A while ago when I visited my mum, I left a copy of The Summer Book (also by Tove Jansson) behind sort of accidentally on purpose. It’s about what a little girl and her grandmother do on an island in summer. At the end … well, I couldn’t say, it would spoil it. But it has an excellent chapter about cats. She sent it back to me. “I don’t even want it in the house,” she said. I felt somewhat bad about that; I know she misses her mother and grandmother very much, and the book is all about mothers and grandmothers. I felt sad that I had made her feel sad. But this christmas, she sent me a copy of The Winter Book, and I feel that all is well again. Suitably, as a forgiveness gift, The Winter Book is much more upbeat, full of stories about parties and dreams, although (naturally) shot through with sinster amusement and lurking shadows.