One of the creepiest books I remember reading as a young child was Lily Takes A Walk by Satoshi Kitamura. So creepy, in fact, that it inevitably became an obsession of mine. The book tells the story of a girl named Lily who takes regular walks into the heathlands outside her town, accompanied by Nicky, her faithful Jack Russell terrier. We follow them on the return journey of one such walk, as they navigate their way through the assortment of streets and back to Lily's house in the fading evening light. Early on, Kitamura establishes the central irony that haunts the story: "Even if it begins to get dark on the way home, Lily is never scared because Nicky is there with her." Unfortunately, the sentiment isn't mutual, for Nicky encounters a great deal on their seemingly ordinary journey that scares the jittery terrier to his wits' end, and having Lily there is blatantly of little consolation to him.
Lily Takes A Walk is a particularly witty example of how the illustrations of a picture book can be used to create additional layers of meaning for the narrative therein. The text and illustrations appear to be playfully at odds with one another, for they are not quite telling the same story. If you were to listen to a reading of the book without looking at the pictures, then you would get an entirely genial account of a fairly nondescript journey from Point A to Point B, with the aforementioned reference to the dark providing the only hint of any potential peril. Lily does some shopping for her mother, greets a neighbour, admires the bats and the evening star, pauses briefly to watch the ducks on the canal, and finally reaches home, where she is welcomed by the reassuring smell of a hot supper cooking. The text offers a very straightforward representation of how Lily perceives the walk. All very pleasant, you might think, but what was the point? The visuals, however, convey what the experience is like for her companion Nicky, and it's a markedly different one. Nicky sees dangers that Lily does not, with every step of the journey revealing another menace, another terrible set of eyes trailed upon them. To begin with these spectres have a degree of subtlety about them, which makes Lily's obliviousness more understandable - there are aptly camouflaged monsters masquerading as commonplace objects like trees and letterboxes. Sometimes multiple objects appear to come together to create a single entity - on one page, for example, Nicky sees how the moon, a clock tower and a street light, when viewed from a particular angle, combine to create a buck-toothed, beady-eyed face in the sky, an absurd image that is nevertheless unsettling with its suggestion of clandestine surveillance. As we get closer to home, the monsters get bolder and more prominent, and Lily's obtuseness to the matter seems increasingly ridiculous. Sights toward the end of their journey include a giant tomato-drinking vampire (he lacks the trademark fangs, but he has a pale complexion, appears around the bats and bears a marginal resemblance to Bela Lugosi, so vampire seems a safe bet), the Loch Ness Monster's canal-dwelling cousin and a pack of monsters raiding the trash cans outside of her house (in one of the book's quirkiest visual gags, one of these creatures is recognisably a hippopotamus).
Lily Takes A Walk was published by Picture Corgi Books in 1987 as part of a series known as "Spooky Surprise Books". So far as I can tell there were three other titles in this series - The Hairy Toe and Teeny Tiny by Amelia Rosato, both re-tellings of traditional horror yarns, and another title by Kitamura, Captain Toby. What they all have in common, besides a generally macabre theme (although Captain Toby is probably the least macabre of the lot) is a final, extended page folded over into a flap which the viewer is required to lift to reveal the story's closing visual punchline. In the case of Lily Takes A Walk, it's a befittingly odd punchline that utterly baffled me as a child and, even today, I'm not entirely sure how to make sense of it. But perhaps we can take a crack at it here.
There is an entire chapter dedicated to Lily Takes A Walk in the book Children Reading Pictures: Interpreting Visual Texts by Evelyn Azripe and Morag Styles, in which they document the reactions of young readers to the book. Some of their observations sync up with my own, others are much more divergent. Among the most interesting was the following: "...most readers were more concerned about the feelings of the over-imaginative dog than with the child, while at the same time laughing - not unkindly - at him. This also allows quite young readers to enjoy the experience of feeling a little more grown up and mature than the characters in the book." (p. 58). Interesting, because when I read this book as a small child I was very firmly on Nicky's side and the last thing I'd have done would be to laugh at him. It honestly never occurred to me that the demonic figures lurking on every street corner might only be figments of a paranoid mind - possibly pathologically so - whose facial recognition was working overtime. I guess back then I was very receptive to the idea that there might be hidden horrors lurking in the most mundane of places, monsters who were every bit as at home in modern cities as in secluded caves and marshes. I took it as a given that the dog was the smart and perceptive one, attuned to the terrifying reality of the world around him that passed his inattentive owner by, and that is the interpretation I still prefer. Throughout the former half of the journey, it seems reasonable enough to ascribe ambiguity to Nicky's perspective, when the monsters take the form of ostensibly commonplace objects, although it becomes harder to say what Nicky might otherwise be seeing when menaced by something as unambiguous as the canal monster. Moreover, if you read the illustrations as reflections of Nicky's dementia, then the story, while visually inventive, the story seems kind of funny and kind of sad but overall much less juicy. I am instead inclined to liken Lily's obliviousness throughout her walk to that of the hedgehog at the start of the 1975 film Hedgehog In The Fog, who is so accustomed to walking a particular route each evening to go stargazing with a friend that he fails to notice the owl that stalks him and gets frighteningly close on this particular journey. So too is Lily so comfortable with what has become a familiar routine to her that she repeatedly fails to pick up on the monstrosities lurking in plain sight - monstrosities that, perhaps disturbingly, only seem to get more and more conspicuous the closer she gets to the definitive comfort of home. Azripe and Styles observe that some readers see Lily's obliviousness to Nicky's fears as comparable to that of an insensitive parent, but contend that this "does not correspond to the representation of Lily as a child who enjoys the sunset and the stars and likes animals (even bats!)" This, though, strikes me as one of the story's great ironies - Lily does have a deep appreciation for the world around her and takes time to enjoy the various sights she encounters along the way, be it the evening star (or Dog Star), the swooping bats or Mrs Hall at her window. But her gaze is always averted away from the really critical event happening in every picture. There is another side to Lily's town that Lily herself lives in blissful ignorance of. She sees what she wants to see, or at least what she expects to see. The fact that this is all stated to be part of a regular routine raises questions as to what the walk typically looks like for Nicky. Is this the first time he's seen these monsters, or is he accustomed to the need to keep his guard up while walking? Is the implication that our heroes will go out again and Nicky will be subjected to the same nightmare visions on subsequent walks?
The plot of Lily Takes A Walk bears more than a passing resemblance to the classic 1948 Looney Tunes short Scaredy Cat, in which Porky Pig and Sylvester take up residence in a shadowy old manor where the previous occupants have apparently been dispatched by a cult of murderous murids, and Sylvester alone cottons onto the terrible danger they are in. In fact, I am half-inclined to interpret the puzzling ending of Kitamura's story as a tribute to Scaredy Cat - both involve nasty surprises from rodents with a flagrantly sick sense of humor. A major difference, however, is that Lily and Nicky's disparate perspectives never bring them into direct conflict as with Porky and Sylvester, with Lily remaining cheerfully oblivious not only to the nightmares on her street, but also to Nicky's corresponding behaviours. That, I suppose, is the poignancy nestled at the heart of Lily Takes A Walk - Nicky's total inability to open up and communicate his troubled perspective to Lily, in part because he lacks a voice to begin with, but also because Lily doesn't seem terribly interested in him. It would be unfair to suggest that Lily ignores Nicky altogether, for she talks to him regularly throughout their journey. The early pages make it clear that she values the dog's companionship, yet she pays him very little in the way of close attention. The one thing Lily consistently fails to do throughout the story is to look at Nicky, except on the title page, which Arizpe and Styles correctly identify as the only instance in the book in which Nicky displays any kind of positive energy: "The title page belies the cover in that the dog is actually looking quite happy to be going for a walk. Perhaps this is because they are just starting out or because Lily is actually looking at him for once." They're incorrect about that first point, as the illustration shows Lily and Nicky not starting out on their journey, but actually on the heath, the location in which we are told they will sometimes walk for hours and hours, but which is represented only briefly in the story proper.
The opening page is notable for being the only illustration in the entire book to conceal no discreet (or otherwise) menace (besides the aforementioned title page, and even that's up for debate - see below). We see Lily and Nicky on their way out to the heath, walking along a pavement and past an apparently ordinary tree. What's interesting about this page is that both characters are breaking the fourth wall and looking directly at the reader (it isn't the only time that Lily does this). On the next page, we jump to them already out on the heath, at the furthest point from home we'll find our heroes throughout the course of the story. It is, perhaps not coincidentally, the most serene and picturesque illustration in Kitamura's book - there is an atmospheric calm amid the lush greenery and open space of the heathland not replicated in any of the sights of the town, represented here by a small collection of buildings stretching off into the distance, beckoning our heroes with the reminder that they must ultimately return to its hold. Even here, there is a hidden disturbance, for as Nicky cocks his leg against a clump of grass he becomes aware of a snake gazing back at him from an adjacent tree. Compared to the menagerie of surreal delights awaiting our heroes on the route back home, the snake on the heath seems like a positively humdrum detail, a harmless (in all odds) and not entirely unexpected sight to encounter while out in the wilds (unlike that trash-hungry hippo at the end of the journey). Yet there is something undeniably sinister about the snake; it stares at Nicky with an intensity, and a crooked smile that suggest a conspiratorial nature to its appearance, as if it knows and enjoys the fact that only Nicky can see it. This page establishes the prevailing dynamic of the story - Lily is staring, apparently deep in contemplation, at the world around her, her back turned to both Nicky and the snake, and by extension the reader. This clues us in that though Lily may be the title character, it is Nicky with whom our sympathies are to be aligned.
The text, coupled with the slightly shadowy ambience of the illustration, indicate that Lily and Nicky have reached the end of their most recent session on the heath and will soon be preparing to make the dreaded (for Nicky, anyway) trek home. In this regard, the snake functions as a kind of omen of the terrors that lie ahead. The buildings in the distance too seem more like a threat of what is to come than a reassuring reminder that home is within walking distance. We might relate this illustration back to that on the title page, which presumably shows an earlier, more carefree point from their adventure, suggesting that, snakes aside, Nicky does actually enjoy the heath portion of their excursions. That is the other great irony of Kitamura's story - the implication that Nicky feels his safest when he is at his furthest from home. The necessity of having to return there is what poisons his particular Eden. The title page seems to represent the purest state for both Lily and Nicky, when the two are at their most mutually happy and untroubled, but even then we see a slight spot of trouble on the horizon in the form of a single building nestled off in the distance, its out of place appearance and multitude of dark windows making it seem like it is the hidden menace of this particular illustration.
I am very conscious that I recently wrote a little piece on the 1982 film Koyaanisqatsi, which also follows a trajectory from nature into urbanisation, with an implicit message that expansion of the latter is gradually eroding the former. Although I don't detect an overtly environmentalist theme to Kitamura's story, it too conveys a distrust of urbanisation, which stands in contrast to the relative serenity of the natural world. I suspect that, largely, Kitamura is having fun with the irony that the dangers get more egregious the closer Lily and Nicky get to home, but there is something distinctly haunting about the entire character of the urban landscape they traverse, even without Nicky's monsters there to personify its covertly unpleasant nature. It is notable, for instance, that the town does not appear to be particularly well-populated; early in her journey, Nicky interacts with a market vendor, who ends up being the only other form of human life we see stirring in the outside world. We are informed in the text that Lily waves to a neighbour, Mrs Hall, as she passes her window, but Mrs Hall is not represented in the illustrations. Instead, Lily appears to wave directly at the reader, in her second instance of fourth wall breaking, leading to a curious paradox where the reader temporarily assumes the role of Mrs Hall and is complicit in Lily's facade of a warm and cozy community, whilst getting a window-side view of Nicky and his buck-toothed sky monster. The only other resident glimpsed throughout the journey, for the eagle-eyed reader, is a figure staring out of a distant window in the vampire illustration. The lack of residents out on the streets might not strike us as overly unusual, given that most of the journey takes place at night, but even then only a minority of houses have lit windows. Most of the buildings stand in eerie darkness, raising the possibility that they aren't occupied at all. Kitamura depicts the town as a dead, artificial space filled with unnatural lifeforms. Conversely, in some cases these lifeforms take on natural guises, such as the monstrous tree Lily and Nicky pass, suggesting a nature that has been corrupted by the imposition of the town. In the case of the sky monster, we have the natural and the unnatural literally combining to create a great uncanny entity. Others, such as the snarling letterbox that devours and regurgitates letters, suggest a corruption of industry and technology, it having turned against its original purpose to facilitate communication. The enormous vampire emerging from an advertising billboard promoting a brand of tomato juice, meanwhile, puts a comically monstrous face on the kind of consumer culture examined in Koyaanisqatsi. While I am not fond of the interpretation that the monsters are merely figments of Nicky's imagination, I am prepared to accept them as symbolism for a darker, more distasteful side to this town and its absent community, of which Lily remains entirely innocent. It is a grunginess only vaguely hinted at in the town's darkened alleys and the various items of litter seen strewn across the streets.
Unfortunately for Nicky, the story does not stop once he and Lily reach the ostensible safety of home. After all, what makes us think he's going to be any safer indoors in the company of Lily and her parents? The following illustration shows a continuation of Nicky's plight, with Lily and her parents at the dinner table, as Lily, as per the text, describes everything she has seen on her walk, while Nicky, alone (or so he thinks) with his own food bowl at the corner of the room, makes a futile attempt to communicate his side of the story. His frantic expression, coupled with the barrage of speech bubbles containing images of the assortment of monsters he has seen on route (the snake is absent, suggesting that we should discount it as part of the pattern), convey his eagerness to be heard, but he is predictably paid no attention. The display of family unity in this illustration is tempered by Nicky's evident exclusion. It is also one of only two points in the story in which Lily is shown within the presence of adult supervision, the other being the market vendor who sells her a bunch of flowers. A question that never crossed my mind as a child but bothers me a lot as an adult is that of just how old is Lily intended to be. The assortment of toys in her bedroom suggest that she probably isn't older than 12, but that begs the question as to why her parents would allow her to go on these long, unsupervised treks through the darkness at all. I appreciate that some suspension of disbelief is often required with these books, but nowadays I can't help but see a slight subtext here about parental negligence, with Lily's obliviousness to Nicky's upset suggesting that she is inheriting, whether by nature of nurture, her parents' own casual attitude toward her. Crucially, in her parents' single appearance, her father's eyes are closed and her mother has her back to the reader, much like Lily in the early illustration upon the heath, suggesting that both maintain their own wilful blindness to the situation.
The disturbance in the dining room is the most low-key of the story, and you might not even notice it on your first read. There is a fifth presence in the room, not far from Nicky and his bowl, and apparently taking an interest in the dog. This time, Nicky himself doesn't even see it.
We're now onto the final page of the story, and here's where we finally get into the source of so much childhood confusion for me. I mentioned that a key characteristic of the Spooky Surprise was that the final page was always extended, the extended portion being folded over into a flap you had to lift to reveal the story's ultimate spooky surprise. In the case of Lily Takes A Walk, we find ourselves in Lily's bedroom, as she retires to bed following what has been (from her perspective) an entirely agreeable day. The folded portion of the page shows a rather miserable-looking Nicky in his dog basket; here, he doesn't look afraid so much as physically and emotionally weary. The final words of text take the form of the fondest of wishes from Lily to her dog: "Goodnight. Sleep well." We suspect there is little chance of that, however, even before we lift the flap, which reveals Nicky being startled yet again, this time by a swarm of mice who have crawled out from the skirting board, complete with their own miniature ladder so that they can access the top of his basket. As I say, there are definite shades of Scaredy Cat here.
What always puzzled me about this ending, as a child, had less to do with the intentions of the mice (it is unclear whether their actions are carried out in a misguided attempt to befriend the nervous dog or if they purposely enjoy unsettling him further) as the implications of that fold-out page. It was unclear to me which of the two illustrations I should take as the final one. After all, if you turned over the extended page the top of the flap, showing the exhausted Nicky, forms part of another illustration, in which the mice and their ladder are just visible from the skirting board. I was never entirely sure if this image was intended to be an extension of the original scene in Lily's bedroom, before we lift the flap to reveal the mice around Nicky's basket, or if it represents the aftermath, with the mice retreating back into the hole with their ladder, and Nicky resuming his previous expression, yet again weary of it all, not least that he allowed some mice to get the better of him. If the former, then the problem is that it is impossible to view the complete scene at once. If the latter, then it suggests a slightly more positive outcome for Nicky, who is at least shown being left in peace by one of his aggravators at the end of the story. And that makes all the difference, particularly when you're a young reader - at what point in the story do we leave poor Nicky? I own two other books from the Spooky Surprise series - Teeny Tiny and Captain Toby (currently, every single price tag I've seen on The Hairy Toe has been way too high) - and unfortunately they don't add any clarity to the situation, as in both their cases, the other side of the extended page is blank, other than what's on the flap.
Either way, the final message is clear - there can be no place of genuine safety for the beleaguered Nicky. Even Lily's ostensible shrine to childhood warmth and innocence offers little comfort. In some respects this is the venue that most evokes a wilderness, ironically so since it is at the heart of our urban labyrinth. Lily's room is populated by a variety of plush animals, she has a calendar depicting a scene not unlike the heath she has returned from, and on the wall, close to Nicky's basket, is a poster of a tiger wading through long grasses. But these too are unnerving images. The tiger in particular seems to have been deliberately positioned so as to appear to be looking at Nicky, giving us an uneasy sense of a predator stalking its prey. Most of the plush animals, meanwhile, have wide, frantic eyes, suggesting an unsettled environment in a state of constant vigilance. It seems to evoke the more brutal side of nature, as a place in which animals are obligated to watch their backs at all times for fear of predation - somewhat conversely, as it is positioned within the context of a child's optimum place of comfort. Among the flesh and blood animals within the room, we get a playful subversion of traditional predator/prey dynamics, with Nicky, a terrier, being terrorised by a pack of rodents. The mice, naturally, represent a breakdown of the barriers between wilderness and domesticity, with the irony that the wilderness recreated inside Lily's bedroom is not the same one lurking right outside her doorstep. The images in Lily's room suggest a nature that has been broken in and defanged, in spite of their uncanny aura. The plush toys and tiger poster constitute a domestic remodelling of a wilderness that either no longer exists or is slowly vanishing, and being replaced by a wilderness of a different kind, one far more twisted and perverse but so mundane and familiar to its inhabitants that they do not feel the same need for vigilance as our jungle friends, and its numerous horrors go unnoticed. Indeed, the real hidden menace in the bedroom illustration is not the mice, but rather the building we can just make out through the gap in Lily's window where the curtains have not been fully drawn. It is as if the building, with its characteristically darkened windows, is peering on our heroes as they settle down to sleep, a threatening reminder that they must eventually venture out and repeat the nightmarish cycle all over again.
The one truly heart-warming detail in the final illustration is the picture Lily has been drawing on her desk, a picture of Nicky. The dog really is number one in Lily's world. All the more poignant, then, that she never seems to pick up on his.
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