THERE WAS NO sign on the door of my parents’ bedroom that said ‘keep out’, but I knew it was not a place to visit, at least not for long. There was a smell to the room, of stale perfume, my father’s cigarettes and of bodies. Even so, I was drawn to this room, as if to danger, a wish to pit my puny strength against my father’s, whose every command was law.

My mother made up my parent’s bed each day by dragging a thick maroon cover over the top to hide the rumpled sheets and blankets. She had dyed the bedspread the colour of dried blood, to hide the stains on what was once a white bedspread, which she had brought with her from Holland. The spread was too heavy for regular washing and gave off a musty smell.