Everyone held their breath to see if she would change her mind. She did not. Still somewhat bemused, as well as in a state of deep relief, I told the tale of his hasty departure to one of my friends at high school as we perched together on art stools and worked on life drawings for our Higher art examinations. Myra Readings was a cool, fair, beautiful girl whose home in Alexander Street I often visited after school before catching the Cliftonville bus to Ashgrove. Her parents seemed to have such a warm, stable relationship and, as an only child, she came from a lovely home and seemed to have everything anyone could possibly want. Now she shot me a look of undisguised horror, when I described how my father had vanished with his clippie, Pat Hanlon, who was half his age. ‘They’ve run away together completely out of the blue? My God!’ Myra’s shocked tone caught the attention of several heads which turned with great curiosity towards us, and red-faced, I motioned her to keep her voice down.
