{"product_id":"a-town-called-solace-isbn-9780735281295","title":"A Town Called Solace","description":"\u003cb\u003eNATIONAL BESTSELLER • LONGLISTED FOR THE 2021 BOOKER PRIZE • NAMED A BEST BOOK OF THE YEAR BY THE \u003ci\u003eGLOBE AND MAIL, \u003c\/i\u003eCBC AND THE \u003ci\u003eDAILY TELEGRAPH • New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author Mary Lawson, acclaimed for digging into the \"wilderness of the human heart,\" is back after almost a decade with a fresh and timely novel that is different in subject but just as emotional and atmospheric as her beloved earlier work.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eA Town Called Solace\u003c\/i\u003e, the brilliant and emotionally radiant new novel from Mary Lawson, her first in nearly a decade, opens on a family in crisis. Sixteen-year-old Rose is missing. Angry and rebellious, she had a row with her mother, stormed out of the house and simply disappeared. Left behind is seven-year-old Clara, Rose’s adoring little sister. Isolated by her parents’ efforts to protect her from the truth, Clara is bewildered and distraught. Her sole comfort is Moses, the cat next door, whom she is looking after for his elderly owner, Mrs. Orchard, who went into hospital weeks ago and has still not returned.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEnter Liam Kane, mid-thirties, newly divorced, newly unemployed, newly arrived in this small northern town, who moves into Mrs. Orchard’s house—where, in Clara’s view, he emphatically does not belong. Within a matter of hours he receives a visit from the police. It seems he is suspected of a crime.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt the end of her life, Elizabeth Orchard is also thinking about a crime, one committed thirty years previously that had tragic consequences for two families, and in particular for one small child. She desperately wants to make amends before she dies.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTold through three distinct, compelling points of view, the novel cuts back and forth among these unforgettable characters to uncover the layers of grief, remorse, and love that connect them. \u003ci\u003eA Town Called Solace\u003c\/i\u003e is a masterful, suspenseful, darkly funny and deeply humane novel by one of our great storytellers.\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eNATIONAL BESTSELLER\u003cbr\u003eLONGLISTED FOR THE 2021 BOOKER PRIZE\u003cbr\u003eA \u003ci\u003eGLOBE AND MAIL\u003c\/i\u003e BEST BOOK\u003cbr\u003eA \u003ci\u003eDAILY TELEGRAPH\u003c\/i\u003e BOOK OF THE YEAR\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This deftly-structured novel draws together the stories of three people at three different stages in life, each of whom is grappling with loss. We were captivated by \u003ci\u003eA Town Called Solace\u003c\/i\u003e’s beautifully paced, compassionate, sometimes wry examination of small-town lives.” —2021 Booker Prize Judges\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Completely absorbing... \u003ci\u003eA Town Called Solace\u003c\/i\u003e pleases at every level. It's a captivating tale suffused with wisdom and compassion.\" ―\u003ci\u003eToronto Star\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A lovely, gentle novel with edge.” —\u003ci\u003eSaga \u003c\/i\u003e(UK)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“That clear-eyed humanism—the sort that is rooted firmly in the reality of life, but holds out a glimmer of potential for a measured, minor-key redemption—is classic Mary Lawson.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Globe and Mail\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Lawson's writing is clear and emotive. . . . [A] poignant novel, rightfully recognised by the Booker judges.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Telegraph \u003c\/i\u003e(UK)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Lawson is a graceful writer whose un-showy style always hides surprising depths.” —Toronto Public Library \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e “This is Mary Lawson’s fourth novel and I’d recommend a binge immersion. She has carved out a world in northern Ontario that’s vividly, absorbingly real; she captures tones and voices with exactitude in writing that’s idiomatic but never flashy and carries you along from midnight to dawn, oblivious of the time.” —\u003ci\u003eLiterary Review \u003c\/i\u003e(UK)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Lawson's books are a pleasure to read—they conjure a space where quiet reflection and owning your past mistakes bring gentle rewards; they feel kind and wise and brimful of empathy.\" —\u003ci\u003eThe Times \u003c\/i\u003e(UK)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Lawson's writing is such that it appears effortless but, as all the strands come together to create a rich and satisfying tapestry, her genius for storytelling becomes apparent.\" ―\u003ci\u003eIrish Independent\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Exquisitely poignant.\" ―\u003ci\u003eGood Housekeeping\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYou can't get much farther north than the Ontario of Mary Lawson's icy, compelling stories of calamity and redemption. \u003ci\u003eA Town Called Solace\u003c\/i\u003e keeps you breathless with anxiety, then relief and finally even joy.\" ―\u003ci\u003eObserver \u003c\/i\u003e(UK)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003eA Town Called Solace\u003c\/i\u003e keeps you breathless with anxiety, then relief and finally even joy.” —\u003cb\u003eFerdinand Mount\u003c\/b\u003e, author of \u003ci\u003eKiss Myself Goodbye: The Many Lives of Aunt Munca\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\"I've been trying to tell everybody I know about [Mary Lawson]. . . . [Each of her novels is] just a marvel.\" —\u003cb\u003eAnne Tyler\u003c\/b\u003e, author of \u003ci\u003eRedhead by the Side of the Road\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Poised, elegant prose, paired with quiet drama that will break your heart. The sort of book that seems as if it has always existed because of its timeless perfection.” —\u003cb\u003eGraham Norton\u003c\/b\u003e, bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eHolding\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eA Keeper\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“An assured and engaging look at one of my favourite subjects: what we owe to other people. How long must we keep their secrets, and how long do we wait for those we love? Darkened by pain, \u003ci\u003eA Town Called Solace\u003c\/i\u003e is even so a kindly book; Clara’s lost sister flashes through it like a red-winged blackbird. Warm, clear, and beautifully grounded in the bedrock of the Canadian Shield.” —\u003cb\u003eMarina Endicott\u003c\/b\u003e, author of \u003ci\u003eGood to a Fault\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I loved reading \u003ci\u003eA Town Called Solace. . . .\u003c\/i\u003e It’s beautifully written and so finely crafted; told in the kind of prose I most admire because it takes what appears to be complicated and makes it clear. . . . These interwoven stories of three people at different stages of life, and yet each struggling with their own form of loss and grief, will stay with me the way good friendships stay with you. It’s already one of my favourite books of the year.” —\u003cb\u003eRachel Joyce\u003c\/b\u003e, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry\u003c\/i\u003eMary Lawson was born and brought up in a small farming community in Ontario. She is the author of three previous nationally and internationally bestselling novels, \u003ci\u003eCrow Lake\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Other Side of the Bridge\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eRoad Ends\u003c\/i\u003e. \u003ci\u003eCrow Lake\u003c\/i\u003e was a \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestseller and was chosen as a Book of the Year by \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Washington Post\u003c\/i\u003e, among others. \u003ci\u003eThe Other Side of the Bridge\u003c\/i\u003e was longlisted for the Man Booker Prize. Lawson lives in England but returns to Canada frequently.One\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCLARA\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere were four boxes. Big ones. They must have lots of things in them because they were heavy, you could tell by the way the man walked when he carried them in,  stooped  over,  knees  bent.  He  brought  them  right into Mrs. Orchard’s house, next door to Clara’s, that first  evening  and  put  them  on  the  floor  in  the  living room and just left them there. That meant the boxes didn’t have necessary things in them, things he needed straight  away  like  pyjamas,  or  he’d  have  unpacked them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe  boxes  were  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  which made  Clara  fidgety.  Every  time  the  man  came  into the living room he had to walk around them. If he’d put them against a wall he wouldn’t have to do that and  it  would  have  looked  much  neater.  And  why would  he  bring  them  in  from  his  car  and  then  not unpack  them?  At  first  Clara  had  thought  it  meant that  he  was  delivering  them  for  Mrs.  Orchard  and she  would  unpack  them  herself  when  she  got  home. But  she  hadn’t  come  home  and  the  boxes  were  still there  and  so  was  the  man,  who  didn’t  belong.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe’d  driven  up  in  a  big  blue  car  just  as  the  light was  starting  to  fade,  exactly  twelve  days  after  Rose ran away. Twelve days was a week and five days. Clara had been standing in her usual place at the living-room window,  trying  not  to  listen  to  her  mother,  who  was talking  on  the  phone  to  Sergeant  Barnes.  The  phone was  in  the  hall,  which  meant  you  could  hear  people talking  on  it  no  matter  what  room  you  were  in.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eClara’s mother was shouting at the policeman. “Sixteen! Rose is sixteen years old, in case you’ve forgotten! She’s a child!” Her voice was cracking. Clara put her hands  over  her  ears  and  hummed  loudly  to  herself, pressing  her  face  against  the  window  until  her  nose was  squashed  flat.  Her  humming  kept  breaking  up into  short  bursts  because  she  had  trouble  breathing when  her  mother  was  upset  and  she  kept  having  to stop  and  gasp.  But  humming  helped.  When  you hummed you could feel the sound inside you as well as hearing it. It felt like a bumblebee buzzing. If you concentrated  on  the  feel  and  the  sound  you  could manage  not  to  think  about  anything  else.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen  there  was  a  scrunching  noise,  louder  than the hum, the noise made by wheels on gravel, and the big  blue  car  rolled  into  Mrs.  Orchard’s  driveway. Clara had never seen the car before. It was fancy and had  what  looked  like  wings  at  the  back  and  it  was light blue. At another time, a safe time, Clara might have  liked  it,  but  this  wasn’t  a  safe  time  and  she wanted  everything  to  be  exactly  as  it  had  always been.  No  unfamiliar  cars  in  driveways.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe engine stopped and a strange man got out. He closed the car door and stood staring at Mrs. Orchard’s house. It looked just like it always had; it was painted dark green with white window- and doorframes and there was a big wide porch with a grey-painted floor and white railings. Clara hadn’t given much thought to how the house looked before, but now she realized that it matched Mrs. Orchard perfectly. Old but nice.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe  man  walked  over  to  the  porch,  climbed  the steps,  crossed  to  the  front  door,  took  some  keys  out of  his  trouser  pocket,  unlocked  the  door  and  went inside.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eClara  was  shocked.  Where  had  he  got  the  keys? He shouldn’t have them. Mrs. Orchard had told her there  were  three  sets  of  two  keys  (one  for  the  front door  and  one  for  the  back)  and  Mrs.  Orchard  had one, Mrs. Joyce (who came in to clean once a week) had  another  and  Clara  had  the  third.  Clara  wanted to tell her mother, who was no longer on the phone, but her mother sometimes cried after speaking to the policeman  and  her  face  got  all  red  and  blotchy  and it  frightened  Clara.  And  anyway,  she  couldn’t  leave her place at the window. If she failed to keep watch for  her,  Rose  might  not  come  home.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA light came on in Mrs. Orchard’s hall—the glow of it spilled out onto the porch for a moment before the  man  closed  the  door.  It  was  getting  quite  dark inside the house. The living room of Mrs. Orchard’s house  was  right  next  to  the  living  room  of  Clara’s house  and  both  had  windows  at  the  side,  facing each  other,  as  well  as  at  the  front,  facing  the  road. Clara  scooted  across  to  the  side  window  (so  long as  she  was  at  one  of  the  windows,  Rose  wouldn’t mind  which  one),  arriving  just  as  Mrs.  Orchard’s living-room  light  came  on  and  the  man  walked  in. Clara  could  see  everything  that  happened  and  the first thing was that Moses, who’d been hiding under the  sofa  (he  always  hid  there  if  anyone  but  Mrs. Orchard or Clara came into the house), shot across the room and out of the open door at the other end so  fast  that  he’d  disappeared  before  the  man  was fully through the doorway, so the man couldn’t have seen him. He would have gone into the mud room, Clara  knew,  and  from  there  out  into  the  garden. The  mud  room  had  three  doors,  one  to  the  living room,  one  to  the  kitchen  and  one  to  the  garden, and  the  garden  door  had  a  cat  flap  at  the  bottom. “He  skedaddled,”  Mrs.  Orchard  would  have  said. She  was  the  only  person  Clara  had  ever  heard  use the word “skedaddle.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eClara  herself  had  been  in  the  mud  room  an  hour or  so  earlier  to  give  Moses  his  dinner.  She  allowed herself  to  leave  her  place  by  the  window  for  a  little while  morning  and  night  because  she  had  promised Mrs. Orchard she would look after Moses while she was  in  the  hospital.  Rose  would  understand.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“He’ll be happy with you here,” Mrs. Orchard had said. “He trusts you, don’t you, Moses?” She’d been showing  Clara  the  mysteries  of  the  new  can  opener. It  was  electric.  You  had  to  hold  the  can  in  the  right place  to  begin  with  but  it  did  everything  else  itself, it even turned the can around, slowly and smoothly, as  it  cut  off  the  lid.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A gadget,” Mrs. Orchard had said. “Mostly I don’t hold  with  gadgets  but  that  old  can  opener  isn’t  safe and  I  don’t  want  you  cutting  yourself.”  Moses  was winding  himself  around  their  legs,  desperate  for  his dinner.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You’d think we starved him,” Mrs. Orchard said. “Now then, the can opener leaves the lid behind—do you  see?  It’s  magnetic.  Be  careful  not  to  touch  the edges of the lid when you pull it off the magnet. You have to pull quite hard and the edges are very sharp. Keep  the  can  in  the  fridge  until  it’s  empty  and  then give  it  a  rinse  and  put  it  in  the  garbage  outside,  not in  here  or  it’ll  smell.  Mrs.  Joyce  will  deal  with  the garbage when she comes to clean. I’ve spoken to your mother and she’s happy for you to come in and feed him  twice  a  day  for  the  duration.  I  won’t  be  away long.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut she had been away long, she’d been away weeks and  weeks.  Clara  had  run  out  of  cat  food  several times  and  had  to  ask  her  mother  for  money  so  that she  could  go  and  buy  some  more.  (This  was  before Rose  disappeared,  when  everything  was  normal  and Clara  could  go  wherever  she  liked.)  She’d  expected Mrs.  Orchard  to  be  more  reliable,  and  was  disappointed  in  her.  Adults  in  general  were  less  reliable than  they  should  be,  in  Clara’s  opinion,  but  she’d thought  Mrs.  Orchard  was  an  exception.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe  could  hear  her  mother  moving  about  in  the kitchen.  Maybe  she  was  feeling  better  now.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Mommy?”  Clara  called.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfter  a  minute  her  mother  said,  “Yes?”  but  her voice  sounded  choked  up.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Nothing,”  Clara  called  quickly.  “It’s  OK.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe man was moving around the house, switching lights  on—Clara  saw  their  pale  shadows  outside  on the lawn. He didn’t bother to switch them off when he left a room. If Clara or Rose had done that, their father would call, “Turn off the light!” But now Rose wasn’t  here.  Nobody  knew  where  she  was.  Clara’s mother  kept  telling  Clara  that  Rose  was  in  Sudbury or  maybe  North  Bay  and  she  was  fine,  they  just wanted  her  to  come  home  or  phone  or  send  them  a postcard  because  it  would  be  nice  to  know  she  was OK.  Which  meant  that  her  mother  didn’t  actually know  if  Rose  was  fine.  And  which  was  why  she shouted  at  the  policeman  because  he  hadn’t  found Rose  yet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWith  so  many  lights  on  in  Mrs.  Orchard’s  house it  was  getting  hard  to  see  anything  outside.  You couldn’t see much in Clara’s own living room either, but  she  didn’t  switch  on  the  light  because  then  the man would have been able to see her. If you’re in the light  you  can’t  see  people  who  are  in  the  dark,  but if  you’re  in  the  dark  you  can  see  people  who  are  in the  light.  Rose  had  told  her  that.  “You  can  stand  a foot  from  the  window,”  Rose  had  said,  “and  they’ll never know. I watched Mrs. Adams getting undressed the  other  night.  Completely  undressed!  Naked!  Her panties  and  her  bra  and  everything!  She  has  great big rolls of fat all over and her breasts are like enormous  flabby  balloons!  It’s  gross!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe  man  was  back  in  the  living  room,  looking  at the photographs on Mrs. Orchard’s sideboard. There were lots of them, all in frames. Some of the frames were silver and others were plain wood. Two of the photos were of Mrs. Orchard and her husband when he was still  alive,  one  with  them  sitting  side  by  side  on  a sofa  and  the  other  of  them  standing  on  some  steps, and in both of them Mr. Orchard had his arm around Mrs. Orchard. There also used to be a photo of him on his own, leaning against the door frame of a house (not  this  house)  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and smiling at the camera. It must have been a beautiful house  because  there  were  flowers  climbing  all  over the  wall  beside  him.  Mrs.  Orchard  talked  to  that photo as if it was Mr. Orchard himself, still alive and in  the  room,  Clara  had  heard  her  many  times.  She didn’t  sound  sad,  just  ordinary.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere had also been a photograph of Mr. Orchard standing beside a little boy. The boy was sitting at a table eating his breakfast; you could tell it was breakfast  because  there  was  a  jar  of  Shirriff’s  marmalade on  the  table—Clara  could  just  make  out  the  label. Mr.  Orchard  had  a  tea  towel  folded  neatly  over  his arm and a platter heaped with food (Clara had studied it  closely  and  decided  it  was  sausages  and  bacon, which  would  fit  with  it  being  breakfast)  rested  on the tea towel. Mr. Orchard was standing very upright and  stiff,  looking  down  at  the  little  boy,  who  was looking  up  at  him  and  grinning  a  huge  grin.  Clara had asked Mrs. Orchard if the boy was her son and Mrs. Orchard had said no, they hadn’t had any children,  he  was  a  neighbour’s  son,  but  she  and  Mr. Orchard had loved him very much. Is it your favourite photo?  Clara  had  asked,  and  Mrs.  Orchard  smiled at her and said they were all her favourites. But Clara suspected that wasn’t true because Mrs. Orchard had taken that photo plus the one of Mr. Orchard in the flowery  doorway  with  her  when  she  went  into hospital, Clara had noticed they were missing straight away.  If  you  were  only  going  to  take  two  photos you’d  take  your  favourites.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe  strange  man  had  stooped  over  now  and  was examining  the  photos.  “Don’t  touch  any  of  them,” Clara  whispered  fiercely,  but  as  if  he  had  heard  her and  was  being  deliberately  disobedient  he  immediately  picked  one  up.  Clara’s  fingers  clenched  tight. “It’s not yours!” she said out loud. He was studying one  in  a  wooden  frame.  From  its  location  Clara thought it might be the one of Mr. and Mrs. Orchard together but she wasn’t sure—it might have been the one   of   Mrs.   Orchard’s   sister,   Miss   Godwin, who had lived alone in the house before Mrs. Orchard had  come  to  live  with  her,  and  who  had  died  a  few years  ago.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe man put the photograph back on the sideboard with the others. He stood for a minute more, looking at  them,  then  turned  and  went  out  of  the  room  and out  of  the  house. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eClara  ran  back  to  the  front  window—you  could see Mrs. Orchard’s driveway more clearly from there. For  a  moment  she  thought  he  was  leaving  but  then he  went  around  to  the  back  of  the  car,  opened  the trunk  and  lifted  out  one  of  the  boxes.  One  after another  he  unloaded  them,  two  from  the  trunk  and two  from  the  back  seat,  and  took  them  into  Mrs. Orchard’s living room and put them on the floor. At first  Clara  had  the  encouraging  thought  that  they might  be  full  of  things  for  Mrs.  Orchard  (though what  would  she  want  that  was  so  heavy  and  took up  so  much  room?)  and  having  delivered  them  he would now get back into his car and drive away. But instead he did something that wasn’t encouraging at all:  he  took  out  a  suitcase.","brand":"Vintage Canada","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301760225509,"sku":"NP9780735281295","price":16.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780735281295.jpg?v=1767720875","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/a-town-called-solace-isbn-9780735281295","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}