Everything had suddenly moved on to a different and altogether more serious level. Grandma’s pronouncements suddenly didn’t seem quite so paranoid and my parents saw all their vague fears coalesce into clearly identifiable threat. “Work harder at pretending, sweetheart.” my mother demanded again and again, “Keep telling yourself you can’t do … things and after a while, perhaps you won’t be able to.” And I did try. After all, I wasn’t stupid. At home there was a radical change of regime and foibles, tolerated over the years, were now banned completely. The phrase ‘Hands, darling, hands.’ became part and parcel of our lives and I woke on several occasions, sweaty from nightmare scenarios featuring slick-soled Merry, the unctuous Doctor and small animals blasted bloodily apart. Two weeks after my return, to our relief, a letter arrived informing my parents that regrettably I was not one of the pupils selected to continue on to the next stage and we blessed Glory, whoever she was, whatever her motivation.
