THE BOY, THE WOLF, THE SHEEP AND THE LETTUCE (10+)
By Allan Ahlberg
Puffin; £8.99; 96pp
ISBN 0 141 38069 1
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Philip Pullman, now acknowledged as one of the greatest children’s authors of our time, is also one of the funniest and most accessible.

This may come as a surprise to those who have read only that saturnine Miltonic masterpiece, His Dark Materials, rather than The Firework-Maker’s Daughter, Clockwork and I was a Rat. It was these books, written in simple yet sinewy prose, which taught my own children to read for pleasure, and which have proved unfailing sources of excitement, joy and inspiration to thousands of primary school children all over the world.

The Scarecrow and His Servant lives in this instantly appealing no-man’s land between fairy story, pantomime and literary fiction. A scarecrow is constructed by an old man who hides a letter inside it. The old man dies, and the scarecrow is stolen repeatedly by farmers until one day, struck by lightning, it comes to life. He has a turnip for a head and a kindly, serious, profoundly stupid nature. Luckily for him, he acquires Jack, a poor orphan boy, as his servant and adviser. Dauntless, they set off to look for adventure and — this being a land torn by war, brigands and greedy Buffalonis — rapidly find it. Arms, legs and even a head transplant can’t stop them.

Pullman’s inspiration bubbles up from the same sources as before. There is a thespian interlude, when the scarecrow finds himself on stage and takes his part all too seriously (with hilarious results), a shrewd yet innocent child abroad, pursued by authority in the shape of the wicked Buffaloni lawyer, and a partnership that grows into friendship.

On another level, The Scarecrow is an incarnation of Don Quixote, with Jack as his Sancho Panza, and their adventures mirror prejudices and villainies in our own world. Jack embodies the power of the storyteller when, trapped by brigands, he tells a tale about the brigands themselves and then, at the climax, terrifies them into leaving by causing the story apparently to come to life.

The Scarecrow is the obstinate romantic hero, in love with a broom (who goes off with a rake) and so stupid that he insists on being an officer when he and Jack enlist in the Army; yet completely charming, gentle and noble, sacrificing his own head in order to keep the starving boy alive. The lunacy of war is pointedly laughed at, as is the foolishness of quarrels between different peoples. The scarecrow endures a climactic courtroom trial in which the letter plays a crucial role. The story ends as confidently as it begins, written for children with utter respect for and delight in their intelligence, humour and imagination.

Would that the same could be said of Allan Ahlberg’s The Boy, The Wolf, the Sheep and the Lettuce. I bow to no one in my enjoyment of his picture-books and their teasing post-modern riffs on nursery-rhymes, fairytales and the act of storytelling. Pullman’s novel itself recalls the brigands from Ahlberg’s It Was A Dark and Stormy Night.

But this latest foray, building a plot of sorts around the riddle about how a boy ferries a sheep, a wolf and a lettuce across in a boat made only for two is arch, muddled and self-indulgent. Genius demands a continual purification and renewal of talent. Pullman has realised that, and it’s why he is great.

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