I still do not understand how a man that could possess such empathy for all creatures, no matter how small, could simultaneously reveal himself as being a coward capable of hurting his wife, my mother. It is difficult to describe how much I loved my mother, hugging me, her long arms like a comfort blanket even though they were thin, I could feel the heat of her as she held me close. I know it was the right place to be. It is incomprehensible that my father could be unkind to a person as wonderful as she was. I don’t recall him beating her, I remember discipline. Discipline can keep things afloat.

And yet I know with a certainty that I loved him as any son can attest to loving his father, watching out for his mood swings, being careful to remain the favourite.

I can still see my father’s shop, his pride and joy; full of herringbone jackets, soft-wool socks in attractive earth colours, limestone green and charcoal and putty brown. Soft machine-knit sweaters in vibrant green like a Connemara ridge, the mauve of Connemara seaweed. Fishermen’s jumpers composed of elegant tweed wool that mirrored the mussel shells that you find on the shores of the West, woven ties the colour of fuchsia and silk scarves of burnt orange like the Atlantic sunsets.

Women’s underwear, fully cotton Sloggi knickers with thick elastic tops. I recall how I once placed a pair of these knickers over my head and charged about the shop when my father wasn’t looking and my mother laughed her heart out. I remember that as soon as my father saw me he ran after me, shouting at me to stop, and I couldn’t stop because if I did I would wet myself because I laughed so hard and my sickening laughter was turning to a kind of uneasiness. I will never forget how in that moment I recognized in my father that transformation from having fun to the realization that the fun was over. I still have the memory of having gone too far.