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correctly, that I was getting no spiritual guidance, and that a spot of church-going would not go amiss. Attendance, when it did take place, was not calculated to implant any wish for repetition. Grandma sang so loudly as to attract glances, particularly when joining a congregation in which she was unknown. I was acutely embarrassed, not least because I had difficulty in finding the right place in the hymn book, and could not bring myself to join in, despite hissed encouragement. On the way out Grandma would collar the minister to introduce herself and ‘me grand-daughter’, with a garbled explanation about why we were not seen more frequently.
    Despite the eccentric antics, I enjoyed her company to a degree – a fact that had to be disguised from my mother, though some incidents, such as yoo-hooing down a lift-shaft when impatient to descend, and checking that a cubicle in the ladies was occupied by bending down to see the feet, make me cringe today. The worst was when she tried to force entry to a small cinema in Derry: the doors were shut and a queue had formed outside, awaiting the exit from the last performance. She, determined to have a word with the commissionaire, could be seen from the foyer, jumping up and down like a chimpanzee, rattling the doors until he opened them. Then she demanded if he knew who she was, and that she wanted two seats in the dress circle. Admirably he kept both his cool and a straight face, while informing her that she would just have to take her place ‘like any other body’. This was bonus entertainment for the queue, which had in the meantime lengthened, and the end of which I joined, wishing the ground would open. During the screening of the Marx Brothers comedy, which I found unfunny, she commented loudly on the block to her view caused by the entwined couple in front of us, eventually prodding them apart with her umbrella. When the lights came on after ‘God Save the King’, I expected a counter-attack from the young seaman, but he contented himself with a grimace. She had a fixation about tracking down silk/wool mixture stockings, once putting a still shapely leg on the counter for the blushing young male assistant better to see the style she wanted.

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    Kindergarten with the Misses Fitzgerald
    T
he fact that at seven years old I could read fluently, but had no formal education, had to be faced. My mother enrolled me at a small private kindergarten run by the Misses Fitzgerald. The red-brick three-storey, semi-detached house was a fifteen minute walk from home, and knowing every short-cut in the neighbourhood, I insisted on going alone on the first day, carrying an orange cardboard attaché case. It contained a pencil-box, with a picture of Mount Fuji on the lid, an assortment of Venus pencils – I knew all about their degrees of hardness from Auntie Rosemary – an India rubber, a six-inch ruler, a compass and a box of multicoloured crayons. Books and stationery were to be supplied by the school. Here, at last, was a chance to mix with other children, but I cannot remember anything about them, except that there were about six, all larger than me.
    We were introduced to rudimentary French – not verbs, just the genders and words for familiar objects. Each pupil had a Vere Foster copy-book, beginning with elementary pothooks, which I was already skilled at reproducing. I remember taking great care in copying a picture of the Taj Mahal. There was a big map of the world showing many of the countries red, which I knew meant they belonged to the British Empire, of which I was supposed to be proud. However, I had difficulty in distinguishing India from Africa, or in which one my father was supposed to be working. We drew pictures of ‘a native outside his hut’. As Christmas approached preparations for a stage production were under way, and my mother was soon in conflict with the Misses Fitzgerald. Crêpe paper in various colours had been