I just adored this. The writing style was so lush and beautiful. It was a book where everyone was depressed, where everyone was odd and had a hard time understanding other people at all. There were children who had a mother with mental illness who killed herself that were trying to cope with life. Men who had returned from the First World War, scarred and broken. All together in a tumbled down country setting, where things should have been beautiful but were just a mess and couldn't make the connections that were needed for anyone to heal. It had some of the most beautiful passages about depression and suicide that I've read in a long time.
I'm really glad I bought a lovely old copy of this and have managed to find the other book that Beatrix wrote. For a long time I just thought of her as "That actress who was playing the lesbian in Stones of Blood" but then I found out she really was a lesbian, had partied with Christopher Isherwood in Berlin in the 30s, and written two novels. She seems like a remarkable woman and I'm so glad I was able to get my hands on her books.