At seventy-nine, Joy learns a new word: "Mankeeper." The word fits and chafes at once. In a coastal town of bowls greens, church pews and Norfolk pines, she tends to Art in the realm where care is mostly invisible, reading the weather of his face, staging days with lists and small calibrations, keeping pills lined up next to plates and hope tucked under a fridge magnet. As seasons turn, a fall on the back step, a neighbour's kindness, a son's visits, and the camaraderie of a men's tools shed rearrange the household barometers of rage and dependence.
Rendered in exacting, luminous detail, The Mankeeper is a close-up portrait of late-life partnership, how love, habit and stubborn autonomy jostle in kitchen and shed, on the breakwater and under the eave. It is about the choreography of ageing, the politics of chores and tone, and the audacity of claiming an hour to write. Joy is small and grand at once, author inside, list-maker outside, learning what is hers to carry and what she can set down. In sentences as steady as a hand on a shoulder, this book asks what it means to keep another safely in the world without losing oneself.