I picked this book up secondhand when I was in Hay-on-Wye, not realising it was actually quite an obscure little gem. It’s hard to describe because it’s so short, yet somehow it spans such a long stretch of time. Despite that, it never feels rushed or superficial, it’s deeply emotional and incredibly intimate.
The story begins with Grace, a young woman growing up in London in the 1930s. Her childhood is marked by deprivation and violence, but it also fuels her with an incredible energy and survival instinct. As she grows older, we follow her through the war years, her early marriage, and the children she has, and ultimately leaves behind, when she falls in love with an older Australian man. Together, they have a love child and move to Australia. Grace and her London family are portrayed with real realism and wit and her survival in her new circumstances is powerfully sketched.
The narrative also shifts to the perspective of that child, now an adult, trying to understand her mother, her family’s history, and ultimately herself. It’s a quietly powerful book about parenting, legacy, ancestry, and how trauma can ripple through generations. It looks tenderly at memory, forgiveness, and the complex relationships we have with the people who shape us.
Even though there’s a strong focus on Grace as a mother, the father’s presence and influence are felt too, creating a layered portrait of family and identity. There’s also a subtle exploration of both London and Australian life, but the book never feels tied to one place, it’s more universal than that.
A beautifully written, sad but poignant story, and for such a short book, it carries so much emotional weight.
One word: melancholy.
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