Colonialisation VS Assimilation: explorations of culture in Patrick Gale’s ‘A Place Called Winter’


Modern Montreal, which is actually about equidistant between England and Winter, because Canada is bloody massive, but that’s the only part of Canada I’ve been to so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

On the approach to my late twenties, I came to accept something about myself that I had spent a quarter of a century resisting: I bore easily. While it worked for my parents, who thrive on structure, the idea of staying in one organisation for the duration of my working life doesn’t suit my magpie-like temperament. I am fickle and attracted to shiny things, but is an attribute which can be embraced. Consequently, over the past couple of years, I have begun to develop a ‘portfolio career’.

In less wanky terms, that means I do ‘a bit of this, a bit of that’. On Mondays, I write. (Yes I’m still writing, yes I know I said I would use this blog to be accountable for my progress, yes I know I failed). On Tuesdays and Wednesdays, I home school some students, tutor some others and run an adult literature class through the WEA. On Thursdays and Fridays, I work in a college now, helping young adults to pass their English GCSE if they failed it the first time. Here and there, I ghostwrite biographies, mark exam papers and sell teaching resources online. I rent out my spare room on AirBnB, too.

As things stand, it’s great. I don’t have the time or energy to get bored. Before any of these jobs have a chance to get repetitive, I’ve stopped doing them and moved onto something else. The repetitive thing is gone for another six or seven days. It suits me down to the ground. Maybe it’d suit you too. Portfolio career: think about it.

Anyway, as part of the WEA literature class, I write blog posts summarising my ideas. They’re sort of part book review, part literary essay. This year, our theme is ‘Migration and the Migrant,’ and the first book of the year is Patrick Gale’s A Place Called Winter. This is not a book I would’ve picked up if the group hadn’t selected it. The title didn’t intrigue me, and I judged the cover. Hard.

patrick winter

Looks lame, doesn’t it? But trust me: this is the avocado of the literary world. It feels so good that you’re sure it must be trash, but it leaves you feeling cleaner and richer. Go read it.

So, the point of this is to say that I’m including my blog posts here, in the hopes that they reach a wider audience and perhaps inspire people to read some of the wonderful books my class and I discover.

Emily x

Colonialisation VS Assimilation: explorations of culture in Patrick Gale’s ‘A Place Called Winter’

“The question of what constitutes civilised behaviour is at the heart of the plot. Is civilisation just about populating an area or is it more complicated? The Cree, the Native tribe Harry encounters, had an old, complicated civilisation which settlers wiped off the map. The inequities in Canadian society are every bit as bad as those in Australia, in terms of the bitter legacy of colonisation.”- Patrick Gale


We open our exploration of this year’s theme – Migration and the Migrant – with an examination of the ways in which a culture can both liberate and constrain the individual. Gale’s 16th novel (and his first foray into historical fiction) takes the diaries and letters of his own great grandmother – wife to the real life Harry Cane – and attempts to make sense of his great grandfather’s sudden and inexplicable journey into the wilderness of the Canadian Prairies. Why, Gale wonders, would an Edwardian gentleman of leisure – settled with a wife and an infant daughter – opt for the uncertainty and discomfort of a labourer’s life, thousands of miles from the land and culture to which he was accustomed? Gale’s conclusions seem logical: his great grandfather was homosexual, and living in a world where homosexuality was not only socially unacceptable but punishable by law. Gale’s further conclusion – that the constraints of Edwardian culture could suffocate an individual to the point of corrupting their sanity – is not hard to believe either.

And so it is that A Place Called Winter begins in an asylum, telling us in no uncertain terms – in the form of a flash forward – that Harry’s destiny is not a good one. When Chapter Two pulls us backwards into the protagonist’s life as a young gentleman of leisure – pottering through a civilised routine of steam baths, newspapers and contented luxury – we have the unsettling knowledge that this peace and comfort will not last. The introduction of Browning – who at once provides Harry with the knowledge of who he truly is as well as the realisation that he can no longer live the life to which he is accustomed – acts as the ‘hero’s call’ in the adventure element of the narrative. Gale wastes no time in uprooting Cane from his somnambulant existence in Edwardian London and dropping him into the vast, hoar-frosted landscapes of unchartered Canada – give or take a boat or train ride along the way.

Plundering and Opportunism: Troels Munck

It is on these boat and train journeys that we are first introduced to Troels Munck – a character so borne of the realms of fairy tale that it imbues his very name (his nickname is troll), and that Gale (through Harry) concedes the hyperbolic nature of Troels’ “evil like in a fairy tale” in the narrative itself. But in terms of our theme, it seems most relevant to consider Troels as an emblem of Viking invasion. In his sexual abuse of both Harry and Petra; his aggressive approach to everything from recruiting soldiers to eating breakfast; his Danish origins and even the “violent pleasure” he takes in standing on the bow of a ship and looking out to sea, Troels seems to embody every element of his ‘raping and pillaging’ Scandinavian ancestors. From the upper class “puppies” he exploits financially to the prostitutes he frequents; from the farmers he cows into conscription to his treatment of Harry himself, Troels takes no interest in respecting or learning from others: his modus operandi is to take what he can from others through aggressive means and without remorse. Through the trail of destruction Troels leaves in his wake, Gale uses Munck to leave us wondering about the damage that has been done, historically, by this violent and unsentimental approach to migration. What cultures may have been trampled under the feet of men like Troels, beyond the realms of fairy tales?

Assimilation and Understanding: Petra Slaymaker

Providing a neat counterpoint to Troels’ attitude to other cultures, Gale offers us the formidable, practical and always respectful Petra Slaymaker. It is hard to imagine that Gale plucked a name like ‘Petra Slaymaker’ out of thin air. Petra derives from the Greek for ‘rock’, while ‘slaymaker’ translates from middle German to mean ‘maker of shawls or veils’. Petra Slaymaker is an aptronym indeed, then: Petra is a rock to Harry, offering him unwavering emotional and practical support, but she also provides him with a ‘veil’, acknowledging but not condemning his relationship with Paul, and gladly helping him to conceal their romance in exchange for a mutually beneficial ‘marriage of convenience’. Petra is the first character to accept and understand Harry as he is. And this attitude – as unremarkable as it may seem to the modern reader – is the radically defining characteristic which underpins Petra’s approach to culture, too. Unlike the majority of Winter’s residents, Petra accepts and understands the values of the Cree: the indigenous culture of her patch of Canada. While other English emigrants view the Cree as savage and inferior – a culture to be trampled over in the march of Edwardian progress – Petra views them as equals. She teaches the Cree English but learns their language too; she gives them homemade jam, but respects their wisdom, and knowledge of local flora (an attitude that Gideon dismisses as “self-aggrandising shamanism”, and which even Harry – when he meets Lily Thunder – is suspicious of).

Petra’s own reluctance to conform to the stereotypes her culture demands of her (as a westerner and a woman) also allows her to appreciate Harry’s own claustrophobia – as a heterosexual and an upper class gentleman. Through Petra, we see the reverse of Harry’s comment on his own repressed homosexuality: “When a thing has always been forbidden and must live in darkness and silence, it’s hard to know how it might be, if allowed to thrive.” Petra – as a nurse, a teacher and the source of Harry’s eventual self-acceptance – exemplifies how an ambitious woman may thrive, if she is able to escape the limitations her culture imposes on her. In the small community in which Petra exists, Gale constructs a microcosmic utopia which values assimilation and understanding: within it, women are allowed to be independent; homosexual men are allowed to express their  true selves and different cultures are able to learn from and enrich one another. Again, through Petra, we are left to ponder over how much has been lost through the ages – in terms of individual freedom and cultural diversity – through the wiping out of past civilisations.

Gender and roots: Gale’s presentation of the Cree

The third character worthy of consideration in terms of our theme is Ursula, Gale’s most well fleshed out Cree character. While the Slaymakers provide an environment in which Harry may escape the weight of heteronormative expectations, it is only Ursula that suggests to him that his difference may be a positive thing: “you are a two-souls Harry”, she tells him. “It’s a blessing and a curse. It can make you strong in [your mind].”

Harry, in turn, acknowledges and admires the blurred boundaries of Ursula’s gender:

“The further they walked from Bethel, the less she resembled the nun-like Ursula of mealtimes, so refined and modest. Nor was she like the young athlete who had so expertly driven the cart to town and back. Rather, she became an energised combination of the two: her true self, perhaps.”

Thus, through Ursula, Harry begins to imagine that his truest self may emerge as a consequence of embracing both the masculine and feminine elements of his personality, as opposed to struggling to live up to the prescriptive image of stoic masculinity that Edwardian culture has encouraged him to live up to. But this is not the first time that Harry has noted the less defined gender boundaries of Cree culture. When visiting the Cree encampment with Petra, he muses:

“[Harry] was not always sure if he was faced with a man or a woman. The men were beardless, and men and women alike wore their hair long. Over a certain age they were uniformly wrinkled, the women’s features often just as powerful and craggily angular as the men’s. To his untrained eye, the traditional clothes of one gender seemed confusingly like those of the other, a matter not helped by women electing to wear the most practical of Western garments, which were male, of course. Compared to Western women, for whom femininity often seemed a complex and time-consuming game they were obliged to play, Cree women struck him as unconstrained, as assertive, as powerful, even, as their menfolk. He suspected this was one of the things that had attracted Petra to their culture.”

            With this insight in mind, Ursula’s apparent “religious mania” and “compulsive transvestism” seems in fact to be another example of individuality stifled by culture. But while Harry has struggled since childhood to fit into the Edwardian culture into which he was born, Ursula struggles instead to adapt to it, having been “taken from his tribe when he was barely twelve.” To Gideon and the staff of Bethel, Ursula’s “equilibrium” is broken by Harry’s encouragement to “dabble in the teachings of his youth”. But it is apparent to the reader that the damage is in fact done by the repression and rejection of those teachings. This idea is represented most neatly in Harry’s description of Ursula’s hair, as he sees her for the last time:

            “With what seemed like unnecessary cruelty, someone had cut his hair to collar length so that, instead of cascading down his back, it sprang out irregularly from his face, making him look the very type of lunacy.”

Since Harry has already learned that neither male nor female Cree wear their hair short, this image can suggest only one thing: it is not “compulsive transvestism” that Gideon is seeking to eradicate here, but every trace of the Cree culture which forms the heart of Ursula’s identity.

In a sense, Gideon’s unquestioning belief in the superiority of his own ideas seems representative of Winston Churchill, his faith in the British Empire and his treatment of Indians, for instance, as “savages” who stood only to gain from colonialisation. Churchill himself claimed to “hate Indians”, accusing them of “breeding like rabbits” and therefore causing the Bengal famine (which led to three million deaths, and was largely caused by the export of Indian produce to Britain). Similarly, Gideon makes no attempt to understand Ursula’s history, and dismisses her at the novel’s close without reflecting on his own failure, stating instead that he will “have no more Indian patients”. The ironic misuse of the term ‘Indian’ here only serves to compound our sense of the ignorance of the ‘good doctor’.


Gale seems to be making a liberal argument here, and a realisation which seems to land in the lap of every wide-eyed backpacker, as their passport fills with new stamps: we stand to gain much more through acknowledging, respecting and learning from one another’s cultures than by eclipsing one with another. Just as the genetic pool is made healthier and richer by diversity, so is our cultural landscape. This is a book in which migration offers an escape route for some, but a strait jacket for others. And alongside his fairy tale characters, Gale gives us a slice of fairy tale morality: how much more beautiful and liberating might our world be, if we migrated to understand, instead of to conquer?


Further Reading


What separates Young Adult and Adult fiction?



I’ve been reading a lot of YA (young adult) and children’s fiction lately, as part of the ‘Writing for Children and Young People’ module on the Writing MA. In the final session of the unit, our class read The Bunker Diary: Kevin Brooks’ controversial tale of six strangers chloroformed, kidnapped and locked in an underground bunker by an anonymous assailant. The novel won the 2014 Carnegie Medal, and it is this accolade which has been at the centre of most discussions of the novel ever since (including the discussion had by our little seminar group). The crux of the argument is this: if a novel as bleak and disturbing (i.e. so adult) as TBD can win the most prestigious of children’s fiction prizes, what exactly defines good children’s literature in the first place?

And the content of TBD certainly is bleak. There’s suicide, rape, murder – even a suggestion of cannibalism. And all this within the overarching plot-line of abduction, laced with physical and psychological torture. Content wise, it couldn’t get much darker. No one survives: not the goodies, not the baddies. The abductor is never identified, never confronted and never gets his comeuppance. Even Emma Donoghue’s Room saw the victims escape. I’m still uncertain as to why Room was shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize but TBD won the Carnegie. There’s an argument, I suppose, that the characters inRoom are more complex, that the perspective is more creative. But this doesn’t ring true for me. In terms of creativity and complexity, Room is reduced to dust in the face of His Dark Materials and Lord of the Rings. Superior creativity and complexity alone then, cannot be the measure of what turns YA fiction into full blown literature.  

Many critics argue that the issue here is TBD’s lack of hope. Amanda Craig of The Independent wrote that children’s lit should teach children that their “experiences will enable them to restore justice”, accusing TBD of a “lack of redemption”. I’m not sure whether I agree or not that children’s literature should ultimately be uplifting and hopeful, and that all experiences represented within should be meaningful fables. It’s certainly not what all children experience in their real lives. But aside from that, I can’t say that I agree that TBD is bereft of redemption or lacking in hope. Yes, the content is bleak: including the ending. But it’s the tone that is significant here. I found the voice of Linus – the ‘author’ of the diary – utterly, heart-breakingly uplifting. Linus’ response to his captivity is to pour love into his relationship with Jenny, a little girl who he becomes a pseudo-father figure to, look after her and stay strong on her behalf. Furthermore, Linus bonds with Fred and Russell, and their sense of solidarity and mutual respect abides until death do they part. They refuse to suspect one another, apportion blame or commit murder to please their captor. The message here is that the human spirit is fundamentally good. It is the same message as The Boy In The Striped Pyjamas: bad things happen in the world but we don’t need to lose our humanity if and when they do. What could be more uplifting, more hopeful than that? It’s quite the opposite of the message at the heart of Lord Of The Flies, and we’ve been teaching that at GCSE for decades.

Ultimately, I’m reluctant to agree with an ideology which seems to suggest that children are anything other than smaller, less experienced adults. They’re interested in a lot of things, in the boundaries of the world and its workings, and I can’t see how piquing that curiosity through literature could be a bad thing. Rejecting and censoring literature with such a warm P.O.V – just because the ‘V’ in question is so bleak – seems patronising and foolish to me. If you want to start censoring something with a bleak P.O.V, start with internet porn, which, by the way, pre-teens can reach far more quickly (and far more independently) than they can reach their local library.

Children don’t need sheltering from nasty things, is my ultimate opinion. They will come face to face with nasty things eventually, and what they perhaps do need before that happens is a range of strong, compassionate role models to aspire to and model themselves on. In Linus, Russell, and to an extent Fred and Jenny, The Bunker Diary offers young people just that. For me, that’s enough to mark it as a good YA read, but I’m not sure I’ve answered the question of what exactly defines it as YA fiction yet. Answers on a postcard for that one, please.

Emily x