The Cumbrian tourist board might have grounds to sue this young author for defamation, were it not for the fact that her meaty but overripe debut is set in a north of the imagination, where cellphones don’t work, basic child safeguarding doesn’t apply, and no one seems to have breakdown cover. Margot lives with her deranged and embittered mother in an isolated house in the woods, which regularly attracts lost hikers, injured walkers and stranded motorists. The “strays”, as they call them, are then not just murdered but munched. Margot is more familiar with eating human fingers than the fishy variety, and when the alternative is boring pasta, the prospect of a roasted, rosemary-scented rump or thigh is irresistible.
Margot has known nothing else in her short life: “Mama didn’t feed me from breast or bottle. She gave me blood.” Now, almost 12, she is allowed to go to the local school, on strict instructions not to make friends or draw attention. “Papa disappeared” years previously, but what happened to him is not too much of a revelation. The only visitor is the local gamekeeper, who drops by occasionally for sex with Mama. But everything changes with the arrival of beautiful Eden, who transforms from prospective stray to enthusiastic member of the household.
