Well written. Excellent exploration of intense female childhood and adolescent friendship. A bit long through the middle; some editorial pruning would have helped.

This passage, for example, while it spoke to me and I was delighted to find it, was not really necessary for Lily's mother's character development.

For the information of knitters reading this - the following passge is the only reference to knitting.

p. 117

My mother began to knit again, a pale yellow jumper she was making for me. We had picked out the pattern together; it was to have a pearl button at the neck and slightly puffed sleeves. Over the following days my mother knitted almost without stopping: while she ate; while she talked to the nurses; while she sate by my father's bed. She fell asleep knitting in the chair beside him, woke up, continued to knit. She was like one of the fates, sullenly, determinedly knitting out the griefs of the world. Somehow my mother's anxiety, and my own, became entangled in the wool of that jumper, caught up in the purl of its weave so that it would always be tainted for me, as if it had absorbed the medicinal stink of the hospital, the image of my father, ashen, with his eyes closed, the thick sheets drawn up under his arms, the knobbly cotton blanket tight across his chest and over the bulky casts encasing both his legs, his toes protruding from the bedclothes so that their colour could be monitored - my mother and I had to fight the urge constantly to pull the blank over them to keep them warm. I would never wear that jumper.

In the end I didn't really care about any of them. Particularly the cruelly manipulative Trenthams but not even very much about Lily.

Shortlisted for the Stella Prize 2014.