He came home from his first term at the Academy all elbows and appetite, laughing at me for having saved him two months’ worth of aeroplane pictures from the Sunday papers, and I did not cry.
He came home from London thin and lice-bitten, with scraggly hair and a terrible cough, to ask in a shaking voice if he could stay, and I did not cry.
He comes home from America tired but smiling, bringing syrups and jams and beautiful photographs, and I cannot speak. Don't, Mum, he pleads with me, Mum, I'm all right, but the tears keep coming.