You're driving, and you need a sweet; one of those sweets that has been reposing in the car forever, waiting for you, just waiting. For you. And when it's unwrapped, the crinkle of plastic wrapper sets your mind back to when you were five, and you were in the car, with your family, on holiday. And as the road rushes past today, you are both here and there; the cars going past you and in front of you. And you have become the one in control. You have the wheel that decides where you are going, and the destination is not in mum's head, or dad's, but yours. And yours alone.
Featherstone has poetry and lyricism, and is more William Turner than pointillism, great swirls of sentences that cast a web over your senses, drawing you further into the mystery of the story.
I really enjoyed this book, except.... Except, like Blake's rose it has a worm. And the worm is the relationship between Mary Susan and Ray, and that 'was it rape or not', and whether Ray gets his just desserts at the end. Sonny's apparent omniscience of the affair, his thoughtful direction of Harland (yes that name made me feel a bit weird!) to redeem Ray and therefore to rejoin himself back to his wife was another odd note.
So, only four stars. Love the writing, but some elements of plot jarred.