Rooftoppers

Review by New York Times Review

IN MANY CLASSIC children's novels, parents are a problem best dispensed with early on. Life only gets interesting - if, typically, more unpleasant - once they are out of the way. Hence the popularity of the orphan plot, from Dickens to Rowling, and, lately, its contemporary cousin, the single-parent plot (see "The Hunger Games" and "Twilight"). In this last respect, "Rooftoppers," Katherine Rundell's winsome contribution to the genre, is a throwback, avoiding the hard-boiled life lessons of the modern child's thriller in favor of the wishful logic of the fairy tale. It opens on the high seas, where a baby, swaddled in the score of a Beethoven symphony, drifts along in a cello case, an improbable survivor of shipwreck. Thus is the baby liberated to the promise of an irregular life, though in Rundell's inspired twist Charles Maxim, the baby's rescuer and guardian, is no petty sadist, in the mold of Dickens's Edward Murdstone or Rowling's Vernon Dursley. Rather, Charles is a genteelly impoverished London bachelor, a fellow passenger on the doomed ship and, more important, a free spirit who provides his young charge with a satisfyingly unorthodox, if wholly benevolent, upbringing. Charles names the baby Sophie and promptly begins reading to her from "A Midsummer Night's Dream." Rundell, a Ph.D. candidate at Oxford and the author of a previous middle-grade novel, which will be released here next year, gets droll mileage from Charles's heretical repurposing of the contents of his beloved library: His copy of "Hamlet" becomes Sophie's booster seat; his Bible becomes her plate, a practical solution to her tendency to shatter china. None of this sits well with the lady from the National Child Care Agency, who makes a dreaded weekly call. Compounding her horror, Charles allows Sophie to wear trousers, climb trees and scrawl notes on the wallpaper in the front hall. ("The more words in a house the better," is his irreproachable defense.) Moreover, his attempt at childproofing consists of relabeling the whiskey bottle CAT'S URINE, an unsuccessful ruse: Sophie "had uncorked the bottle and sipped it, and then sniffed at the underside of the cat next door. They were not at all similar, though equally unpleasant." Worst of all, Charles indulges Sophie's fantasy that her mother - whom she claims to remember, a fuzzy impression of a cello and tapping feet - survived the shipwreck. "Never ignore a possible" is his mantra. It's pleasant to be cocooned in Charles and Sophie's domestic idyll, to be lulled by Rundell's gentle wit and inventive descriptions, particularly of bodies and faces: Sophie has "legs as long and thin as golf umbrellas" and "hair the color of lightning," while an inspector from the child care agency has "an expression like a damp sock." Just when the quaintness begins to feel treacly, Rundell sends Charles and Sophie fleeing to France. The effect is invigorating, like a pinch of cayenne in a cup of cocoa. The proceedings take a furtive, nocturnal turn, and Rundell's conjuring skills are at full power. With the child care agency bearing down, and only the slimmest of leads to go on, Charles and Sophie embark on a desperate search through Paris for her mother. After run-ins with the French police, and fearing for Sophie's safety, Charles confines her to her garret hotel room. On her own at last, she climbs through the skylight above her bed and into a marvelous, but just possible, world, populated by roof-dwelling orphans - the rooftoppers of the title - who readily undertake to assist her mother hunt. Parkour-style stunts ensue, including a heart-stopping tightrope walk 50 feet off the ground and a scramble to the bell tower of Notre Dame, where a rooftopper with impeccable manners and a jacket apparently sewn from doormats makes his home, as Quasimodo once did, among the gargoyles. There is also some after-hours diving in the Seine, and a rooftop brawl involving chimney pots and pigeon bones. The violence is muted and quickly over; Rundell is mostly interested in showing us how life so high up might actually work, down to pigeon-feather sheets and drainpipe toilets. "Adults are taught not to believe anything unless it is boring or ugly," Charles says at a moment of discouragement. "It is difficult to believe extraordinary things." Sophie and the rooftoppers know better. EMILY EAKIN has written for The New Yorker and The New York Times Magazine, among other publications.

Copyright (c) The New York Times Company [December 22, 2013]

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Review by Booklist Review

*Starred Review* When a ship sinks, a one-year-old baby is found floating in a cello case in the English Channel, wrapped in the score of a symphony. She is saved by one of the ­passengers, a gangly young scholar named Charles Maxwell. Charles decides to keep her. This will cause problems because a single man having a young girl as his ward is frowned upon in 1890s London. Until then, Sophie has a wonderful life living in his drafty house, being taught all manner of interesting things by Charles, and wearing whatever she likes, especially trousers. Yet, one thing bothers Sophie very much: she is sure her mother is still alive. When Sophie is 12, the authorities order her to an orphanage. Instead, Sophie and Charles flee to Paris, where the cello case was made the first clue to her origins. What follows is a glorious adventure set mostly on the rooftops of Paris. Sophie meets Matteo, who lives on Parisian roofs, and his pals, street kids who help her in her quest. The story is magic, though not in the usual sense. Rundell's writing is suffused with sparkling images Sophie's hair is the color of lightning and she writes with a perfect mix of dreaminess and humor. The characters shine, too: Charles, the perfect guardian, who uses toast as a bookmark; Matteo, miserable and marvelous by turns; and the inimitable, unsinkable (literally) Sophie, who doesn't give up. Here's a heartwarming charmer.--Cooper, Ilene Copyright 2010 Booklist

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.

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Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

A baby found floating in a cello case in the English Channel, and Charles Maxim, a scholar and fellow survivor of a mysterious shipwreck, become an unconventional family, guided by the philosophy that "You should never ignore a possible." Permissive but caring, Charles lets the baby, whom he names Sophie, write on walls, eat off books, climb things, and indulge in "mother-watching" as the years pass, until unwanted attention from the National Childcare Agency sends them in search of Sophie's cello-playing mother. In Paris, 12-year-old Sophie takes to the rooftops, guided by irrepressible roof-dweller Matteo, an orphanage escapee who literally shows her the ropes; in one breathtaking scene, he walks her on a tightrope between buildings ("Grip with your toes. Left. Stop. Do not look down"). Eccentric, tactile food imagery appears throughout, from Charles's pork pie served on the Bible to Matteo's fresh-cooked rat. While the children's uncanny survival skills take occasionally graphic turns, as in a brutal fight between rooftopper tribes, the beauty of sky, music, and the belief in "extraordinary things" triumph in this whimsical and magical tale. Ages 8-12. Agent: Claire Wilson, Rogers, Coleridge & White. (Sept.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

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Review by School Library Journal Review

Gr 3-7-A child's life started anew on its first birthday when she was found floating in a cello case after a shipwreck in the English Channel. After being rescued by a fellow passenger, Charles Maxim, she was named Sophie, and she had a happy though unconventional childhood with Charles. He was a memorable guardian: eccentric, loved and loving, and unmarried. None of this presented a huge problem until Sophie's 12th birthday when Sophie's trousers, lack of training in womanly arts, and other idiosyncrasies of the household were no longer acceptable to a rigid child welfare investigator, and Charles is informed that she will no longer be allowed to live with him; young ladies must have proper training, which is more readily available in an orphanage. Uncovering a clue in her cello case, Charles and Sophie set off to find Sophie's long-lost mother. Their quest takes them to Paris, where Charles pursues conventional lines of inquiry, while Sophie heads to the roofs of the city with a new friend, Matteo, and other "rooftoppers," orphaned children who live high above the city streets. Rich description brings scenes vividly into focus, as does the humorous interplay between characters. The mystery and magic of this exciting story (S & S, 2013) are enhanced by Nicola Barber's perfectly paced reading, well delivered all the way to the tale's satisfying conclusion.-Maria Salvadore, formerly of District of Columbia Public Library (c) Copyright 2014. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

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Review by Horn Book Review

Apparent orphan Sophie, on the run with her unconventional guardian Charles, meets a band of children who live on Paris's rooftops to avoid orphanages. Though this nineteenth-century yarn has no magical elements, its whimsy, insistence that one "never ignore a possible," and even its circular spot art give it a fantastical aura. Spoiler: Sophie is less alone than she thought. (c) Copyright 2014. The Horn Book, Inc., a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

(c) Copyright The Horn Book, Inc., a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

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Review by Kirkus Book Review

"Never ignore a possible." Sophie takes her beloved guardian's words to heart and never gives up on finding her long-lost mother. One-year-old Sophie is found floating in a cello case in the English Channel by Charles Maxim, a fellow passenger on the freshly sunk Queen Mary: "He noticed that it was a girl, with hair the color of lightning, and the smile of a shy person." He decides to keep her. The bookish pair lives a harmonious, gloriously unorthodox life together--she prefers trousers to skirts, knows the collective noun for toads and uses atlases as plates. The National Childcare Agency does not approve, so when a clue in Sophie's cello case links her mother to Paris, Charles and Sophie decide to skip town after her 12th birthday. Once ensconced in her Parisian attic hideaway, Sophie gets a skylight visit from a teenage "rooftopper" named Matteo, who eats pigeons and never, ever descends to street level. Sophie--anxious to help Charles find her mother--secretly joins the boy atop Paris night after night, listening for her cello-playing. Vivid descriptions of fierce kids in survival mode and death-defying rooftop scrambles are breathlessly exciting, as is the bubbling suspense of Sophie's impassioned search for the possible. Brava! This witty, inventively poetic, fairy-talelike adventure shimmers with love, magic and music. (Adventure. 9-12)]] Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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Rooftoppers 1 ON THE MORNING of its First Birthday, a baby was found floating in a cello case in the middle of the English Channel. It was the only living thing for miles. Just the baby, and some dining room chairs, and the tip of a ship disappearing into the ocean. There had been music in the dining hall, and it was music so loud and so good that nobody had noticed the water flooding in over the carpet. The violins went on sawing for some time after the screaming had begun. Sometimes the shriek of a passenger would duet with a high C. The baby was found wrapped for warmth in the musical score of a Beethoven symphony. It had drifted almost a mile from the ship, and was the last to be rescued. The man who lifted it into the rescue boat was a fellow passenger, and a scholar. It is a scholar's job to notice things. He noticed that it was a girl, with hair the color of lightning, and the smile of a shy person. Think of nighttime with a speaking voice. Or think how moonlight might talk, or think of ink, if ink had vocal cords. Give those things a narrow aristocratic face with hooked eyebrows, and long arms and legs, and that is what the baby saw as she was lifted out of her cello case and up into safety. His name was Charles Maxim, and he determined, as he held her in his large hands--at arm's length, as he would a leaky flowerpot--that he would keep her. The baby was almost certainly one year old. They knew this because of the red rosette pinned to her front, which read, 1! "Or rather," said Charles Maxim, "the child is either one year old or she has come first in a competition. I believe babies are rarely keen participants in competitive sport. Shall we therefore assume it is the former?" The girl held on to his earlobe with a grubby finger and thumb. "Happy birthday, my child," he said. Charles did not only give the baby a birthday. He also gave her a name. He chose Sophie, on that first day, on the grounds that nobody could possibly object to it. "Your day has been dramatic and extraordinary enough, child," he said. "It might be best to have the most ordinary name available. You can be Mary, or Betty, or Sophie. Or, at a stretch, Mildred. Your choice." Sophie had smiled when he'd said "Sophie," so Sophie it was. Then he fetched his coat, and folded her up in it, and took her home in a carriage. It rained a little, but it did not worry either of them. Charles did not generally notice the weather, and Sophie had already survived a lot of water that day. Charles had never really known a child before. He told Sophie as much on the way home: "I do, I'm afraid, understand books far more readily than I understand people. Books are so easy to get along with." The carriage ride took four hours; Charles held Sophie on the very edge of his knee and told her about himself, as though she were an acquaintance at a tea party. He was thirty-six years old, and six foot three. He spoke English to people and French to cats, and Latin to the birds. He had once nearly killed himself trying to read and ride a horse at the same time. "But I will be more careful," he said, "now that there is you, little cello child." Charles's home was beautiful, but it was not safe; it was all staircases and slippery floorboards and sharp corners. "I'll buy some smaller chairs," he said. "And we'll have thick red carpets! Although--how does one go about acquiring carpets? I don't suppose you know, Sophie?" Unsurprisingly, Sophie did not answer. She was too young to talk, and she was asleep. She woke when they drew up in a street smelling of trees and horse dung. Sophie loved the house at first sight. The bricks were painted the brightest white in London, and shone even in the dark. The basement was used to store the overflow of books and paintings and several brands of spiders, and the roof belonged to the birds. Charles lived in the space in between. At home, after a hot bath in front of the stove, Sophie looked very white and fragile. Charles had not known that a baby was so terrifyingly tiny a thing. She felt too small in his arms. He was almost relieved when there was a knock at the door; he laid Sophie down carefully on a chair, with a Shakespearean play as a booster seat, and went down the stairs two at a time. When he returned, he was accompanied by a large gray-haired woman; Hamlet was slightly damp, and Sophie was looking embarrassed. Charles scooped her up and set her down--hesitating first over an umbrella stand in a corner, and then over the top of the stove--inside the sink. He smiled, and his eyebrows and eyes smiled too. "Please don't worry," he said. "We all have accidents, Sophie." Then he bowed at the woman. "Let me introduce you. Sophie, this is Miss Eliot, from the National Childcare Agency. Miss Eliot, this is Sophie, from the ocean." The woman sighed--an official sort of sigh, it would have sounded, from Sophie's place in the sink--and frowned, and pulled clean clothes from a parcel. "Give her to me." Charles took the clothes from her. "I took this child from the sea, ma'am." Sophie watched, with large eyes. "She has nobody to keep her safe. Whether I like it or not, she is my responsibility." "Not forever." "I beg your pardon?" "The child is your ward. She is not your daughter." This was the sort of woman who spoke in italics. You would be willing to lay bets that her hobby was organizing people. "This is a temporary arrangement." "I beg to differ," said Charles. "But we can fight about that later. The child is cold." He handed the undershirt to Sophie, who sucked on it. He took it back and put it on her. Then he hefted her in his arms, as though about to guess her weight at a fair, and looked at her closely. "You see? She seems a very intelligent baby." Sophie's fingers, he saw, were long and thin, and clever. "And she has hair the color of lightning. How could you possibly resist her?" "I'll have to come round, to check on her, and I really don't have the time to spare. A man can't do this kind of thing alone." "Certainly, please do come," said Charles--and he added, as if he couldn't stop himself, "if you feel that you absolutely can't stay away. I will endeavor to be grateful. But this child is my responsibility. Do you understand?" "But it's a child! You're a man!" "Your powers of observation are formidable," said Charles. "You are a credit to your optician." "But what are you going to do with her?" Charles looked bewildered. "I am going to love her. That should be enough, if the poetry I've read is anything to go by." Charles handed Sophie a red apple, then took it back and rubbed it on his sleeve until he could see his face in it. He said, "I am sure the secrets of child care, dark and mysterious though they no doubt are, are not impenetrable." Charles set the baby on his knee, handed her the apple, and began to read out loud to her from A Midsummer Night's Dream. It was not, perhaps, the perfect way to begin a new life, but it showed potential. Excerpted from Rooftoppers by Katherine Rundell All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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