I was grand until I stood right beside his remains. I swayed a few times before I crashed into Bernie who was doling out coconut slices. It took John, Eileen and Kathleen to get me upright as I weighed a ton. Daddy was directing them from the doorway: watch her, watch her, he says, drawing tender shapes with his big hands. Being patted down and fussed over and forced to drink even more bloody weak tea was no consolation for the fact that I’d embarrassed myself once more. I couldn’t even keep my wits about me for darling Granda Ban. With all four faces staring down at me, I burst into tears, got the hiccups and nearly peed myself all at the same time.

–  I told you, you weren’t strong enough for this! I’m taking you home right now, says John Johns, my hero.

–  Mary, are you attention-seeking again? sighs Mammy.

I wasn’t allowed to the funeral. The rain was blamed, as if I was made of salt or sugar and might be washed away. I was holed up in Johns Farm beside the fire; Brandy had squeezed himself under the chair and the damp reek of his coat wafted up to where I sat surrounded with biscuits and chocolates, bitter and sweet.

Mick had chosen this weekend to tell me he was going to Australia and the thought of him so far away from Carncloon closed my throat. I might never see him again. I don’t know if it was because I was the size of a house, that Granda Ban and all his stories were gone forever or the fact that Mick – who had never mentioned wanting to travel – was going to get out into the world and see it in a way I never would. The old longings to be up, up and away, to be light enough to fly – God, to be light enough to get out of a chair without groaning – took hold again.

The tears rolled down my face and slipped under my chin where they tickled until they dropped. I couldn’t even be bothered to wipe them clear. By this age, if I hadn’t fallen off the path, I would have flown all the way to America. I could have been walking the streets of New York, hailing myself a yellow cab or soaking up a bird’s-eye view of Central Park from one of the high-rise buildings. I could have photos taken of me to prove that I’d got there, like the Polaroids Lizzie had a bad habit of sending me from London.