Download An Awfully Big Adventure by Beryl Bainbridge PDF

By Beryl Bainbridge

It's 1950 and the Liverpool reporatory theatre corporation is rehearsing its Christmas creation of Peter Pan, a narrative of formative years innocence and loss. Stella has been taken on as assistant degree supervisor and quick turns into keen about Meredith, the dissolute director. however it is barely while the prestigious O'Hara arrives to take the lead, diverse drama unfolds. In it, he and Stella are certain jointly in a prior that neither dares to interpret.

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Sample text

He still drank with them, but only on special days. Mostly he was sober. He had this idea that the men were really looking for some type of Eden and that when they drank they returned to it, but, on getting there, they weren’t able to stay. He didn’t try to convince them to stop. That wasn’t his way. It might’ve been easy for me not to like Corrigan, my younger brother who sparked people alive, but there was something about him that made dislike difficult. His theme was happiness—what it is and what it might not have been, where he might find it and where it might have disappeared.

I’m broke,” I said without turning around. The hooker spat thickly at my feet and raised the pink parasol over her head. “Asshole,” she said as she walked past. She stood on the lit side of the street and waited underneath the parasol. Every time a car went past she lowered and raised it, making herself into a little planet of light and dark. I carried my rucksack towards the projects with as much nonchalance as I could. Heroin needles lay along the inside of the fence, among the weeds. Someone had spray-painted the sign near the entrance to the flats.

When the weather blew foul, we sat on the stairs, Corrigan and I. Our father, a physicist, had left us years before. A check, postmarked in London, arrived through the letter box once a week. Never a note, just a check, drawn on a bank in Oxford. It spun in the air as it fell. We ran to bring it to our mother. She slipped the envelope under a flowerpot on the kitchen windowsill and the next day it was gone. Nothing more was ever said. The only other sign of our father was a wardrobe full of his old suits and trousers in our mother’s bedroom.

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