Leaves from the Fig Tree

Shortly after my parents' divorce my father decided to take me to live with my grandmother and grandfather at Annes Grove, a stately rural County Cork home which had been in the family for over four hundred years. My father, never a conformist, quarrelled with my grandparents shortly after we arrived and consequently went back to Africa, without me. I was six. It was a lonely and sometimes difficult existence living with my grandparents who, for all their good intentions, where not equipped, or interested in raising a child. My grandfather¿s preference and pursuits lay with the horses, hounds and exotic visitors to the magnificent centuries-old estate gardens. While my grandmother thrived on horses, hunting and burying emotion.
Fortunately, the lack of nurturing I received from my grandparents was combatted by the staff of Annes Grove ¿ apart from the irascible Doyle ¿ who all had endless time for me and through whom I learned the ancient secrets of the estate and its people (complete with tales of ghosts, buried treasure and banshees). There was, of course, also Molly, our housekeeper and cook, whose downstairs domain was filled with freshly baked soda bread and sweet tea, affection and soothing words for grazed knees.
I was kept busy by a succession of governesses: one sadist, one Republican and a bee charmer. At seventeen the solitude prickled on my skin like a wool jumper, I needed to stand alone, away from my grandparents¿ protective cloak; I needed to experience life through my own lens; I needed to grow and, importantly, I needed to know if Mrs Barry¿s prophecy of going across water and having `blood all around me¿ would transpire.

Dettagli