Durham, 1973. I was eight years old. There was a strange atmosphere in our house. Someone was visiting our father at the weekend, but no one would tell me, or Angus or Anna, my elder brother and younger sister, who it was. A certain heaviness in the air suggested perhaps a doctor or priest. More likely, in those days, an aggrieved bank manager. The information, finally delivered on the...
‘Father’s sister will be visiting,’ our mother said, ‘you won’t meet her, so there’s absolutely no reason for you to come out of your bedrooms.’ This was exciting, not because I was interested in suddenly possessing an aunt, but because the news suggested my father also had parents, a childhood, a school, a birthplace. Our father was a wiped slate, and this didn’t seem strange because it was all we knew. He was our wiped slate.