Rosie is a shapeless landmass of a woman; sometimes it seems as if her too too solid flesh would melt into the tears she fancies it consists of; her husband, Ben Finck, belittles and belabors her; sometimes there's a very nasty joke-- dirty or practical. Now they're holidaying in a small Spanish village, when they should really be in Brighton or Bournemouth. White her body fails her (nausea and dysentery take her in and out of filthy lavatories) her mind seems to become and more bewildered-- everyone reminds her of someone she might have known back home, like Davey Cohen, or seen in the flics. Ben leaves her alone a lot of the time, consorting with drifters and queers; Rosie gets sicker and sicker and when last seen, all of a sudden the picture of Christ on the wall in her bedroom looks just like Rabbi Lubin.... This is a small, sometimes petulant, sometimes pathetic chiller, streaked with unpleasantness, edged with unpleasantness, edged with sadness, and too acute to seem anything but true.