This took me way too long to get through. Although the writing is nice, and the feeling of creeping despair and desolation nice, it always bothers me if not much happens. And not much happens here, which is probably the point.
Victoria and Shaw, two lost people, one in London, one in a small town. Hints about strange creatures. But never something concrete. I'm not sure I get this.
People talked in loud voices all day outside the house.
They bustled out of their cars, slammed the doors, greeted each other in unison an octave apart: 'Orright?' The subsequent exchange often took place under the auspices of saying goodbye. Over before it began, it nevertheless seemed difficult to complete. No one was anxious to let anyone go.
'Well, cheers, love, see you Saturday. Is he? No, no, he's not coming. Not on the Monday anyway...'
Twenty minutes later they were still there, still accepting but psotponing a drink, still repeating everything twice, still reminding one another at intervals that they mustn't stop because were off to the Top Time Hotel, or over to Chirk to deliver a door; or because they were casting the summer performance of The Tempest in the leisure centre down at Pale Meadows, the usual story of incompetence and under-commitment on all sides. Every time a conversation wound down, it began again. When there was no one else to talk to, they shouted into their phones.
'I'm at that stage where you're still in love but you aren't quite sure what with. Reality begins to dawn.'
And then: 'Lots of room for improvement here but no money.'
Leaves off the willow, berries on the hawthorn. Victoria kept away from the fields. She kept everything at a distance; drove the Fiat as far afield as Runcorn; forgot ther appointments. November, meanwhile, gave up on itself without warning, and suddenly the town had been dragged into the first week of December. The Christmas lights went up; someone towed Wee Ossie's Toyota out of the lay-by on Pale Meadows. One morning the rain turned briefly to snow.
