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A recently widowed fantasy writer is guided through a stormy winter evening by the voice of her late husband. An elderly lady with Charles Bonnet syndrome comes to terms with the little people she keeps seeing, while a newly formed populist group gathers to burn down her retirement residence. A woman born with a genetic abnormality is mistaken for a vampire, and a crime committed long ago is revenged in the Arctic via a 1.9 billion-year-old stromatalite.
In these nine tales, Margaret Atwood ventures into the shadowland earlier explored by fabulists and concoctors of dark yarns such as Robert Louis Stevenson, Daphne du Maurier and Arthur Conan Doyle - and also by herself, in her award-winning novel Alias Grace. In Stone Mattress, Margaret Atwood is at the top of her darkly humorous and seriously playful game.
306 pages, Kindle Edition
First published August 28, 2014
There are so many things in life about which she ought to know better but does not, the art of make-up being one of them. He has to keep reminding her not to halt the bronze procedure halfway down her neck: otherwise her head will look sewed on.
The hair compromise he finally agreed to is a white stripe on the left side - geriatric punk, he'd whispered to himself - with, recently, the addition of an arresting scarlet patch. The total image is that of an alarmed skunk trapped in the floodlights after an encounter with a ketchup bottle. He crosses his fingers about that blood-coloured blotch, and hopes he will not be accused of elder bashing.
Gone are the days when Jorrie - once known for her sultry gypsy image and her vivid African prints and clanky ethnic jewellery - could pull off any fashion whim that caught her eye. She's lost the knack, though she's kept her flamboyant habits. Mutton dressed as Spam, he's longed to say to her from time to time, though he hasn't said it. Instead he's clamped himself together and held himself back, and said it about other women to make her laugh.
He does usually manage to steer her away from the steeper and more lethal precipices. There was the interlude with the nose ring, back in the '90s: she'd sprung the tacky doodad on him without prior warning, and asked him point-blank what he thought. He'd had to sew his mouth shut, though he'd done some hypocritical nodding and murmuring. She'd jettisoned the tawdry accessory once she'd caught a cold and practically torn her nostril off when her handkerchief got snagged on the ring.

