Bloomsbury Paperbacks

Balzac said that behind every great fortune lies a crime.1 That’s not true at Berkshire

of which a smooch of yellow smoke licks the grey sky

clasped by April morning sunshine

Winching up his tracksuit bottoms

To think about his last moments was soul-destroying and yet she could think of nothing else.

And this was the hallmark of Harriet’s touch: she could scare the daylights out of you, and you weren’t even sure why.

“It’s awful being a child,” she said, simply, “at the mercy of other people.”

Harriet reflected upon how life had beaten down the adults she knew, every single grown-up. Something strangled them as they grew older, made them doubt their own powers—laziness? Habit? Their grip slackened; they stopped fighting and resigned themselves to what happened. “That’s Life.” That’s what they all said. “That’s Life, Harriet, that’s just how it is, you’ll see.”

Well: Harriet would not see.

Birds can sing and fish can swim and I can do this.

And the sweetness of the thought struck her: how lovely to vanish off the face of the earth, what a sweet dream to vanish now, out of her body: poof, like a spirit. Chains clattering empty to the floor.