Esma

London, 12 September 1992

My mother died twice. I promised myself I would not let her story be forgotten, but I could never find the time or the will or the courage to write about it. That is, until recently. I don't think I'll ever become a real writer and that's quite all right now. I've reached an age at which I'm more at peace with my limitations and failures. But I had to tell the story, even if only to one person. I had to send it into some corner of the universe where it could float freely, away from us. I owed it to Mum, this freedom. And I had to finish it this year. Before he was released from prison.

In a few hours I'll take the sesame halva off the hob, let it cool by the sink and kiss my husband, pretending not to notice the worried look in his eyes. Then I'll leave the house with my twin daughters — seven years old, four minutes apart — and drive them to a birthday party. They'll quarrel on the way, and, for once, I'll not scold them. They'll wonder if there will be a clown at the party, or, better still, a magician.

'Like Harry Houdini,' I'll say.

'Harry who?'

'Who-deeny, she said, you silly!'

'Who's that, Mummy?'

That will hurt. A pain like a bee sting. Not much on the surface, but a growing burning within. I'll realize, as I have done on so many occasions before, that they don't know anything about their family history because I have told them so little. One day, when they're ready. When I'm ready.

After I had dropped off the girls, I'll chat for a while with the other mothers who have shown up. I'll remind the party host that one of my daughters is allergic to nuts, but, since it is difficult to tell the twins apart, it is better to keep an eye on both of them and make sure neither gets any food with nuts, including the birthday cake. That is a bit unfair to my other daughter, but between siblings that does happen sometimes, the unfairness, I mean.

I'll then get back into my car, a red Austin Montego that my husband and I take turns driving. The journey from London to Shrewsbury is three and a half hours. I may have to make a pit stop just before Birmingham. I will keep the radio on — that will help to chase the ghosts away, the music.

There have been many times when I thought of killing him. I have made elaborate plans that involved guns, poison or, better yet, a flick-knife — a poetic justice, of sorts. I have also thought of forgiving him, fully and truly. In the end, I haven't achieved neither.

When I arrive in Shrewsbury, I'll leave the car in front of the railway station and take the five-minute walk to the grimy prison building. I'll pace the street or lean against the wall across from the main entrance, waiting for him to come out. I don't know how long this will take. And I don't know how he'll react when eh sees me. I haven't visited him for more than a year. I used to go regularly, but as the day of his release drew closer I just stopped.