The Trouble with Goats and Sheep by Joanna Cannon (English) Hardcover Book

Description: The Trouble with Goats and Sheep by Joanna Cannon "I loved this book. Its one of those books that you just want to give to everybody." --Nancy Pearl on NPRs Morning Edition Part coming-of-age story, part mystery, The Trouble with Goats and Sheep is a quirky and utterly charming debut about a community in need of absolution and two girls learning what it means to belong. England, 1976. Mrs. Creasy is missing and the Avenue is alive with whispers. The neighbors blame her sudden disappearance on the heat wave, but ten-year-olds Grace and Tilly arent convinced. As the summer shimmers endlessly on, the girls decide to take matters into their own hands. Inspired by the local vicar, they go looking for God--they believe that if they find Him they might also find Mrs. Creasy and bring her home. Spunky, spirited Grace and quiet, thoughtful Tilly go door to door in search of clues. The cul-de-sac starts to give up its secrets, and the amateur detectives uncover much more than ever imagined. As they try to make sense of what theyve seen and heard, a complicated history of deception begins to emerge. Everyone on the Avenue has something to hide, a reason for not fitting in. In the suffocating heat of the summer, the ability to guard these differences becomes impossible. Along with the parched lawns and the melting pavement, the lives of all the neighbors begin to unravel. What the girls dont realize is that the lies told to conceal what happened one fateful day about a decade ago are the same ones Mrs. Creasy was beginning to peel back just before she disappeared. FORMAT Hardcover LANGUAGE English CONDITION Brand New Author Biography Joanna Cannon is a psychiatrist with a degree from Leicester Medical School. She lives in Englands Peak District with her family and her dog. She is the author of Three Things About Elsie and The Trouble with Goats and Sheep, a top ten bestseller in the UK. Review "Cannons intense specificity captures a world in amber, permitting intimate access to the pantries, gardens, and garages of Britains past... a microcosm rife with tiny extraordinaries... Cannon is a mapmaker; her stories create an atlas... As in George Perecs Life: A Users Manual, the secrets of each household come to light." --Samantha Hunt "The New York Times Book Review"A captivating new voice in British fiction. Not since Nathan Filers The Shock of the Fall has a debut novel held the promise of such an exciting career ahead. One of the standout novels of the year.--Hannah Beckerman, author of The Dead Wifes HandbookA masterfully constructed plot... This understated, somewhat quirky debut novel is remarkable for its structure, characterizations, pitch-perfect prose, touches of humor, and humanity. Cannon is an author to watch. --Michele Leber "Booklist (starred review)" Review Quote "We get to know the villagers intimately, the author writing with imagery that paints pictures with words... Excerpt from Book The Trouble with Goats and Sheep NUMBER FOUR, THE AVENUE 21 June 1976 Mrs. Creasy disappeared on a Monday. I know it was a Monday, because it was the day the dustbin men came, and the avenue was filled with a smell of scraped plates. "Whats he up to?" My father nodded at the lace in the kitchen window. Mr. Creasy was wandering the pavement in his shirtsleeves. Every few minutes, he stopped wandering and stood quite still, peering around his Hillman Hunter and leaning into the air as though he were listening for something. "Hes lost his wife." I took another slice of toast, because everyone was distracted. "Although shes probably just finally buggered off." "Grace Elizabeth!" My mother turned from the stove so quickly, flecks of porridge turned with her and escaped onto the floor. "Im only quoting Mr. Forbes," I said. "Margaret Creasy never came home last night. Perhaps shes finally buggered off." We all watched Mr. Creasy stare into peoples gardens, as though Mrs. Creasy might be camping out in someone elses herbaceous border. My father lost interest and spoke into his newspaper. "Do you listen in on all our neighbors?" he said. "Mr. Forbes was in his garden, talking to his wife. My window was open. It was accidental listening, which is allowed." I spoke to my father, but addressed Harold Wilson and his pipe, who stared back at me from the front page. "He wont find a woman wandering around the avenue," my father said, "although he might have more luck if he tried at number twelve." I watched my mothers face argue with a smile. They assumed I didnt understand the conversation, and it was much easier to let them think that. My mother said I was at an awkward age. I didnt feel especially awkward, so I presumed she meant it was awkward for them. "Perhaps shes been abducted," I said. "Perhaps its not safe for me to go to school today." "Its perfectly safe," my mother said, "nothing will happen to you. I wont allow it." "How can someone just disappear?" I watched Mr. Creasy marching up and down the pavement. His shoulders were heavy and he studied his shoes as he walked. "Sometimes people get confused and need their own space." My mother spoke to the stove. "Margaret Creasy was confused all right." My father turned to the sports section and snapped at the pages until they were straight. "She asked far too many questions. You couldnt get away from her rabbiting on." "She was just interested in people, Derek. You can feel lonely, even if youre married. And they had no children." My mother looked over at me as though she were considering whether the last bit made any difference at all, and then she spooned porridge into a large bowl with purple hearts all around the rim. "Why are you talking about Mrs. Creasy in the past tense?" I said. "Is she dead?" "No, of course not." My mother put the bowl on the floor. "Remington," she shouted, "Mummys made your breakfast." Remington padded into the kitchen. He used to be a Labrador, but hed become so fat, it was difficult to tell. "Shell turn up," said my father. Hed said the same thing about next doors cat. It disappeared years ago, and no one had seen it since. * * * Tilly was waiting by the front gate, in a sweater which had been hand-washed and stretched to her knees. Shed taken the bobbles out of her hair, but it stayed in the exact same position as if they were still there. "The woman from number eight has been murdered," I said. We walked in silence down the avenue, until we reached the main road. We were side by side, although Tilly had to take more steps to keep up. "Who lives at number eight?" she said, as we waited for the traffic. "Mrs. Creasy." I whispered, in case Mr. Creasy had extended his search. "I liked Mrs. Creasy. She was teaching me to knit. We did like her, Grace, didnt we?" "Oh yes," I said, "very much." We crossed the road opposite the alley next to Woolworths. It wasnt yet nine oclock, but the pavements were dusty hot, and I could feel the material of my shirt sticking to the bones in my back. People drove their cars with the windows down, and fragments of music littered the street. When Tilly stopped to change her school bag to the other shoulder, I stared into the shop window. It was filled with stainless-steel pans. "Who murdered her?" A hundred Tillys spoke to me from the display. "No one knows." "Where are the police?" I watched Tilly speak through the saucepans. "I expect theyll be along later," I said. "Theyre probably very busy." We climbed the cobbles in sandals which flapped on the stones. In winter ice, we clung to the rail and to each other, but now the alley stretched before us, a riverbed of crisp packets and thirsty weeds, and floury soil which dirtied our toes. "Why are you wearing a sweater?" I said. Tilly always wore a sweater. Even in scorched heat, she would pull it over her fists and make gloves from the sleeves. Her face was handkerchief-white, and sweat had pulled slippery, brown curls onto her forehead. "My mother says I cant afford to catch anything." "When is she going to stop worrying?" It made me angry, and I didnt know why, which made me even angrier, and my sandals became very loud. "I doubt she ever will," said Tilly. "I think its because theres only one of her. She has to do twice the worrying, to keep up with everyone else." "Its not going to happen again." I stopped and lifted the bag from her shoulder. "You can take your sweater off now." She stared at me. It was difficult to read Tillys thoughts. Her eyes hid behind thick, dark-rimmed glasses, and the rest of her gave very little away. "Okay," she said, and took off her glasses. She pulled the sweater over her head, and, when she appeared on the other side of the wool, her face was red and blotchy. She handed me the sweater, and I turned it the right way, like my mother did, and folded it over my arm. "See," I said, "its perfectly safe. Nothing will happen to you. I wont allow it." The sweater smelled of cough medicine and unfamiliar soap. I carried it all the way to school, where we dissolved into a spill of other children. * * * I have known Tilly Albert for a fifth of my life. She arrived two summers ago in the back of a large, white van, and they unloaded her along with a sideboard and three easy chairs. I watched from Mrs. Mortons kitchen, while I ate a cheese scone and listened to a weather forecast for the Norfolk Broads. We didnt live on the Norfolk Broads, but Mrs. Morton had been there on holiday, and she liked to keep in touch. Mrs. Morton was minding me. Will you just sit with Grace while I have a little lie-down, my mother would say, although Mrs. Morton didnt sit very much at all, she dusted and baked and looked through windows instead. My mother spent most of 1974 having a little lie-down, and so I was minded by Mrs. Morton quite a lot. I stared at the white van. "Whos that then?" I said, through a mouthful of scone. Mrs. Morton pressed on the lace curtain, which hung halfway down the window on a piece of wire. It dipped in the middle, exhausted from all the pressing. "Thatll be the new lot," she said. "Who are the new lot?" "I dont know." She dipped the lace down a little further. "But I dont see a man, do you?" I peered out. There were two men, but they wore overalls and were busy. The girl who had appeared from the back of the van continued to stand on the pavement. She was small and round and very pale, like a giant, white pebble, and was buttoned into a raincoat right up to her neck, even though we hadnt had rain for three weeks. She pulled a face, as though she were about to cry, then leaned forwards and was sick all over her shoes. "Disgusting," I said, and took another scone. * * * By four oclock, she was sitting next to me at the kitchen table. I had fetched her over because of the way she sat on the wall outside her house, looking as though shed been misplaced. Mrs. Morton got the dandelion and burdock out, and a new packet of Penguins. I didnt know then that Tilly didnt like eating in front of people, and she held on to the bar of chocolate until it leaked between her fingers. Mrs. Morton spat on a tissue and wiped Tillys hands, even though there was a tap three feet away. Tilly bit her lip and looked out of the window. "Who are you looking for?" I said. "My mother." Tilly turned back and stared at Mrs. Morton, who was spitting again. "I just wanted to check shes not watching." "Youre not looking for your father?" said Mrs. Morton, who was nothing if not an opportunist. "I wouldnt know where to look." Tilly wiped her hands very discreetly on her skirt. "I think he lives in Bristol." "Bristol?" Mrs. Morton put the tissue back into her cardigan sleeve. "I have a cousin who lives in Bristol." "Actually Details ISBN1501121898 Author Joanna Cannon Short Title TROUBLE W/GOATS & SHEEP Publisher Scribner Book Company Language English ISBN-10 1501121898 ISBN-13 9781501121890 Media Book Format Hardcover Residence US Pages 368 Year 2016 Publication Date 2016-07-12 Imprint Scribner Book Company DEWEY 823.92 Audience General UK Release Date 2016-07-12 We've got this At The Nile, if you're looking for it, we've got it. With fast shipping, low prices, friendly service and well over a million items - you're bound to find what you want, at a price you'll love! TheNile_Item_ID:137996880;

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