This book has been on the giant toppling TBR pile by my bed so large that I had to start reading it before it toppled off the heap and killed me. I don’t think that I will give anything away by saying that the narrator of the book is is a woman who “had begun enquiring about domestic help the momemt we finished moving our library-sized collection of books and our rickety old furniture”. Literary and film experience has shown that likely candidates for such a position can range from Jane Eyre, Mrs Harris and Mary Poppins by way of Mrs Doubtfire and Nanny McPhee up to The Hand that Rocks the Cradle. In this case the successful applicant is a cross between Mrs Harris and Mrs Doubtfire, without the drag or the haute-couture aspirations. A couple of decades ago I came across a similar individual. She “did” for most of the big houses near our small flat and an arrangement was only entered into if SHE decided to take you on and not the other way around. The penultimate sentence of the third page states, “I killed Emerence” so a chill that is not just generated by summer swiftly turning to autumn here is definitely hovering around. This book is definitely accompanying me on a weeks’s holiday starting tomorrow.