First written in 1953, but only published in America as Holroyd’s father threatened to sue if it appeared here, this really rather pointless novel is partially based on the author’s own eccentric family. A length postscript – which is actually more interesting than the novel – explains the book’s genesis and history and fills in more detail about Holroyd’s writing life. The action, such as it is, takes place over 24 hours in the house of a cast of rather one-dimensional and vaguely comic characters and is centred on the illness of the family dog. Nothing much happens and the characters don’t develop, remaining one-dimensional and repetitive throughout. It’s readable enough, even quite amusing on occasion, but its publication adds nothing to Holroyd’s reputation – indeed for me it diminishes it – and I really don’t understand why he and his publishers have decided to revive it. It’s not bad but it’s certainly not good.