When he was at home, Father rarely spoke. His face and eyes were cold, and he didn’t seem like someone’s husband, let alone a father. He never once sat down and chatted with us, and on those rare occasions when he did speak, it always sounded like a command – he never minced his words. Whenever he was home, the whole house became tense and nervous; we all felt like we were walking on eggshells. We would lower our voices, fearful of upsetting him. If we did upset him – cause him to get angry, to curse at us – Mum would enter the fray and reprimand us, not him. She was always on his side. Don’t you think that was strange? I think I can safely say that, as a husband, Father’s life was much happier than most other men’s. Mum’s life was devoted to his. If it seemed as though his life had been given to the red-walled compound, then surely her life was his – given to this man who had been bewitched by something she could never understand!