‘Thing is - what I hated most about that time and it’s an odd thing to remember, what I hated most. There was so much to hate.’ My mother was bouncing on her heels, her mouth working. Still I said nothing because we never talked like this. ‘What I hated most was arriving at school. Not because I didn’t like school, I did. There was a cloakroom outside the classroom, where we hung our bags. I made one for you when you went to school. Y’know, for holding pumps and pencils and toys. Whatever. And all of them had a name stitched on them. I can see yours now — blue and white, with your name picked out in red. I’ve still got it somewhere.’ She sipped whisky. Anyway. My mother used to take me to school and sometimes we’d even have to go into a shelter on the way there because the bombers were coming. Then we’d get to school and go to the classroom and the teacher would be taking away a bag. Unhooking it from the peg. Looking apologetic. It would be the bag of a child who didn’t make it to the shelter.’ My mother’s lips folded in on themselves. ‘What did they do with all the bags, John?’

‘I don’t know, Ma.’

We sat there, looking over the sea, wondering what they did with the bags of all the boys and girls who didn’t grow up to be blown apart by other bombs. Did they burn them? Did they hide them? Did they give them to the parents — those little material sacks full of conkers and marbles, odd socks and damp pumps? Enough poignancy in there to undo the best-prepared, most resigned parent.

We each poured ourselves another drink, bouncing still on our heels as the waves rippled in, moonlit.

I looked at my mother, at her mutilated face lit by blue storm light, and minded for her for the first time in years. She was hunkered, brooding, caged by memories. I’ve said that I’m only three generations away from goat-tending and cap-tipping. More than that, I’m but one generation away from ration books and no bananas. One generation away from villages with one telephone. I remember black-and-white televisions, remember telephone numbers given as words -Derwent 3427. Remember discovering pasta, an exotic food then. I looked at my mother, her lips working in the moonlight and held my breath because nothing I could do would ever give her back her life.

I have a desk-top computer and a lap-top; I have access to the Net; a mobile phone which I use to e-mail; a pager; a mobile text-phone; a box to subtitle films. I have a wife who sells soft Italian Cambozola cheese for £5.38 a pound and a mother who spent her childhood dreaming of bread and jam and silence. But it was me who ended up with all the silence she could ever dream of, enough silence to last a lifetime.

Sonja and I slipped into the complacent years without noticing that we had. The small flats were long behind us and we bought the six-bedroom house in Clifton. ‘Six bedrooms?’ friends asked, in wonder. We liked it, its space, its gardens, the cellar and the indecent spread of light; that was why we bought it. And for cash. ‘Six bedrooms?’ friends asked jealously. At the same time, Ian bought his vast loft, ceiling supported by steel columns, overlooking one of the canals. The light shimmers on the ceiling when the sun hits the canal at a certain angle.