FOR GLORY!

I entered this story into the Jane Austen Literacy Foundation writing competition, 2021.  I had to create a story of between 1000-2000 words, around the theme "Connection." 

Well, I didn't make the shortlist of three- but I did make the longlist of eight!  Not bad, considering that there were 280 entries!

Here is my screen shot of their website, celebrating my success, and here is the story, for your enjoyment.😁

FOR GLORY!

I remember that third meeting as much as the second...

I recognised her the minute I saw her, sitting on dad's sofa like a malediction. In another guise she might have been stunning; with her long butter-blonde hair parted seductively to one side and pouty, model-girl lips. But she wasn't yet thirty and dressed like someone's grandma, in huge cartoonish glasses, frosted pink mix-and-mess lipstick and a floral blouse twinned badly with a scratchy tweed skirt. She had a rancid aroma about her- body odour unmasked by cloying perfume.

Alarmed, I looked to my father for an explanation, and the gaze he proffered was sheepish. 'This is my girlfriend, Helen.' He pronounced it Hell-In.

Hell-In didn't know who I was, yet I knew her as the owner of the fascinating Toy Museum. I'd first been with my mother, when I was five. Behind a solid oak door tucked beneath the railway arches a fusty hall opened up through a huge archway. Sitting sentinel at the front was a massive glass cabinet, shaped like a transparent cube, with glass as thick as an iceberg. Varying exhibitions danced inside, but I remembered being more fascinated by the twin ovals of elevated slatted vents, like indentations of human heads.

'Oh, they're to let the air in. It's something to do with preventing condensation,' Mum supplied.

An emporium of intricate train sets sped and rattled on the ground floor, and the mezzanine level held cabinets squished full of toys. I fell in love with an old elephant named Humphrey; wedged in, yet woefully lonely, behind a collection of bears. Floppy eared and faded, a thin neck stripe peeping out from beneath his tatty checked suit indicated his previous blueness. His nose stuck out like a stirrup handle, but there was something about those sad bauble eyes that moved my little heart and made me want to cuddle him forever. I traced my fingers across the glass possessively as the staccato rumble of real trains vibrated from above.

The second time I went was with my headteacher, and Hell-In gave us a lecture. She'd released a selection of playthings, and one of them was my Humphrey. I instinctively reached over to grasp him but she cracked me on the knuckle with the cold metal ruler she used to indicate with.

'Get off! I told you not to touch!' The look she gave me was more than indignant- it was something akin to hatred but I was too shocked to say anything and fell back, instantly absorbed by my jostling classmates. She barked Humphrey's history; repeating what was written on his sepia cabinet card. He'd been made in Brighton during Queen Victoria's reign, by children. I was on the verge of tears and shaking, nursing my poor clunked hand, but she surprised me further by saying, 'He's so tatty that I'm thinking of binning him.'

I was horrified! How could someone who worked with antiques not love them? It was this, rather than the wallop that made me sob noisily. Hell-In just scowled. How such a nasty woman could be the proprietress of this sacred place was supplied by my mother.

'She inherited it,' she said back at the flat we'd shared since the divorce. 'I know it doesn't open Mondays. 'Her friend the headteacher is the only other keyholder, and she brings groups of kids in on the first Monday of every month.'

'Where's my cat?' was my tight-lipped response to dad's introduction.

'Oh, you mean Gloria?' Hell-In conjured up what passed for a smile.

'He name's Glory.' I couldn't keep the sibilant hiss from my voice, and Glory padded in apprehensively. It had been agreed that Glory should stay here, and I missed her so much. She mewed, regarding me with baby blue eyes, so I bent and stroked her beautiful silky fur, almost soothed.

'What an odd looking cat. With that red stripe over one eye and a grey blotch over the other,' the voice behind me interrupted.

I glared superciliously, 'She's pedigree. She's a ragdoll mitted.'

I began to notice things dying in dad's house. Hell-In drowned plants, and mum's once proud jardinière stood bereft, water leaking in splodges onto the floor, flowers rotting in their vases. But a dreadful thing was when I came round- at ten I was deemed old enough to possess a key- to find Glory chattering in abject distress on the landing outside the bathroom. Her litter tray, which sat inside a cute fuchsia plastic house I'd saved for and bought with my pocket money, was enclosed in that room. Glory was fastidious, and you could see the pain in her sweet eyes as she hopped from leg to leg in desperation, just like a human would.

'You were told to leave the door open!' I snapped at Hell-In. Dad was still at work and she just regarded me from over her magazine, propping her feet, still in sandals, onto the sofa. I thought it disrespectful- Dad didn't like feet on furniture. I could smell their stale parmesan stench from where I stood, and she had tights on, which gave her toes that weird human frog look. Hell-In was picking on pineapple chunks, pulling the fruit greedily from a dessert bowl by her side. She cackled and disregarded me, slavering noisily and launching into a story about a duke and duchess: how their garden had an island and how they would eat pineapples in the summerhouse on said island, and hinted at the unfortunate effect that would have on their constitutions.

I knew what she was getting at- every time I chose a piece of fruit from our bowl, Mum would nod her sage advice: 'It'll make you go.'

Glory was only eight but she started to lose a lot of weight, becoming extremely lethargic. I went round, racing upstairs to where she hid nowadays. Dad grimaced and he did try, sitting me down, picking at his hairline in that compulsive way he did and mumbling words like “tumour” and “pancreas.”

But it was Hell-In who piped up from her corner throne. 'She was very ill. She had to be destroyed.' She appeared to savour the words and they rolled patronisingly over her tongue. To be fair Dad did glower at her, but he allowed her to continue, 'We had her cremated. We thought it was for the best.'

My eyes opened as wide as a scream and I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

'Why didn't you tell me?' I stuttered, grasping the reality of what I was being told. And who was we? Hell-In was not married to Dad- in fact she didn't even live with him. I slumped back into the wall in paroxysms of sobs. 'You knew I loved her! You knew how much! Why didn't you let me see her one last time?' I crumpled down onto my haunches like an animal, heart-shaped tears splattering unchecked to the floor.

I refused to go back to Dad's house during those final few months of their relationship, and don't actually recall much about that time. Instead, I visited him at his shop. He was a locksmith, and to keep me occupied he taught me how to pick locks. 'Hold the pick here, and you've got to fiddle until the chambers line up. Then flick this lever and you can manoeuvre the barrel any way you want. Practice,' he said with a smile, walking away to serve a customer. And I did. I became quite good at it, breathing in the oily metallic smells of the workshop and whiling my time away in earnest concentration.

And I didn't pop into the Toy Museum for a long time, although I missed my darling Humphrey.

* * *

I rang up to ask for work experience. I had to time it correctly, but it was granted. There was absolutely no way she would recognise me now. Aside from giving a false address and calling from a phone box, it's been eight years, and I've grown about a foot taller and gained minimal weight since then. My chestnut curls are now a jet black crop, and I have an emerald stud in my nose. I'm not Cassandra any more- rather, I am Sandi, and my surname is way too common for any kind of connection to be made.

The front cube contains three glass cubes, rather like a mathematical puzzle, and there's a robot exhibition arranged inside. I practice picking that particular lock whilst Helen's at lunch, also working on a cabinet upstairs.

Luck works in my favour, and ten minutes before closing on my last day- the Saturday- the museum's deserted and I craftily slip the bolt across the front door. Then, making sure Helen can't see, I enter the picked cube, messing up the exhibition. When I tell her she's really baffled and scratches at the thick make-up on her forehead, but she takes the keys off the chain on her belt, inserts one into the lock and moves to the front to sort the disorganisation out. She still has that miasma about her and I gulp down revulsion, shifting to let her pass. The minute she bends down I place the two pineapples I'd secreted under a dolls' house display earlier at the back of the cube. Then, as quietly as a cat, I lock her in, remove the keys and skim them across the floor behind me. I fetch my coat, relieving Humphrey on the way and closing his cabinet. I kiss his threadbare felt head and hide my treasure in my bag. I hit the main light switch and leave.

I can hear Helen slapping on the glass the minute the lights go off, but her shout is only a whisper, muffled by insulation. I slam the door behind me with a cry of glee, just as a train grumbles past. I look up at it- I'll be on a train early tomorrow morning, to a university 500 miles north, but not to study museum studies as I'd told Helen, but to train to become a vet.

And Helen... She'll be discovered on Monday, when her friend the headteacher opens up with a group of kids hanging about her coat tails. She'll be clearly visible through the archway- there is nowhere to hide. And they will see this creature, who has been locked up for close to 40 hours, on display like an animal. She won't be missed- she lives alone and her mobile phone is in the cloakroom.

She won't be dead. The air vent will keep her alive and the pineapples will feed and water her. But nature will take its course, one way or another. And maybe it will be there for all to see. I wonder if she'll make the connection between the tale she told me about the duke and duchess, eight years ago. I don't think so but don't particularly care. I remember the heartache I suffered over not being able to see my beloved cat for one last time, and the numerous times my beautiful feline was locked out of the bathroom, unable to perform her ablutions.

Either way Helen will stink. And the kids will see her and smell her, and laugh and laugh and laugh. And I'll imagine this cold, vindictive cat killer and laugh and laugh and laugh. Revenge is certainly a dish best served smelly!

'For Glory!' I say to no one in particular as I make my way into the dusk. 

Copyright©Elaine Rockett

THE SECRET HISTORY by DONNA TARTT

 THE SECRET HISTORY

BY DONNA TARTT

THE BLURB:-

Under the influence of their charismatic classics professor, a group of clever, eccentric misfits at an elite New England college discover a way of thinking and living that is a world away from the humdrum existence of their contemporaries. But when they go beyond the boundaries of normal morality their lives are changed profoundly and for ever.

THE REALITY:-

This is the second time I've tried to post this- Google identified my original review as "containing malware."  Hmm.  Not put there by me, it didn't, so let's hope that this time all is okay...

This was one hell of a slow burner for me- it took me four months to finish, which of practically unheard of for me! This was on a used-book-shelf in the local pub, and I purloined it. They can have it back, but it will have to wait until the pubs reopen. You'd think that, under semi-lockdown followed by lockdown, I'd be into my reading but life intervened- I was at the tail end of my MA, then I had a holiday and then Christmas loomed. And also this book didn't grip me as much as I thought it would...

I've read Donna Tartt before- The Little Friend was a fantastic story of an intelligent teenager who stalks the man she thinks is responsible for her younger brother's disappearance. The Secret History is labelled a “thinking person's thriller” and, as a thinking person, I was certainly thrilled, and impressed by the erudite level of writing, especially when discussing the Greek that I'm quite ignorant of. The characters were varied and interesting, with some sinister bents going on, especially to do with sexuality and incest; although a lot of that could be explained away under the banner of young people's experimentation. The location (and, to me, its bleakness) was also clearly depicted, as was the obsessive behaviour which led the stronger bulk of the group to conduct their macabre “experiment” and its repercussions which led to more misadventure. There was certainly an ethereal pace to these parts.

I guess what I'm saying is that this well-crafted read failed to touch the heart and move me, and some parts did feel overly-long (something I usually prefer) and chugged along. I must confess, a little speed reading took place. Having said that, I would certainly give Donna Tartt's work another go and- although it's not for me- I love her masculine style of dressing. Fashion designer Kate Sylvester used her as the muse for her A/W 2015 catwalk show. Yes, the Miss Elaineous still retains some of her interest in fashion and dressing up....

HONESTY by LINDA LAUREN

 HONESTY

BY LINDA LAUREN

THE BLURB:-

'I've always wanted woman's wants. Before lipsticks, glossy cream sheens of tempting pout, it was stolen Smarties- the black ones licked and dabbed on my eyelids, and the reds run around my slashed smile. It felt strange, with eyelids dried to cardboard consistency. But I considered it helped with that strained, haughty look that all the best ladies possessed. It had to be learnt at a very early age just what hard work it is to be beautiful.'

As a child, Lizzie craves to be initiated into the mysteries of womanhood. Nightly she watches her mother's transformation- with the aid of powder and paint- from the hard, tough-handed housewife who had the first mangle in the street into a mysterious creature of the dusk, a femme fatale who rustles as she moves and smells of cream cakes as she sits on Lizzie's bed. Then suddenly her mother needs the smiles more than she needs Lizzie and leaves home.

But there are compensations: being able to shop, cook, iron for her father, playing grown-up games...

Lizzie at eleven is the vamp, pretending to seduce men with her eyes in cafes, regularly playing truant- and then going home to act the little woman for her dad. By fourteen she is affecting world-weariness: she has become an expert tease: drugs are passé.

And then she finds him: her man. Michael Rosetti, divinely tall, pale and sensitive, opens the last gate for Lizzie into the adult world of her dreams- where honesty costs.

THE REALITY:-

So I claimed the hardback for my forever pile, after first reading this work by Linda Lauren (as discussed in my previous post) over a friend's shoulder at the age of 14, being fascinated and then owning a paperback version over 10 years ago.

“She (Linda Lauren) started writing at the age of four. In lipstick all over her bedroom wall. She was enthusiastically discouraged until she got to school where she found it had to be done in black pencil and in straight lines,” said the author blurb at the back. Hmmm. Why do I feel like this is a monumental falsehood? I mean, would a four-year-old really do that? Don't get me wrong, good if she did, but the subsequent lack of information about this author makes me wonder if, like the Nancy Drew series, more than one writer has contributed to this work. Yes, the style is similar to Pretties and the same as Sisters but, if it has all been penned by the same person then maybe Pretties- although published second- was actually the writer's first attempt, as it seems the vaguest out of the three?

Enough of my tangent- down to the job at hand. Set in the 1970s, this story gives a very real account of exactly what it's like for a young, working class girl growing up. Heartfelt and honest (no pun intended...), the quote, “You have to take my honesty. It's all I have to give....” on page 165 really hit a note, when Lizzie is dissecting her feelings with regard to her little daughter, and how she tries to convey them to her husband. This book does indeed look at the many roles a woman has to play (daughter, stepdaughter, girlfriend, wife, lover, mother) and does it brutally well.

Serious events take place, from (spoiler alerts coming): Lizzie's mother abandoning the family, incidences with dodgy boyfriends and perverts, pregnancy, abortion and miscarriage, to the sad death of Carol at the end.  Incidentally, I loved the way the writer likens the latter's fragile state to that of Katy, a broken but much-loved doll of Lizzie's childhood.  These comparisons serve to make the writing genuine and emotional, and the more prosaic events such as the onset of periods, the growing of breasts and contraception are dealt with... honestly.

And that's exactly what I would call this book- honest. Never has a title so perfectly described a story before!  The experiences are so genuine I feel that I've lived some of them (and I have, although I consider myself much more emotionally immature than Lizzie at the same age).  The characters are so real I feel that I once lived next door to them.  And I wish I'd have known them- or even been one of them. A work of genius.

PRETTIES by LINDA LAUREN

 PRETTIES

BY LINDA LAUREN

THE BLURB:-

'Jessie was perusing the club in a slinky affair with a slit up the side and a thigh much too long for it. Her nails dripped blood red and her eyes glinted black ice. She had so much body, and so few uses for it, that it was bored. It tended to wander. She forgot about it and it slopped away. She'd suddenly spot a milky breast spilling from its silk and a creamy thigh creeping slowly from the top of its stocking...'

Quiet and withdrawn, Jessie's on the bread 'n' marge line with her mother and her mother's boyfriend Brian, all embarrassing eyes and clammy hands. Reality isn't so hot so she lives inside her head. Her only escape from the real world is her pretties box, sugar pink with a big satin bow, full of treasures from a childhood that went on too long or never really happened.

Then Steve comes along. Big, blond and safe, he's both protection form the world and a passport into it. But security becomes suffocation- Jessie simply isn't domestic bliss material- and when her fantasy man appears how can she resist? Through him she gets it all- a luxurious flat, more money and clothes than she can ever spend or wear, an endless stream of beautiful worshipping bodies, and Him- but at what price?

This vivid new novel gives remarkable insight into the pleasures and pitfalls of growing up female.

THE REALITY:-

I first came across this author when I was 13, when a classmate brought in Honesty, and I took a look and found it hard to put down. (I've since re-ordered and re-read it as an adult, but sadly it hasn't survived being carted off to the charity shop, long before I began blogging.) My mum found Pretties at a jumble sale not long afterwards, and the copy I now have is another re-ordering, as it stuck in my brain so much.

I was inspired by this work for one of my MA submission stories, about a young woman's sexual awakening, and have just been inspired again to quote from it: “What's wild is wild and can't be caught...” for a recent short story about civilization and wilderness that I submitted to a competition. In my story, as in this book, a character is picking flowers.

Enough waffle. Apart from being really poignant, discussing feelings (especially of a lustful, sexual nature) that a teenage girl can relate to, I love the style in which the writing is delivered, which is a certain vagueness. This really seems to make you think between the lines, and hone in on what it is exactly that the author is trying to say (it's always good to really involve the reader in your work) and seems to get to the heart of the emotions of our main character, Jessie. It's sad that her dream man has an agenda once he re-meets Jessie (he always calls her Jessica) as an adult, and what she has to go through (seemingly willingly) to keep him, and how she escapes and how he (spoiler alert!) finds her again, and how she gets some kind of happy ending.

Those of us who have lived- like Jessie- on the bread 'n' marge line- will certainly relate to the social aspects of this novel, which is set in the late 1970s/ early 1980s, just before my teenage time. This has a good mix of characters who are, sadly, all too real to life. I can certainly spot at least one of each ilk in my own teenage years. It was great to re-visit this work, and live that life again. Indeed, those times, and the strong, melodramatic feelings that run hand-in-hand with being that age, have been the basis for my own writing work.

But whatever happened to this author? She wrote another book, named Sisters, then appears to have dropped off the face of the earth. Here's my review of that book:-

http://elainerockett.blogspot.com/2014/04/sisters-by-linda-lauren.html

There is a Linda Lauren who writes, but she's an American psychic, and writes about her craft. I'm guessing that my Linda Lauren is either A) dead or B) writes under another name, as I strongly suspect that Linda Lauren are her first and middle names, and that Lauren is not her surname. If any of you can shed some light on this matter, then please let me know, as I would love to read more of her work.

By the way, the lovely pink hatbox was the inspiration for me making one of my own whilst studying textiles at college.  I did own a hat (which I never wore) but no box, and had to make it out of woven printed paper, and my artwork was inspired by Pierre Bonnard and Jackson Pollock, so it wasn't pink like Jessie's hatbox...  But I've gone off on a tangent here...

THE NIGHT FALLING by KATHERINE WEBB

 THE NIGHT FALLING

BY KATHERINE WEBB

THE BLURB:-

Puglia, Italy, 1921.

Leandro returns home now a rich man with a glamorous American wife, determined to make his mark. But how did he get so wealthy- and what haunts his outwardly exuberant wife?

Boyd, quiet English architect, is hired to build Leandro's dreams. But why is he so afraid of Leandro, and what really happened between them years before, in New York?

Clare, Boyd's diffident wife, is summoned to Puglia with her stepson. At first desperate to leave, she soon finds a compelling reason to stay.

Ettore, starving, poor and grieving for his lost fiancée, is too proud to ask his Uncle Leandro for help. Until events conspire to force his hand.

Tensions are high as poverty leads veterans of the Great War to the brink of rebellion. And under the burning sky, a reckless love and violent enmity will bring brutal truths to light...

THE REALITY:-

At first I was worried, as this book quickly jumped from a chapter about Clare to a chapter about Ettore, and I thought that this was something that could turn out to be off-putting, especially as the initial Ettore sections were really grim, with poverty and desperation seeping off the pages. But the lives of these two main characters soon intertwined, and maybe we all need to know about these events, inspired by actual history. Sheer misery is one reason I dislike war and uprisings sections in novels, but sometimes we need to be told straight that life is definitely not all sunshine, lollipops and rainbows. I'm glad I didn't let reviews of this book put me off, as they were rather damning- for the reasons I've just described. Far from being the worst of Katherine Webb's novels (and different from the rest, as had been suggested) it was up there with the best, and really touched me.

Every one of the varied characters was carefully explored, with the same resonating conclusion- and that is that they all had a heart. Passions are explored, and how strong sexual feelings can be just as important (and damning) for a woman as they are for a man. I'm glad the author had the courage to clear that one up, as many people seem to assume otherwise! The backdrop of this area of Italy has been very carefully researched and it came to life on the page, as depictions of social history are given legs through detail. I'm glad that most characters weren't marked as either “bad” or “good,” as life is not like that, and most human beings possess many different shades of grey inbetween. The real baddies, though- Ludo and Federico- I grew to hate with a passion. It's interesting how a line used with regard to sex- “a perfect angel” for Boyd, with both Emma and Clare, and (spoiler alert) “tell me I'm your sweetheart,” when Federico rapes both Livia and Clare is the signature which ultimately catches both men out, and I like the way this was explored. I also liked how a reusable rubber johnny (eeewwww!) became a symbol for distance between Clare and her husband, and I finished the story wishing her all the best- for both her and the illegitimate child, she so desperately wanted, tucked safely in her womb.

Written in the third person present tense, this story keeps pace and rises to a crescendo. Perhaps the surprises are more minor that major, in that you can see them coming. But I'd highly recommend this novel. And I'm off to work on a short story- written in the first person present tense!

HIDDEN LIVES by JUDITH LENNOX

 HIDDEN LIVES

BY JUDITH LENNOX

THE BLURB:-

A surprise inheritance reveals the hidden lives of two sisters torn apart by tragedy...

Following her grandmother's death, Rose Martineau inherits The Egg, an extraordinary house nestling in the Sussex countryside. She discovers that the mysterious house originally belonged to her grandmother's younger sister, Sadie, who Rose never knew existed. In her search to uncover why the sisters grew apart, Rose is drawn back into the glamorous and decadent world of the 1930s.

Meanwhile, Rose's own life as a dutiful wife and mother is turned upside down by a sordid scandal that threatens to destroy her marriage. It is only once she has unravelled the secrets of Sadie's past that she is able to look to her own future...

THE REALITY:-

I've read most of Judith Lennox's modern day (and by “modern day I mean set in the 20^th century, as opposed to her earliest offerings, which I believe were medieval) novels. This was not one of my favourites, but it wasn't one of the worst either. In fact, I've liked all of her work, and I can't say that this took me long to finish (a week) so it must have had something going for it!

With a good supply of varied characters, this book ambled along in the dual time frames of the 1930s and 1970s- mostly sequentially, with a few abstract hints near the start. I thoroughly enjoyed the depiction of printmaker Sadie's 1930s bohemian life, style and that of the two stunning houses she inherited. I also liked Rose's 1970s life (the decade in which I was born), tempered by actual events such as striking and power cuts. Through Rose and her employee/ paramour Dan I learnt a lot about the aviation business, which appears to have been well-researched. It was with the pleasure of schadenfreude, however, that I wish the author had gone into more salacious detail with the ins-and-outs of Rose's faithless husband's visits to his dominatrix prostitute- now that would have piqued my interest somewhat! But it's not the way in which Ms. Lennox writes. That she even mentions Robert (the aforementioned husband) coming during sex with his wife is, I think, a first for her.

One thing I've noticed is that this author has written so many books that themes are repeated- in this case a panic attack taking place in a Tube train, the (spoiler alert) body of a disappearing character being found on the very land they own, and an interesting piece of jewellery (Sadie's fantastic Art Deco engagement ring), which is something of a relevance, uncovered.  I did enjoy this read, and really loved the colourful character of Sadie, and certainly can relate to the fact that some of us are just not meant to have that "one special person" in life. Following heartbreak, Sadie falls into the arms of Tom, which (another spoiler alert!) ultimately costs her her life, and then finds true love in Andres.

I did work out the ending way before the end, though. What I would have liked to have seen was Sadie- who'd previously been treated in a mental hospital- having been committed, and being discovered still alive- albeit incarcerated. But I wasn't writing the story. And you can't have everything!

THE DISAPPEARANCE by KATHERINE WEBB

 THE DISAPPEARANCE

BY KATHERINE WEBB

THE BLURB:-

What was hidden will be revealed...

When Frances's best friend, Bronwyn, disappeared over twenty years ago, her body was never found. And in that moment Frances's life changed forever.

Now it's 1942 and bombs are raining down on Bath. In the chaos a little boy goes missing. Frances was meant to be looking after him and she is tortured by guilt at his disappearance. Where has he gone, and is there any chance he could have survived?

Bombs conceal, but they can also reveal- as quiet falls and the dust settles, a body is disturbed from its hiding place. What happened to Bronwyn all those years ago? And can Frances ever put right the wrongs of the past?

THE REALITY:-

Well, my last book took four months to plough through, and this offering took less than a week. Wowzers! I guess I'm never going to be a literary person; and always more of a commercial women's fiction devotee. I always did state, during my MA Creative Writing course, that my reading wasn't exactly highbrow. Mind you, it does include Shakespeare and Dickens, so it can't be that bad, can it? I guess that what I'm trying to say is that I need a storyline, as opposed to a mealy-mouthed exploration of character (although a hybrid- such as the last book I read, Donna Tartt's The Secret History, which offers up both, isn't necessarily a bad thing.)

Whilst not my favourite Katherine Webb book, this certainly wasn't my least liked, and what I enjoyed most was its gently gathering pace, which encourages you to read on. The story flipped between the relevant two timelines easily, in quite short chapters, (or so it seemed) meaning that I never lost the thread of what had gone before. I enjoyed that it was set in Bath, which is a city I've visited and loved, and would certainly return to. I only spent a weekend there, so maybe next time I can explore more off the beaten track, and maybe try and discover some of the areas mentioned in this novel.

The idea of a child so traumatised that they lose part of their memory isn't new to me, and I believe that both Maggie O' Farrell and Lisa Jewell have explored this idea through their novels. I have wondered before if this occurrence is even possible. I don't know- but as this story came across as believable, I'll not explore this point further.

Very atmospheric, and with some extremely (and painfully) “real” characters, the chief protagonist wasn't easy to work out, and I would never have guessed it was (spoiler alert!) smooth, charmer Clive. I also didn't guess that it was drunken Carys trailing Frances throughout the novel (I always love a female villain!) I did wonder how, in a small community, Frances didn't manage to chance upon Clive in all the years since he'd (another spoiler alert!) abused and terrified her. But I suppose that part of make-believe had to be invented, to make Frances's puzzlement over whom the stranger in the hospital bed actually was take shape.

For me, the most enjoyable part of the novel was the friendship between Bronwyn and Frances, and the details surrounding the discovery of the circumstances surrounding Bronwyn's death and burial. An unusual (for that time) character, in that she didn't follow the norms of convention, both in her style of dressing and her attitude, Frances was extremely likeable, as was her adulterous paramour, Owen.

A good read; it's certainly worth a go. Oh, and by the way, I love, love, LOVE the cover, with its holographic 3D girl in the red coat.