Chapter 4January 1994
The earliest memory I possessed of my mother was of a trip to visit her brother in Wexford one summer. We spent two weeks in his house near Rosslare every year during Claire’s annual leave and as a child, I treasured those short holidays. I couldn’t have been much older than three or four that year but the memory stuck with me for a long time. We drove down some winding back roads on what must have been a fairly high altitude, both of us singing along to whatever tape was playing. She loved singing, always had. My father had been big into music as I found out from my grandmother, who always swore he might have made it on stage if he never met her. Claire had no musical talents whatsoever, a voice that was too warbling and off-key, but she sang with persistent zest no
