Like many readers who have a modicum of Internet awareness, I’ve spent a fair bit of time trying to find a thing to replace Harry Potter as my go-to “wizard school” series. There are, of course, many to choose from. Ursula Le Guin infamously said of Harry Potter that the work is, to paraphrase, derivative of a genre of boarding school tales, some of them featuring magic and some of them not. Indeed, one doesn’t have to go far to find obvious influences on the HP series, some of them so blatant that they border on plagiarism (or, in the case of the author claiming they were unaware, incredulity). The Worst Witch (1974) by Jill Murphy preceded the first HP novel by 23 years and is perhaps the most obvious of more popular novel’s influences. It is also an example, if you’ll forgive me saying it, of a book whose story and tropes were better presented when pilfered by successor novels in the same genre.
The first novel in the series follows Mildred Hubble, a first-year at Cackle’s Academy, a boarding school for young witches. The main plot centers on Mildred attempting to teach her new familiar (a cat she names Tabby and which is the only cat that isn’t black) while avoiding the ire of rival student Ethel and potions master Miss Hardbroom and making a fool of the school. Naturally, she mostly fails at all of these things and only avoids an uncomfortable “interview” with headmistress Cackle by uncovering a convenient plot by Cackle’s sister to take over the school. The cat may or may not learn to balance on a broom by the final page…
While one can’t ignore the similarities between The Worst Witch and its successor, especially if you watch the most recent adaptation on Netflix (Snape and Miss Hardbroom are basically twins), I think the more damning reality is the novel’s fundamental core: cruelty to children. I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised, though. It is called The Worst Witch, yet in reading the first book (and watching part of the recent adaptation), it becomes apparent that this is not a book that interrogates the meaning of its title. The book means it, and that comes loaded with a number of additional assumptions that the first book doesn’t bother to interrogate because, I imagine, it’s meant to be funny — and, well, it might be to people who think treating children like garbage in a school is lolfunny. For me, it had the effect of making me rather dislike Murphy’s novel; it also surprised me to come out of the experience feeling that Harry Potter — a series in which adults frequently place children in dangerous situations for a variety of questionable reasons — might not have been as cruel as I had originally thought — though it, too, is quite cruel.
The cruelties leveled on Mildred are not merely rivalries with students. Rivalries are a fairly common school experience that pretty much anyone can understand. Indeed, one expects some of that animosity and conflict to emerge between school children, though perhaps not as potentially dangerous as Mildred’s relationship with Ethel, the latter of whom intentionally sabotages the broom she lets Mildred borrow. The real core of this cruelty rests in the institution of the school and its teachers. The obvious figure is Miss Hardbroom, an aptly named character who seems to always be waiting for Mildred (and her friend Maud) to slip up. When those errors inevitably happen — children making mistakes being rather obvious — Hardbroom is there to berate them, even when the error is due to a lack of instruction. For Hardbroom, children must adhere to certain norms of learning and behavior even if the children meant to adhere to these are not fully capable of it yet or simply don’t understand. It does not occur to anyone that perhaps the error is pedagogical in nature.
I might forgive the book for Miss Hardbroom if she were the only teacher to be so cruel to the children she’s meant to teach, but even Miss Cackle, who is mostly positioned as the kind sort in exposition, is prone to this cruelty. When Mildred and Maud accidentally make themselves temporarily invisible during a potions “test,” Mildred is sent to Miss Cackle’s office and is told by the headmistress that she “must be the worst witch in the entire school” (39). This seems like an overly brutal thing to say to a child. I might expect it of Ethel; I did not expect this from the headmistress. Why would you say such a thing to a child? And is it any surprise that Mildred later attempts to run away rather than face expulsion when even the teachers are not on her side? Of course, nothing in the story tries to temper this by giving Mildred better instruction, providing educational tips, etc. These moments exist to knock Mildred down from her already fairly low peg. She bumbles, as some children do, and this becomes a source of ridicule and belittlement from everyone, including, at one point, Maud, the best friend.
As I read this, I kept asking myself why I was meant get out of this experience. Is this meant to be charming (it isn’t)? Is it meant to convey a message of some kind (I couldn’t find one that merited attention, except, perhaps, that you should listen to children; the novel doesn’t commit to this because that’s not its interest)? Is it meant to be funny (I found the ethics of the story loathsome)? In the end, I think The Worst Witch came across as shallow and mean-spirited — no doubt derived from the author’s experiences and the era in which it was written and published. It didn’t have the charm of HP to wipe away its cruel outlook of education, nor did it have sufficient humor or narrative depth to lend the tale a meaningful conclusion. Perhaps I’m not the audience for it. Perhaps there’s a value in being a child as Murphy’s words flow into you.
I just know that if I had children of my own, I wouldn’t read this to them. There’s enough cruelty in the world as it is. This doesn’t need to be added to it.
