Staying in his Nana's apartment while his mother is away, young Oscar helps tend a thriving flower garden that he then shares with neighbors in his community.

Losing his family home and beloved model train set during the Great Depression, 11-year-old Oscar is forced to move in with difficult relatives before meeting an enigmatic drifter and witnessing an incredible crime that prompts his cross-country, celebrity-marked train journey. By the award-winning creator of the Max and Ruby series. 50,000 first printing.

When experimental drilling on the pacific sea-bed breaks through the earth's thin mantle, vast quantities of nitrogen, trapped for untold millions of years, are released into the atmosphere. As a result, the oxygen in the air becomes dangerously diluted. Whole areas of America are thrown into chaos as the inhabitants literally fight for breath. Two men and two girls put to sea in a yacht in a desperate effort to escape the terror, but terror, in a different and no less deadly form, pursues them relentlessly.

'Stacey Heale ... has such a muscular take on grief, and her ideas around how we live with profound loss are truly original.' Clover Stroud When Stacey Heale's husband, Greg, was diagnosed with incurable cancer on their daughter's first birthday, everything changed. She quickly realised how little is spoken about what the harder times in our lives really look like, leaving us lost to navigate the unknown alone. Confronted with a new life she was not prepared for, Stacey began to untangle the brutal realities of life and death - and the fundamental differences between our expectations and reality. Now is Not the Time for Flowers is Stacey's unflinchingly beautiful and raw memoir that addresses the big conversations that imminent death dictates, boldly taking the reader on a journey through the full spectrum of our lives and their complexities. Told through vignettes of her own life and the death of her husband, Stacey offers a movingly honest, insightful and humorous account of modern womanhood through the lenses of love, desire, motherhood, death, grief, identity, personal growth and the challenges and questions that our lives force upon us. Now is Not the Time for Flowers is a powerful call to arms for us to discuss the messy and unexpected truths of our nuanced lives. 'To tell the explicit truths of lives is critical; to refrain from doing so keeps us lonely and isolated. Women are shamed for their emotional natures and their desire to talk so much, so we've shut down these avenues between us. ... To be honest is to show care, for ourselves and others. There is integrity in truth; it is freeing even when it's painful and hard. Sometimes it can land like a blow to the head, but its ripples are in no way as far-reaching as secrets.'

Met lit. opg. Essays on the commonplace artifacts of life in modern America: advertising and celebreties, architecture, short fiction and magazines.

At Roosendal, about an hour's railway journey from Antwerp, the boundary between Belgium and Holland is crossed, and a branch line diverges to Breda. Somehow, like most travellers, we could not help expecting to see some marked change on reaching a new country, and in Holland one could not repress the expectation of beginning at once to see the pictures of Teniers and Gerard Dou in real life. We were certainly disappointed at first. Open heaths were succeeded by woods of stunted firs, and then by fields with thick hedges of beech or alder, till the towers of Breda came in sight. Here a commonplace omnibus took us to the comfortable inn of Zum Kroon, and we were shown into bedrooms reached by an open wooden staircase from the courtyard, and quickly joined the table d'hôte, at which the magnates of the town were seated with napkins well tucked up under their chins, talking, with full mouths, in Dutch, of which to our unaccustomed ears the words seemed all in one string. Most excellent was the dinner—roast meat and pears, quantities of delicious vegetables cooked in different ways, piles of ripe mulberries and cake, and across the little garden, with its statues and bright flower-beds, we could see the red sails of the barges going up and down the canals. As soon as dinner was over, we sallied forth to see the town, which impressed us more than any Dutch city did afterwards, perhaps because it was the first we saw. The winding streets—one of them ending in a high windmill—are lined with houses wonderfully varied in outline, and of every shade of delicate colour, yellow, grey, or brown, though the windows always have white frames and bars. Passing through a low archway under one of the houses, we found ourselves, when we least expected it, in the public garden, a kind of wood where the trees have killed all the grass, surrounded by canals, beyond one of which is a great square château built by William III. of England, encircled by the Merk, and enclosing an arcaded court. There was an older château of 1350 at Breda, but we failed to find it.