Paradise Jazz [Secure eReader]
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eBook by Kat Pomfret
eBook Category: Mainstream/Mystery/Crime
eBook Description: 'At Paradise Jazz, myths became legends and legends took off their coats and played the kind of blues to leave blisters on your soul.' Kat Pomfret's colourful debut novel explores what happens in a small town when big secrets collide. A novel about family, history and identity, Paradise Jazz tells the story of two women who have to confront a violent and secret past. The stories of Georgetown Easy, looking for a father last seen in Texas 1978, and Helena Jones, who wants to forget the past as much as her great aunt wants her to remember it, twist round one another in the small but complex world of the novel, in which 'life is like jambalaya, on the one hand nothing to hold it all together and on the other, Lord you try unpicking one thing from another.'
eBook Publisher: Snowbooks/Snowbooks
Fictionwise Release Date: January 2007
Georgetown lies thirty degrees north of the
equator and ninety-eight degrees west of the
The distance from Georgetown to
Washington is over 1,000 miles. The distance
to the Texas state capital is twenty-three
miles, as the crow flies.
The population of Georgetown is 29,000;
the approximate number of families, in
thousands, is six.
These are the things I know about Georgetown,
Texas. It?s this Georgetown, and not Georgetown South
Carolina or Georgetown Washington that I am named
for. I know also that even before my mother was born
in Rock Street, Georgetown, Texas, USA, that the Comanche, Apache and Kiowa lived there and that
beneath the town are caverns containing soda straws,
mastodons and dire wolves. I do not wish to know what
a dire wolf is. I know I was conceived at a place called
Booty?s Crossing near the banks of a river whose name
I have forgotten and there is a fire-fighting museum
near the mall. This is so you get a sense of history. So
you don't think I?ve sprung out of nowhere rootless and
open-mouthed. I just remembered something else about
Georgetown: something or someone is called Blue Hole.
This is no way to begin. But if it?s background you?re
after, the history of our family is one great void. Before
my grandma, who I guess must have cracked herself out
of an egg, or been created from the Lord?s own wishbone,
there is nothing but soda straws and San Antonio. My
world is a shrunken world. It is a world only of my
mother, of Tantie (Tantie is my auntie who got pregnant
four summers after my mother) and her husband,
Jimmy, and, in the far and distant past of my childhood,
Sanderson Miller. There are holes in this world the size
of Africa, the shape of a father. There are things we talk
about and things we don't talk about. Breaking this rule
is like trying to walk on the ceiling: you're only going to
get yourself hurt. We?ve got twenty years of roots here
in England, ten back in Texas, and before that, nothing.
The history of my family is blank as the desert horizon.
The past is mile after mile of empty sand, with nothing to
mark the end of one story and the beginning of another.
My growing up was poetic; the kind that everybody
likes to read about but nobody wants to have. In print, my
childhood was one gigantic laugh-out-loud Christmas
TV spectacular (things are certainly funnier in the past
tense than the present) but the truth is, for Mom, Tantie,
Jimmy and me, life was like jambalaya; plenty of flavour
and lots of good things but, looked at one way, nothing to
hold it all together, and, looked at another, Lord, you try
unpicking one thing from another. And the unravelling
begins for the firsttimewithabowlofsugardoughnuts,
begins over again with a first-class ticket for flight 181
and a bottle of Freixenet, then begins for real the night
Sanderson Miller walked into Paradise Jazz and heard a
soul-dark girl singing white-hot blues.