None of it worked. He was used to something else. He grew up convinced there could be no more sincere human bond than the authority and love of a parent, that all there could be between a man and a woman were artificial nuptials contrived for the sake of enabling childbirth. But again . . . it might be that I never fully understood him. We’re a bundle of contradictions. When I think of Mum I can be happy and at the same time next to tears. Perhaps his main reason for wanting her to stay was that it so categorically defied Grandma’s wishes. This was his last bash at a protest—his final chance at freedom. Grandma finally surrendered one year later, when she learned that Mum was pregnant with me. Dad was pretty pleased with himself. That was his last bold act. Although, no, there was one other thing. My name: Eva. He was proud of that one. I’d like to think he saw the world’s first woman in me, but I suspect it was something to do with the name of the snack joint at the train station where he hung out. A vertical blue sign with three big letters: “E V A,” and below it read: “Beer and Pasties.” And beneath that: “You won’t find better.”

Fine. Snack joint it is then.

My memories of Mum are of her being quiet, still, and stubborn. At the beginning, she tried in vain to fight him. With her patience and love, she battled the invincible might of his nihilism, waited for him to perform his great deed, pushed him to get out of his rut, to start writing. But it was all for nothing. It only made him angry. They still lived with Grandma, and she ran the family’s affairs. Grandma was so unbelievably strong. Her heart stayed strong, “like a racehorse’s,” until her dying day. Although she’d always repeat, while she still could talk: “I worry so much about you. My heart can’t take it.” She would carry on as though magnanimously enduring the slings of fate and, on top of everything, putting up with her shit-out-of-luck son.

Back to the bottle. And this time he did end up in the madhouse. I can’t remember a time when we weren’t having some problem with money, housing, clothing, or food. Childhood was a time of endless economising, a constant deadening and draining need, caused by nothing other than Dad’s refusal to work. Everything seemed beneath his talent. We were quite unworthy.

We ushered in the arrival of the new century with Grandma’s first stroke. Things got worse. She could still walk, but her mind was feeble. It was dementia, or something like that. Dad became particularly affectionate and attentive. He never left her side. He’d sit her down in the old armchair: “Now can I bring you anything? Maybe a cuppa?” He fastened her to the armchair with rolled-up sheets and placed the knitting in her hands. And she knitted. If he hadn’t tied her down, she might have wandered into the kitchen and switched on the gas.