One Friday night when she collected me from the station her face was drawn, pale. I asked her if she was OK. She pulled the car over and stopped. Turned to look at me. A handed in my notice today.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘I’ve stopped teaching.’

‘Why?’

‘I can’t do it.’

‘Of course you can do it, you’ve always done it.’ I was scared of this change — change: my enemy.

‘I can’t any more.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I can’t stand in front of them all and talk any more.’

I looked at the dark road, headlights dazzling me. I thought of her standing in front of rows of people, trying to hide her face with a hand. ‘But what will you do?’

She shrugged. ‘Grow old.’

The bomb in Omagh that blew apart on a hot August day in the middle of a crowded street killed twenty-nine people and injured more than two hundred. I stood, shaking, in Ian’s flat that evening and watched the pictures being beamed in, of shattered windows and faces, broken buildings and hearts. I shivered and I watched until Sonja came to fetch me. It was the Real IRA who claimed responsibility. The Real IRA? As opposed to what, exactly? Had the bomb that exploded and turned over the Morris Minor as I thought of a pair of jeans and Merboy disappeared, been virtual? As insubstantial as my eardrums? Had I imagined it? They said they planted the bomb because they didn’t agree with the peace process — well, talk about stating the fucking obvious.

I’ve since read about the survivors of Omagh, the ones who made it home — perhaps without the normal number of ears, or the odd missing limb, or a shrivelled scalp which will never again grow hair; perhaps even eyeless or heartless. I also read about the Good Friday Agreement. Good Friday. The commemoration of the crucifixion. Seems appropriate.

I carry the box of my mother’s journals into the kitchen and empty it on to the table, the same table that she and I sat at for years, learning canasta and pinochle and five-card poker. I pour more coffee before fanning out the journals on the scarred wood. So many. How did she write them all? Well, I guess she had time enough.

The light on the text-phone flashes and I see that Sonja’s calling but I don’t answer, so she leaves a message: Where are you? Come home. Please come home. At least call me. What's wrong?

Taking my coffee out on to the deck I notice the storm lamp in the corner. Again I remember my mother asking me what happened to the children’s bags. And I couldn’t answer. All my life, it seems, people have been asking me questions I can’t answer: What happened to your face? Hello, John, I’m Harry -how are you today? What’s wrong with you? Have you forgiven the people who did this to you? Do you have any idea of the sacrifices my husband and I have made? Can you hear me? Do you love me? What happened to your father? What’s wrong?