The child and the woman were at war. I kept a piece of shrapnel in the chest of drawers in my room. They took it out of Papa’s leg before they cut it off. I begged him to give me the splinter, and I kept it in a little box. Now you’ve locked up what’s left of the war in that box, said Papa.

I can’t recall his face. Where Papa’s face once was, there’s now just a blank. Or a shadow. Or a brightness. There are no faces any more.

He had a beard, I know that. Or maybe that was just the thorn hedge I would sometimes crawl into when I’d been naughty. They would always pull me out, bloody and naked, like a little Jesus. I wonder whether Jesus wept as much as I did. You couldn’t have begrudged him that. Tears are the only benefit of pain.

I hardly remember anything about Mama, although she was with me longer. Just that she was warm, I remember that. Like fresh dough. And she collected kitchen knives. They all sat in the chest of drawers, too, right next to the shrapnel box, the tea towels and a little wax saint. I think it was St George. He kills dragons in the name of Christ, so the kitchen knives should come in handy.

I didn’t have children, and I never regretted it. Of course I would have been curious to know what it feels like when something of you extends into the future. But it didn’t happen. Even though men were good to me. Which always surprised me, because I wasn’t good to men. I didn’t know them. I didn’t really know anyone, not even myself. First I was too young. Then I was too proud. And, finally, too old. When you’re old, you do start to understand a few things here and there, but they’re no use to you any more.

Men weren’t necessary to me. Sometimes I fell in love, but that happened with the gold weathercock on the town hall roof as well. Or the butterflies out on the paths through the fields. The butterflies were more necessary to me than all the men put together. They were also the best remedy for sadness. Very few men are a challenge; most are an imposition. They no longer know how to be great and melancholy.

I did know one melancholy man, just one. He was tall and had sharp knees, as befits a man. He had glasses, too, with lenses as thick as ice cubes. One time I put them on and lay down in front of him, half-blind. His heart almost burst with love. That’s what he told me later. It’s possible he would have been the one. But he went and died on me in his sleep.

After a certain age we think there’s nothing left for us, but that’s a mistake. As long as you’re alive, there’s always something to be done.

In general, though, ageing is a wretched business. The only good bit is that you get lighter. Thoughts are heaviest of all, and they’re increasingly absent. Much falls away of its own accord. Everything, really.