Am I the only one who wondered where were his parents? Joe’s that is, not Treacle Walker’s. I like children being free to act in stories, unhindered by the adult world, but Alan Garner loves to boil down his stories to the bones and, sometimes, he boils away a bit too much of the flesh. After all, it would only take a sentence to say that Joe’s parents had been tossed in a bag by the rag ‘n’ bone man, or fallen down a well, or had been eaten by tigers while on safari in India. I know it’s not really relevant to the story, which exists in the intersection between myth, memory and folklore with only the passing nod to everyday life – and there’s nothing wrong with that – but I think that Garner’s best stories tread the line a little closer to everyday life, showing how it’s lined with myth and, sort of, twisted where you least expect it. Still, on the other hand, if I was 89 I’d be pleased to still be writing something like this!