Then there are the Agony Aunts, a vicious pair of head cases who work as heavies and protectors for the Seamstresses, under the employ of a mysterious lady known mostly as Madam. I loved these two, a great example of the kind of freaky throwaway background characters that Pratchett does so well. I especially liked that they didn’t have to be female. He could have done anything to illustrate ‘infamous comedy enforcers’ but he went with terrifying old ladies, like the Kray brothers but with scones and knitting.
Another strong if minor female character is Sandra, who provides payoff for a decade of cheap jokes about “seamstresses”. She’s the real seamstress who actually does darning and mending, a rarity in the city because the others are sick of being mistaken for sex workers and have gone off to live in other cities. The scene in which she and Rosie discuss a sexual reference Sandra didn’t understand (mirroring a similar scene between Vimes and his younger self) is the one that helps the book to technically pass the Bechdel Test. And of course there’s more to Sandra than meets the eye—as Vimes discovers when he starts wondering why her laundry basket is so heavy.
Madam is a fascinating character, and her relationship to the young assassin Vetinari (her nephew) tells us a lot about his past and the formation of his character. The plot about the conspiracy to put a new Patrician on the throne is heavy with irony, and serves to demonstrate to Vimes as well as the reader why the present Vetinari’s rule is so important. I liked that the Seamstresses are motivated by wanting to set up their own Guild (something we know to exists back in the future), and that the book shows off their political deviousness.
Cheery, like Angua, doesn’t have much of a role in this book, because they are both too young and new to the Watch to be a part of the time period that Vimes visits. However, there is an adorable scene with Cheery at the very beginning of the book, which made me crazy happy.
The whole Watch is on the lookout for a dangerous man, and when he is located, Vimes is horrified to discover that Cheery is the officer on the spot. Not because she’s female (that thought doesn’t enter his head) but because she’s the forensics officer, not ‘street’ and will do things by the book, which this particular criminal will use against her. When Vimes gets there, however, he finds that Cheery has made a succession of very smart and practical decisions as to the distribution of officers and resources. This time, when Vimes thinks the word ‘forensic’ to himself, it’s with a small nod of respect.
So yes, Cheery is only in the novel for five minutes, but she kicks competent arse!
Finally, there is Doctor Lawn, who is male, but whose involvement in the story is all about women’s issues. Apart from him being a cynical, entertaining character in his own right (an excellent foil for Vimes), the good doctor specialises in gynaecological services, including (as conveyed in a very understated conversation) contraception and abortion. Considering how often prostitutes are glamorised and set up as sex object window dressing in bog-standard fantasy fiction (the kind that Pratchett’s work has reacted against from the beginning) I thought it important to note that these issues are addressed as a necessary side effect of looking closely at the role of prostitution in society. I also appreciated that this necessity was kept separate from any moral judgement on the part of the characters or the author.
However, I am uncomfortable with the scene at the end where Vimes calls one last time upon his friendship with Doctor Lawn. Childbirth can be dangerous, and it is absolutely one of the highest-stakes moments in many people’s lives, but the portrayal of it in fantasy and science fiction (not to mention pop culture generally) is hugely problematic. One of the over-used tropes is the childbirth scene becoming about the man and what he can do to save the day, rather than being about the woman doing all the work.
I can forgive Sybil’s labour and birth being turned into a panicky mercy dash scene that’s all about Vimes—after all, he is the protagonist of this book, which is his story about impending fatherhood with extra metaphors coming into play after he becomes the man who once taught his younger self how to be a good policeman. And I am pleased that the birth of young Sam serves as an occasion to bring closure to Vimes’ friendship with Doctor Lawn, just as the scene with the Patrician cleverly provides closure to all the other important bits of the time travel aspect of the novel (though I would have LOVED to see Vimes talking to an adult Mrs Palm, as Rosie is the only character he spends a lot of time with in the past who doesn’t get closure at the end of the book).
But the thing that breaks Night Watch a tiny bit for me, the thing I can’t entirely forgive, is the way that Sybil’s (unseen) previously competent and practical midwife proves to be suddenly lacking, and it is the doctor who is brought in to save the day. I especially found myself grinding my teeth when Doctor Lawn lectures everyone about the revolutionary practice of boiling everything and promoting good hygiene. In the history of midwifery, THIS IS NOT WHAT HAPPENED. In fact, when the male doctors elbowed the mostly-female midwifes away from involvement in childbirth during the Victorian era, maternal death skyrocketed because of the increase of infections, thanks to doctors not bothering to wash their hands before or after vaginal examinations.
Sure, this is one story, and it works. The narrative is completely cohesive, and the conclusion of Night Watch wouldn’t be as satisfying without this scene. Not a word is wasted. It’s great writing. But it bugs me, because we end up with yet another narrative in which men know better than women about the female body. I expect better than this from Pratchett when it comes to remembering the sticky bits of human social history. I suspect, in fact, that this is another case of the Double Subversion problem (as seen with Sergeant Angua in Jingo) where the character of the doctor is deliberately set up to be a contrast to Pratchett’s previously conveyed attitudes towards medicine, midwifery, women and witchcraft (say, in the Witches books) and the double subversion means that the character ends up reinforcing a tired and dangerous stereotype.
I feel like I haven’t touched on many of the most important aspects of this story, and why it works so wonderfully well. There’s a reason for that. My remit for these posts is to look at the portrayal of women in the Discworld books, and while I find the portrayal of women in Night Watch interesting, what makes it such a spectacular Discworld novel has nothing to do with the women at all. Night Watch has more women and female issues in it than I remembered, and for the most part (with that one glaring, flawtastic exception) those women and issues are handled respectfully. It’s not quite one of those masterpieces that couldn’t be improved with a greater involvement of female characters, but it is a very, very good book. And I still love it. Hooray!
7
Has Scythe, Will Teach School
Soul Music (1994)
Hogfather (1996)
Thief of Time (2001)
Rereading all three of the Susan Sto Helit (or Susan Death) books was something I had been greatly looking forward to. I’ve always enjoyed Susan as a character even when I don’t especially love the books she featured in—Soul Music, for instance, is not a favourite of mine, though the animated version of it is dear to my heart (funnily enough it DOES work better as a musical with a genuine soundtrack), Hogfather is one I’ve often found bewildering with moments of occasional joy, and before this reread I didn’t remember anything about Thief of Time.
This time around, I enjoyed all three, but thanks to the theme of these essays, I couldn’t help noticing that, well.
Considering what a popular and memorable character Susan is, it’s interesting how small a space she takes up in each of ‘her’ books.
Discworld novels are always ensemble productions; this is part of their charm. But it was a shock to discover that while Susan grows up and develops into an awesome adult from book to book, the books are never actually about her—she’s not a protagonist, but fills the role of mentor/helper.
In each book, Susan starts out with a vivid and interesting introduction, then wanders in and out of the rest of the book being cr
oss at people, exchanging banter with the minor supporting cast and not getting in the way of the plot; finally at the end she is generally unleashed as part of an epic showdown which is keyed to her talents, allows for character development, and shows how awesome she is.
I don’t want to fall into the trap of reviewing books negatively for not meeting my own (possibly unrealistic) expectations, but this is so interesting to me in the light of how iconic Susan has become. She is, for instance, the young female character most often cited to me as an example of ‘strong women in the Discworld’.
We first meet Susan in Soul Music, where she is a schoolgirl with mysterious abilities and a sharp tongue. She’s immediately fantastic on the page—sarcastic and intelligent but guarded, all her secret hurts piled up inside where no one, even the reader, can get access to them.
Soul Music is a sequel to Mort, one of the most narratively satisfying and well plotted of the early Discworld novels; it’s generally regarded as the one where the series ‘got good’. Mort is about Death’s apprentice, who fails at the job, but succeeds awkwardly in hooking up with Death’s adopted daughter Ysabell (this potential marriage is the reason he is hired in the first place). A key plot point revolves around Mort’s inability to accept the needs of the Duty, and how he wrongly saves the life of an assassinated princess, throwing reality into a tailspin because of a pretty face. At the end of his book, he dies and Death turns the hourglass over to give him more time, but mathematics are a bitch, and that means he’s probably only going to get as much time again as he has already had…
Susan’s story in Soul Music mirrors the story of Mort, her father. Shortly after both her parents are killed in a carriage accident, she is left to pick up the pieces when her grief-stricken Grandfather (Death) abandons the Duty in order to ‘forget’. Susan acquires the scythe, the rat and her Grandfather’s job…and starts to remember all those odd family visits from when she was very young.
Susan’s storyline, and Death’s storyline, are both subplots. The main plot of Soul Music is about how a young musician, Buddy, is possessed by an ancient evil inside a guitar and invents Music With Rocks In with a little help from his band. This is one of several Discworld novels featuring a magical pop culture invasion. It looks like Susan, who is rather taken with Buddy, is going to save him from assassins just as her father did for Princess Keli—but she doesn’t. The music saves him instead, and warps reality. Rather than being the cause of the disaster, Susan is the one who cleans up the mess.
Susan stays mostly in the background of her debut novel, only occasionally crossing paths with the Band (to be mistaken as a groupie) until the final act.
Soul Music passes the Bechdel Test, as there is a scene early on where Susan talks with her headmistress, another with her school friends, and a very cute one with a Valkyrie who reminds her of a gym mistress, but the majority of her scenes involves her interacting with men or male characters: Albert, the rat and the raven; the Band; Ridcully and the wizards, Death.
The climax of the story is very much about Susan and Death coming to an accord, and sharing/understanding their mutual loss—as well as resolving the elephant in the room, which is that Death allowed his own family to die. Buddy and the Band literally fade out as the story is revealed to have been about Susan and Death and their issues all along. However, I’m not convinced that the two plots had enough to tie them together, despite some clever uses of thematic resonance to pretend they are part of the same story.
Revealing at the end of a book that someone is actually the protagonist is not quite as effective as letting her be the protagonist all the way through.
Susan and Buddy are worth mentioning because of their blink-and-you’ll-miss-it romance, which is a pattern repeated across the Susan stories—when attracted to young men, she will typically show no outward sign of this attraction whatsoever, and so it tends not to go anywhere. In this case, the story ends on a note that suggests that the two of them might have a future in which they at least know each other (a low bar for a successful relationship, even in the Discworld) but we never hear of him again.
In Hogfather, the Discworld is under yet another magical threat, mostly involving male characters. Death removes himself from the equation again, leaving Susan to pick up the scythe and take over. It’s basically Soul Music with Hogswatchnight (the Discworld Christmas) and the Tooth Fairies, instead of Music With Rocks In. The wizards even leap about in yet another a slapstick subplot.
I’ve never loved Hogfather—it belongs to an era of Discworld novels that I did not appreciate upon first read, and it’s one of those Pratchett novels like Carpe Jugulum that actually makes no sense until you’re reading it for the second or third time. I know it’s a beloved favourite for many, but for me everything cool about it (like the conflagration of mythologies and folklore) is done far better in other Discworld novels.
Having said that, Hogfather has some excellent bits, and Susan is magnificent even if once again she is relegated to the role of helper/mentor/tidy-upper-of-disasters and isn’t allowed to play with the plot-relevant main characters for more than short bursts.
What most irritates me about Hogfather is not that Susan isn’t the protagonist, it’s that there is no protagonist at all—or if there is, then it is the crazed assassin Teatime, who is a very unpleasant character to follow around. For this reason I think I prefer the TV movie to the book, because of not being in anyone’s head, plus the bonus of Michelle Dockery’s fabulous eyebrows. I always mean to make Hogfather the book a Christmas reading tradition as I know many Pratchett fans do, but never make myself do it. The movie, however, I can definitely see myself making part of an annual ritual.
Ahem. But let’s get back to talking about the book. The Susan we meet in Hogfather has moved beyond her schooldays to become a governess, and the scenes in which she does this actively are the best in the book. It makes me wonder how governesses who don’t have eldritch powers possibly cope with the requirements of the job, particularly when it comes to dealing with monsters under the bed.
(Victorian Clara in the Doctor Who story “The Snowmen” has to be at least partly based on Susan Death, whom she resembles far more than Mary Poppins.)
Susan’s steely practicality is shown to great effect when she and little Twyla give one particular monster a good seeing to with the poker, while the ignorant parents and their upper crust friends think the whole thing is an amusing bit of child psychology. It’s worth noting that young Twyla and Tooth Fairy Violet are the only female characters Susan interacts with, and neither have more than a couple of scenes in the book.
There’s a fair bit of psychology (or in Discworld terms, Headology) going on in this book. Susan’s childhood and her lack of romanticism turn out to be useful for this particular adventure, which revolves around the childhood belief in the Hogfather. The skills she has picked up from wiping little noses and pinning up brightly coloured paintings (not to mention telling improbable stories to wide-eyed four-year-olds) turn out to be vital survival skills, a twist I appreciate as a mother myself.
Once again, Susan appears in fewer scenes than I expected, and while she is the one who fights Teatime with her ruthless governessing skills, more than once, it still doesn’t feel like she is being treated like a hero or a protagonist by the narrative. Her interactions with Bilious, the Oh God of Hangovers, follow the pattern of Susan’s super-subtle romances (to be fair this one is so subtle I’m not even sure it’s supposed to be read that way) and he falls happily in love with someone else over the course of the story. Susan’s reaction is a quiet and understated deflation as if she hadn’t even decided if she liked him yet, and is determined to be nothing more than mildly wistful about his sudden attachment to the rather soppy Tooth Fairy Violet.
More and more, Susan is outside the human race, looking in.
While the book as a whole is quite uneven, I do love the ending of Hogfather, where Susan beats Teatime in the traditional scythe-wielding way in the Tooth Fairy
’s castle, and then has to save the day for a second time by rescuing the mythic version of the Hogfather in form of a frightened wild boar, and then after all that, it’s third time lucky when the threat turns domestic.
In the home of her employers, a battered and vicious Teatime makes a final appearance, demanding that Susan choose between saving her children and Death himself. Susan throws the nursery poker (which only kills monsters) through Death and into Teatime, killing him.
Once again, the finale behaves as if Susan was always the protagonist of the story, rather than someone helping out. If only the middle of the book felt the same way!
This pattern is repeated once again in Thief of Time. There’s less focus on Death, who doesn’t get much of a subplot to himself this time around, and this allows for more Susan page time. But not a lot more. The Auditors, the otherworldly creatures of Order who were behind Teatime’s attack on the Hogfather, now attempt to stop time itself through the creation of a truly perfect glass clock out of a fairy tale.
The titular Thief of Time is a young orphan, Lobsang Ludd, who was raised by the Monks of History and turns out to be the illegitimate son of Time herself. He is taken on as an apprentice by Lu-Tze the Sweeper, who prepares him for a great quest, to stop the building of the clock and save history.
The master-apprentice relationship between the two men is smart and banterific, with all manner of hidden depths. Lu-Tze feels like an amalgam of a whole bunch of racial stereotypes, but he’s still enjoyable on the page, with his subversive attitude towards heroics, violence and traditional masculinity. He feels at times like a male amalgam of Granny Weatherwax and Nanny Ogg—capable of great power, but most happy when people see nothing but a little old unthreatening person and underestimate him like whoa.
Pratchett's Women: Unauthorised Essays on Female Characters of the Discworld Page 5
