: "...the glorious company of Nonsense-Masters
like Lear and Carroll."
Oxford Mail: "Altogether gorgeous, and will join
the select pile of children's classics."
Times Literary Supplement": "Spellbinding...spiced
with the same brand of glorious nonsense as its predecessor.
And here is an extract to show why they were so enthusiastic::
"A Visit to Owl Springs", from Uncle, J.P. Martin
It was Uncle's birthday, and he had planned a celebration. He told the Old Monkey at breakfast that they were going to Owl Springs. The Old Monkey jumped for joy. If there is any treat that he likes, it is this visit. The springs are not up to much, and it's very hard to get a good look at the owl, but all the same there's something fascinating about the place.
People come from all round, especially when there is a rumour that the owl is about, but, as a matter of fact, the only person so far who had really seen the owl was the Old Monkey. One wet Friday night when everyone else had gone away he saw it quite clearly for about five minutes. Most people have not even had a glimpse of it, and those who have are notable characters for the rest of their lives.
They telephoned to Cowgill for the traction engine. Although it was Uncle's birthday, he had only received a few presents as yet, a packet of ginger-nuts from the Old Monkey, and some mangoes from Butterskin Mute, while Alonzo S. Whitebeard had simply given him a medal that he had picked up in the street. He gave it to Uncle because he thought it was no good, but he was surprised to discover later that it had a very useful quality that nobody had expected. Uncle found this out by accident, while they were waiting for the traction engine. It suddenly turned blue when he stepped on to a little mound of earth, then became silver-coloured again when he stepped off it. He had the curiosity to dig the mound away a little, and found, just under the surface, nine half-crowns wrapped in grease-proof paper. It was evidently a buried-treasure detector. Uncle was delighted, for he had often wanted a thing of this kind, but Whitebeard was very depressed, and wished heartily that he had been generous enough to buy Uncle the half-penny typewriter that he had been looking at for days in Cheapman's window.
At last they started, Uncle, the Old Monkey and Alonzo S. Whitebeard, with Cowgill as driver and engineer.
The road to Owl Springs goes through a deep valley. Lots of people were also travelling there that way, some on foot, some by car, but most by motor coach. A man called Onion Sam gets up these trips during the May to September season.
They chug-chugged along steadily. As they approached a place where the road was up, they heard the noise of hooves, and Beaver Hateman galloped up to them on his Wooden-Legged Donkey. He was followed by Nailrod Hateman on his lean goat, Toothie.
"Hallo, Uncle!" said Beaver Hateman. "Going to see the owl?"
"I hope to do so," replied Uncle calmly.
"Well, I don't think you will; I passed Wizard Blenkinsop on the road, and he assured me that the owl would not be seen after ten this morning. It's now half past nine and we shall be there in ten minutes, while you'll get there around eleven! So long, Uncle!"
He galloped off like the wind.
Uncle was rather irritated at this speech, but cheered himself up with a second breakfast of coconuts and chocolate ice cream from an electro-plated bucket.
Beaver Hateman was right. It was nearly eleven when they reached the famous Owl Springs. The narrow valley was packed with people, who were walking round, dropping litter and looking at the springs. These springs are disappointing at the first glance, a mere muddy trickle of water coming down between bushes, but they are fascinating all the same, and it seems well worth going there even if you don't see the owl.
Halfway up the valley is a large enclosure labelled Trade Exhibition. Uncle was in no hurry, and seeing that there was such a crowd, he thought he might as well visit this first. They went in, paying a halfpenny for the whole party at the turnstile. It was quite a good exhibition with a large number of stalls.
One was kept by a dull, heavy ox. He appeared to have only one thing on his stall, a box, pink in colour, called BIRTHDAY BOX.
Uncle asked the price.
"A thousand pounds," replied the ox in a slow, dull voice, "and I won't come down a farthing in my price."
There was something about this box that took Uncle's fancy, and thought he thought the price high he paid it in clean hundred-pound notes. The moment he did so, the ox took from behind the counter a little board marked STALL CLOSED and prepared to leave.
"Can you tell me the way to Cheapman's store?" he asked the Old Monkey. "I've heard that you can get lashings of hay there for a bob."
The Old Monkey directed him, and smiled as he did so. A shilling spent at Cheapman's on hay would provide any ox with a larger pile than he could possibly devour during the rest of his life.
There were a lot of other stalls, but Uncle was rather interested in a small quiet shop with a sign which read:
THE BOOKMAN
Bookseller and Stationer
It seemed quite an ordinary sign, but The Bookman was the actual name of the shopkeeper. He was the son of a famous boxer called Wallaby Bookman, who had married a young woman with the curious name of Mabel The. He had naturally gone into the book trade on growing up. The Bookman was sitting on a bench outside his shop reading a small book, and every now and then he marked some places in it with a carpenter's pencil. When Uncle asked to see his shop he simply pointed into the doorway with his thumb.
They went in. The shop consisted of a single room built of thick square logs. On one side of it was a shelf with about twenty books. They were all the same, The History of Owl Springs. "We've got this," said Uncle. "Let's get on to the springs."
He walked out.
On their way Nailrod Hateman passed them.
"It's all over for the day," he said. "Oh, what a time we've had! I saw the owl myself -- looked straight at it for more than an hour!"
This was most likely a lie, and they pretended not to hear. A gleam of sun came out, and everything looked rather pretty, in spite of the mass of litter left by the excursionists. Just as they were looking at the thin trickle of muddy water, a wonderful thing happened. From behind a low bush on the left, the owl appeared. He flew straight to a withered twig, and sat there looking at them.
Uncle reached for his cine-camera, and took some shots of the owl from different positions. He did not venture to speak for fear that the owl should go.
For twenty minutes the owl stayed, minutes filled with rapture. Then it gave a low hoot, preened its feathers, and slowly flew off.
They all kept silent for a time. Uncle's face was glowing, and as for the Old Monkey, he swung himself up to the branch of a near-by tree and hung there by his hands and feet. At last they spoke:
"Congratulations, sir," said the Old Monkey. "I always wanted you to see it, and I was always sorry that you weren't there when I had that good look, three years ago."
Uncle said nothing for a long time. He was so full of solemn joy. At last he drew a deep breath.
"Gratification," he said, "is a poor word to express my feelings at this moment. I am afloat on a sea of foaming joy and delight! For the time being, I will say little, but on many a long winter evening I shall expound to you with suitable words my feelings at this extraordinary event!"
"And I shall love to hear you," said the Old Monkey simply.
"In the meantime, leave me alone," said Uncle. "I want to travel back quietly, reflecting deeply upon this glorious hour, and fixing its details in my memory."