In the 50s it was rarer than it is now to have great-grandparents living. From time to time I would see my G. great-grandfather, who appeared a prestigious, holy figure.
Aged six (I think) I came home from school for dinner and was told that he had died. I went out into the back garden, I had burst into tears which soon, and this surprised me, stopped as if turned off by a tap. What was the point of his living? I thought. To be my great-grandfather, I answered. What is the point of my living? To be his great-grandson, I thought. I noticed before I went in again that the pipes on the back of the house made a very ugly pattern.
(I stopped crying soon, yet when I went to teach at wretched BWS aged 25 the wound was still not fully healed.)
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