"At once a biting social satire and a passionate denouncement of mindless environmental vandalism. Definitely Brayfield's best yet." -- Good Housekeeping
"Deliciously comic - lightning flashes of wit and scalpel-sharp observation.Highlight of an excellent cast of larger than life characters is Brayfield's terrific comic creation, Allie Parsons, queen of daytime TV." -- Daily Mail
"Fast, funny and very enlightening - should be read by everyone who lives in a house." -- Ireland on Sunday
"I couldn't be wrested away from it, though they tried." -- Fay Weldon
"With sharp wit and snappy dialgue, Brayfield has produced a very funny, cleverly plotted novel that displays Fay Weldon's understanding of the pleasure to be derived from seeing the bad get their just desserts." -- Daily Telegraph
'The fierceness with which she manipulates her characters and plot...grabs the attention' -- Elizabeth Buchan, SUNDAY TIMES
For GETTING HOME: 'She is a fine writer, with a sharp eye for the frailties of the human race.' -- EDWINA CURRIE
For HARVEST: 'Modern storytelling at its most enjoyable' Susan Crosland, -- LITERARY REVIEW
`Cunningly plotted, extremely well written and compulsively readable' -- Beryl Bainbridge
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
The sun rose upon Westwick with respect. The pure glow of dawn approached the tree tops, discreetly penetrated the canopy of leaves and invited the sleeping community to wake up and enjoy the day. The light falling through the cherry trees on New Farm Rise dappled the empty street. The white porches were virtuous with fresh paint; the cropped grass blades prickled in the damp earth. Stephanie Sands woke at 5.38am, anxious because her husband was away but content because he was going to telephone at 6.00, her son was sleeping and her garden was growing. All Stephanie could do was grow things. In thirty-two years, she had obediently acquired other skills but felt no joy in practising them.Stephanie had raised plants, she had made gardens and now she was raising a family. She had not considered that what one person grew another could then cut down. Half a mile away in Maple Grove, the leaves of the old trees smothered the early sunlight.
At the corner of Church Vale and Grove End, a front door opened and a fat black dog hurtled down the front path.
After it came a call hoarse with the universal terror of a citizen of the suburbs, the fear of annoying the neighbours: 'Moron! Come back here!" At the end of the path, the animal cannoned nose first into the white gate. Westwick architecture was big on story-book details: picket fences, Dutch gables, Rapunzel turrets, hanging balconies. The dog yelped, fell on its rear, rolled over, crushed half a lavender bush and bounded back up on its paws, its blubbery body agitated by its frantic tail. A man in running shorts appeared on the porch. He was lean and long-legged, and if his shoulders had not sloped he would have looked athletic.
Gently considerate of his neighbours, he shut his front door.
Then Ted Parsons turned his back on most of the disappointments of his life, opened his gate and jogged into the street. Start slow. No problem with that. The dog stormed ahead, joyfully delinquent.
Moron the labrador, named by his son. It takes one to know one. No, that was unfair. Ted Parsons had two secret vices and fairness was one of them. The time was 5.55am.
As he passed the Kwality Korner Store, Ted raised a hand to Mr Singh, who was taking down the shutters. He considered his route: south towards the river along Alder Reach?
