“Oh I don’t know… I was lucky to have an aunt who took me in. That was a lovely place. She was very good to me.”

“Well her husband wasn’t. I’ve been told that he used to come home drunk and beat both you and her.”

“These things happen. And I was only there for three years. Until my aunt had her breakdown and I was taken into care.”

“So how did that feel  Ending up in a home with no one in the world to turn to ”

“By then I was old enough to manage. The brothers there were nice enough. Some of them, anyhow.”

I left it at that, made no mention of the members of the order who had been sent to jail for interfering with children in their care. I accepted that I had no right to force the wall of denial that only the man himself could decide to demolish.

“Look at this!” I overheard a mother admonish her young children. “This is beautiful.” “Ooh!” chimed the children. “Isn’t it beautiful ”

And on numerous other occasions: “Watch out! This is dangerous.” “Help!” wailed the children. “It is dangerous, very dangerous.”

So it went on, year in, year out. “This is good, that is bad. This is marvellous, that abominable.” The children swallowed every word she said, without ever stopping to chew, without even looking.

She could have pointed to the black kettle and told them it was white, and they would have piped in unison: “Oh yes! Very white indeed.” They were such nice, amenable children.

Watching from a distance, I sometimes felt like crying out:“For goodness’ sake, don’t believe everything you hear! That kettle isn’t white at all, it’s black! Use your eyes and see for yourselves! Rely on your own judgement!”

But of course I didn’t. It wasn’t my place. All I could do was hope to see the day when these children would find the wherewithal to break the bonds of their conditioning,establish a truth of their own.

They were well into their thirties before it finally happened.

I heaved a sigh of relief.

Their mother was devastated.

It is a lovely day in August, five days after my sixth birthday.

I have been sent into the garden to play. My grandmother is lying down. She has a pain in her chest.

It’s unusual for her to be ill. Grandpa is the one with a weak heart.

Listlessly, I rock to and fro on the swing. I’m feeling lonely. I wish I had someone to play with.

Then, suddenly, I see just the person I need: my grandfather, on his way home from work, though it’s the middle of the afternoon. “Grandpa!” I cry delightedly, “Come and push me!”

His face is white and stern, as I’ve never seen it before. “You shouldn’t be out playing,” he says gruffly, as if I was doing something I shouldn’t.

“But ? ” I want to tell him that I’m only doing as I’ve been told. “It’s going to rain,” he adds brusquely. I look up, baffled, at the bright blue sky. Not a cloud in sight.

“Come with me!” His voice has a note of desperation.

As we walk together up the stairs, he takes my hand, holds on to it, as if he needs support. I am gripped by a sense of foreboding. But it will be some time before I realize that this moment represents the point where my childhood ends.