Here’s a goodie – and a surprise at that. I only picked up this book because I saw that the Canadian author had won a Commonwealth Writers’ Prize and it made me think about how I hardly ever read Canadian authors.
The story starts off with lonely middleclass sad sack Clara Purdy crashing her nice neat car into a clapped-out old banger on her way to work. out of the banger pours a family of misfits and ne’er-do-wells who have not only been driving their car, but living in it.
Dad Clayton is a slippery creep, his mother ors Dell a hideous old crone. oum Lorraine is found in the aftermath of the accident to have advanced cancer, and then there are the kids – Dolly, a wild miserable teenager, her younger brother Trevor and baby Pearce.
There’s nothing for it but for Clara to open her house to the hotch-potch family while they stay in town for Lorraine to get desperately needed treatment.
Clayton does a runner almost straight away, leaving Clara with grumpy gran, sulky teen, middle child, crying baby and daily hospital visits. The woman has the patience of a saint, if you ask me, but, then again, her life before the crash was pretty sad.
Still licking the wounds from her failed marriage, Clara has nursed both parents into the grave and is living a lonely, empty existence until this new family comes along. of course, they are not hers for keeps, no matter how much she wants them to be, so the story is bound to end in tears. It’s just a matter of whose they will be.
What I liked about this book is that the story kind of brings out the best in everyone – an encouraging premise, especially if you’re starting to wonder whether most people even have a best. Charity certainly starts in the home for Clara and it’s interesting to consider whether you would do the same if her shoes were on your feet.