Iris's story, gently revealed in layers and drifts of memories, is less about dramatic twists and turns than it is about the slow evolution of how you understand yourself, and how family and place shapes us. It's beautiful - in a quiet, cosy, way.
The jelly they made had a mysteriously pale translucent shimmer. 'Preserved tears', my grandmother called them. The shelves in her cellar still housed jars of all sizes with the currant jelly from 1981, a summer particularly rich in tears, Rosemarie's final one.