Review
"* 'Brilliantly original and convincing... Tristram Shandy meets Bridget Jones.' - Daily Telegraph * 'Gowers's writing is absolutely beautiful.' - The Times * 'A humorous romp spiked with the unpredictable and the darkly comic... Ramble's mind fascinates and charms... the perfect read for those bored with the current surfeit of cliche-ridden chick lit.' - New Statesman * 'Clever, comical and unpredictable.' - Tim Pears"
The Scotsman 20.01.07
"an intriguing voice, cleverly constructed and refreshing. Gowers
is one to watch."
--This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
is one to watch."
--This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
Scarlett Thomas
"As darkly funny as Sylvia Plath and as eccentric as George
Saunders. Gowers is a genius." --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
Saunders. Gowers is a genius." --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
Daily Telegraph
"Tristram Shandy meets Bridget Jones in Rebecca Gowers's first
novel . . . Ramble is a brilliantly original and convincing voice." --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
novel . . . Ramble is a brilliantly original and convincing voice." --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
Tim Pears
"Clever, comical and unpredictable."
--This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
The Times
'Gowers's writing is absolutely beautiful.'
--This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
Daily Telegraph
'Brilliantly original and convincing . . . Tristram Shandy meets Bridget Jones.'
--This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
Scarlett Thomas
'As darkly funny as Sylvia Plath and as eccentric as George Saunders. Gowers is a genius.'
--This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
Product Description
It looks like just another week ahead. Then out of the blue Ramble's husband ends their marriage over lunch and disappears. With no rent money and her world in shreds, she is forced to reconsider everything she's ever been taught by her screwy relatives, unreliable friends and wayward criminal connections. Should she hide in life's slipstream, or has the moment come to break free?"When to Walk" is an astonishing debut, lit up with hope and unexpected laughter.
About the Author
Rebecca Gowers was born in the West Country and brought up, south of the river, in London. She currently lives in Oxford. Her first book, The Swamp of Death, was shortlisted in 2004 for a CWA Non-Fiction Golden Dagger Award. When to Walk is her first novel and was longlisted for the Orange Broadband Prize 2007.
Excerpted from When to Walk by Rebecca Gowers. Copyright © 2007. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
A few days ago I was drifting past The Admiral when a man
lurched towards me with a black-and-white photocopy of a
ten-pound note. As he spoke he spat. He said, `Got a couple
of fivers?'
I gestured to indicate that I hadn't and felt relieved that it
was true.
At once he amended his deal to a single fiver, which I did
have.
A tenner for a fiver: great.
I'd noticed him about the streets for some time, always in
a filthy-looking overcoat. Close up, he smelled filthy as well,
added to which his shoes were split and lacking their laces.
He repeated his new offer with escalating volume as though
he thought I might be deaf. `A tenner for a fiver,' he said. `A
bleeding tenner for a bleeding fiver.'
I am, in fact, quite deaf in one ear, but he didn't know.
Go round the corner where The Admiral is, wander along
the High Street and there are five shops with photocopy
machines: two newsagents, a stationery shop and two actual
copy shops. In four of them a single copy costs 5p. The fifth
place, Margin's, charges 7p. Why opt for 7p? I decided it was
reasonable to assume that the man's black-and-white tenner
had set him back 5p, or in other words, five thousandths of
what he'd hoped he would get for it. I sort of paid him attention
but I didn't buy his money.
As he spat I flinched, wondering, how likely was he to
have tuberculosis? Spittle as infected litter, I thought--KEEP
BRITAIN TIDY. At the same time I was asking myself, was there
any circumstance in which a rational person might feel tempted
to spend even five pence on a single-sided photocopy of a tenpound
note? I thought: suppose this rational person had an
urgent need to make a list--say there was this list but nothing
to write it on, and of course the rational person's memory isn't
faultless. If a man were to step forwards, wishing, for five pence
only, to sell a piece of paper the size of a ten-pound note with,
as it happens, printed on the back, the monochromatic image
of a tenner, wouldn't the paper, now, seem cheap?
I meandered along the High Street. It was a hot, hot day.
The ten-pound-note man disappeared completely from my
mind until a few hours ago.
I don't know how else to put this. My husband was
explaining to me that our marriage is defunct. `It started dying,'
he said, `in my view, pretty much as soon as we tied the knot.
But anyway as far as I'm concerned, honestly, for ages it's been
pretty much defunct.'
We were in our dingy, rental kitchen. We had just had
lunch. He said the word `defunct', and I suddenly felt sick at
the smell of sardines, burnt toast and orange peel.
`And by the way, before you ask,' he said, `I take this to
cover any duty I should maybe feel to the vow, "Till death us
do part". I mean I think a kind of death, that's--a kind of
death, that's exactly what we're talking about.'
His mother is romantic and named him Constantine, but
he's mostly known as Con. And I've mostly thought this funny
if I've thought about it at all.
He began his spiel as soon as we'd finished eating: food
in, words out. There we were at the table, still with our plates
in front of us, orange peel, fiddly skeins of pith, water glasses.
He announced that I ought to know it had been a while since
he'd thought of himself as my husband.
`That's it, honestly, it's over. Game over. Three years I've
really tried but I think you ought to know that it's been a
while now since I've thought of myself--'
He shifted in his chair. When I ventured to glance at him
he was always staring either at the sink, or a few inches above
it out of the window, from which angle the view is of a wall.
`You're impossible and I don't mean to be rude but,
someone who doesn't talk, it's pretty much--I don't want you
to feel--I mean I've basically had enough.'
He didn't put it like this, didn't use either of the words I'm
about to use, but I found he was telling me that in the person
of his wife, I have degraded into an autistic vampire. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
lurched towards me with a black-and-white photocopy of a
ten-pound note. As he spoke he spat. He said, `Got a couple
of fivers?'
I gestured to indicate that I hadn't and felt relieved that it
was true.
At once he amended his deal to a single fiver, which I did
have.
A tenner for a fiver: great.
I'd noticed him about the streets for some time, always in
a filthy-looking overcoat. Close up, he smelled filthy as well,
added to which his shoes were split and lacking their laces.
He repeated his new offer with escalating volume as though
he thought I might be deaf. `A tenner for a fiver,' he said. `A
bleeding tenner for a bleeding fiver.'
I am, in fact, quite deaf in one ear, but he didn't know.
Go round the corner where The Admiral is, wander along
the High Street and there are five shops with photocopy
machines: two newsagents, a stationery shop and two actual
copy shops. In four of them a single copy costs 5p. The fifth
place, Margin's, charges 7p. Why opt for 7p? I decided it was
reasonable to assume that the man's black-and-white tenner
had set him back 5p, or in other words, five thousandths of
what he'd hoped he would get for it. I sort of paid him attention
but I didn't buy his money.
As he spat I flinched, wondering, how likely was he to
have tuberculosis? Spittle as infected litter, I thought--KEEP
BRITAIN TIDY. At the same time I was asking myself, was there
any circumstance in which a rational person might feel tempted
to spend even five pence on a single-sided photocopy of a tenpound
note? I thought: suppose this rational person had an
urgent need to make a list--say there was this list but nothing
to write it on, and of course the rational person's memory isn't
faultless. If a man were to step forwards, wishing, for five pence
only, to sell a piece of paper the size of a ten-pound note with,
as it happens, printed on the back, the monochromatic image
of a tenner, wouldn't the paper, now, seem cheap?
I meandered along the High Street. It was a hot, hot day.
The ten-pound-note man disappeared completely from my
mind until a few hours ago.
I don't know how else to put this. My husband was
explaining to me that our marriage is defunct. `It started dying,'
he said, `in my view, pretty much as soon as we tied the knot.
But anyway as far as I'm concerned, honestly, for ages it's been
pretty much defunct.'
We were in our dingy, rental kitchen. We had just had
lunch. He said the word `defunct', and I suddenly felt sick at
the smell of sardines, burnt toast and orange peel.
`And by the way, before you ask,' he said, `I take this to
cover any duty I should maybe feel to the vow, "Till death us
do part". I mean I think a kind of death, that's--a kind of
death, that's exactly what we're talking about.'
His mother is romantic and named him Constantine, but
he's mostly known as Con. And I've mostly thought this funny
if I've thought about it at all.
He began his spiel as soon as we'd finished eating: food
in, words out. There we were at the table, still with our plates
in front of us, orange peel, fiddly skeins of pith, water glasses.
He announced that I ought to know it had been a while since
he'd thought of himself as my husband.
`That's it, honestly, it's over. Game over. Three years I've
really tried but I think you ought to know that it's been a
while now since I've thought of myself--'
He shifted in his chair. When I ventured to glance at him
he was always staring either at the sink, or a few inches above
it out of the window, from which angle the view is of a wall.
`You're impossible and I don't mean to be rude but,
someone who doesn't talk, it's pretty much--I don't want you
to feel--I mean I've basically had enough.'
He didn't put it like this, didn't use either of the words I'm
about to use, but I found he was telling me that in the person
of his wife, I have degraded into an autistic vampire. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
