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This review is for anyone out there who loved this book but thought the (near) ending was not in keeping with the book's uplifting, quirky and fun vibe. My daughter and I both adored the book but, like Rachel Joyce's friend who she acknowledges at thThis review is for anyone out there who loved this book but thought the (near) ending was not in keeping with the book's uplifting, quirky and fun vibe. My daughter and I both adored the book but, like Rachel Joyce's friend who she acknowledges at the back of the book, were cross with her for what she did to one of the characters. We felt there was no need - so I did something about it.
Apologies to Rachel Joyce, as this is probably not the done thing, but I found that with a few tweaks to individual words and phrases elsewhere near the end, only two paragraphs actually need to be re-written to keep the integrity of the book but avoid the sudden change of mood.
I have used elipsis to avoid writing out great chunks of the novel where it is unnecessary. If you've read the book, you will know where the changes have been made. (Don't be angry if you see this, Rachel - we just loved this character too much!)
"Enid was lying in the dust just beyond the steps. Her body was curled over as if she was trying to sleep. She lay in her pink travel suit with her eyes closed, as if she had fallen asleep, a boulder for a pillow. On her feet, the tiny sandals she loved with the pompoms. Her skin was dark, a patch flaking at the end of her nose, her hair loose. If anything, she looked like a child.
Margery lumbered down the broken steps. With great difficulty she dropped to her knees and felt for Enid's pulse. She kept searching with the tips of her fingers, loosening Enid's collar, pressing her throat, looking for the smallest flicker of life. She called Enid's name repeatedly. She told her to come back, come back, Enid, stop this right now. Live, Enid, damn you. You wanted life. Live. She took Enid's hand and squeezed it hard. Fragments of pictures passed through her mind, small but uncannily distinct. She saw Enid totter across Fenchurch Street station, trying to carry four suitcases and wave with her foot. 'Ta-da!' Here was Enid, throwing open the door of their cabin on the RMS Orion, with flowers, a whole mountain of flowers, borrowed from first class. She saw her wiggling through rainforest with her little dog until she hoiked up her knickers and ran free. Enid had rescued her from her stunted life and Margery loved her more than she could make sense of. She held Enid's hand and sobbed. In the darkness, one face, then another, then another moved closer. The boys from the shanty town. They bowed their heads low.
A baby's cry echoed from the bungalow. Margery raised her head. The hand in hers twitched imperceptibly. She heaved herself to her feet, returning to place the screaming bundle carefully in the twisted crook of Enid's arm. Enid's eyes flickered open.
..............
In the next twenty years, more anonymous parcels were sent to the Entymology Department, not regularly, but every once in a while, and from all over the world. They always contained a leather-bound notebook and sixteen anatomical drawings of a new beetle, as well as three pairs of perfectly preserved specimens. No one had any idea who was sending them but they became a mystery that the department enjoyed. For a while the story went round that one of the deceased curators had faked his own death and was actually back in the field.
Twenty years after the first parcel came one more, addressed not to the Entymology Department in general, but specifically to Freya Bartlett, the only woman working there at the time.................... Inside the envelope, a photograph.
It showed three women. Two older women stood at the back. Even though it was a black-and-white photograph, it was obvious that one of the women was wearing a vivid coloured lipstick, while the other, larger-boned lady wore baggy men's shorts and lent on a cane. A young woman stood in front of the two women, right in the centre of the photograph. She had a big smile on her face, her hand stretched out to meet the camera. Her face was proud and happy, as if she had found something exciting that she wanted people to see. Freya fetched a magnifying glass. The young woman had a beetle in her hand. It was hard to say, but it was clearly brightly coloured. Maybe even gold. Couldn't be a scarab or a carabid. It wasn't round enough. Surely not a soft-winged flower beetle. No one had ever found one of those. No wonder the woman looked happy.
Freya moved her magnifying glass back to the women at the back of the photograph. They were much older than the woman holding the beetle. Too old, really, to be in the field. They were turned slightly towards each other as if each was drawing strength from the other. Perhaps one of them was the younger woman's mother. It was hard to tell which. Freya touched the photograph, wanting to know more.
She looked again at the beetle in the young woman's hand..........."