Category: Excerpt

The Enlightenment of Lily Briscoe – Jac Saorsa

It was the summer of 1910. Wispy cirrus clouds skittered nervously across a pale sky as Lily Briscoe, brush in hand, stood before her easel at the edge of the lawn in front of the Ramsay’s house. From where she was standing she had a clear view of the sea and the rocky coastline of the Isle of Skye, and then, at some distance from the shore and standing out starkly in the soft summer light, the lighthouse, a tall, solitary pharos on a rock barely the size of a tennis court. But her canvas was empty…

‘All the time that I am making beds and doing dishes and driving to town for dancing shoes, I am telling myself stories,’

Shirley Jackson’s biographer, Ruth Franklin, discusses the unexpected and complex ways in which the author’s experiences of motherhood fed into her writing. ‘Jackson had always had an imaginative, even magical mind, filled with witchcraft lore, myths, and fantasies of her own devising. Hyman, ever a … Continue reading ‘All the time that I am making beds and doing dishes and driving to town for dancing shoes, I am telling myself stories,’

Extract #3 from Laura Powell’s The Unforgotten

Betty watches the row of cars waiting to follow the hearse. Or the grand car, as Mr Eden calls it. Betty is pleased that Mother gets a grand car and lots of eyes on her. She’ll like that. The grass is wet around the grave pit. A big brown box is lowered into the earth. Gallagher still isn’t in the crowd; she checked. He will come though.

A man wearing a white robe says a prayer. Mrs Eden cries. Mother hates Mrs Eden. She will hate Mrs Eden crying too. I’ve no time for that green-eyed woman, that’s what Mother says, even though Mrs Eden has brown eyes. Mother’s eyes are a beautiful ice blue.

Betty wanders off to find the nearest tree; it is an oak. She presses her head against its trunk and lets it take some of her weight. The heaviness has returned but she has hardly eaten so shouldn’t she be losing heaviness? Maybe she should have a nap on this branch. Would this be a good place to sleep, Mother? She tries to hoist herself up but her arms are weak as butter. Mr Eden appears then. He smiles gently.

‘Time to go home,’ he says.

‘Where’s home?’ Mr Eden rubs his chin. Grey stubble pricks through the pores.

‘You need to shave,’ she says to be helpful.

‘Hotel Eden,’ he says. ‘It’ll always be your home.’

‘Thank you.’ Because that’s what you’re supposed to say to people who are trying to be kind – and he sounds kind, but she doesn’t really feel thankful.

She feels nothing apart from heaviness.

Taken from The Unforgotten, Chapter 17.