On the surface an unruffled chronicle of prosperous 1950s England, all tweeds and twinsets, permanent waves and watercress sandwiches for tea, underneath, The Tortoise and the Hare is a timeless, merciless examination of the perils of "femininity", aka female passivity. We watch, appalled, as the domestic paradise of the lovely, if somewhat doe-like, Imogen Graham - wealthy, successful husband, unusually bright son, divine old pile in the country - slowly unravels when the bullying barrister husband to whose comfort she has slavishly devoted her life becomes more and more involved with their frumpy, elderly spinster neighbour. Imogen may be doe-like, but she is far from stupid, and the reader is not allowed to feel superior, or to shirk the pain of her growing self-awareness. The narrative grabs the attention with an iron grip and, with the possible exception of the aforementioned spinster - too Boys' Own to have ever been true - the characters are subtly, intelligently drawn. Drawn? Etched with a sharp implement on soft, white skin, more like.
