We lived in a village called Foxgrove – that's where I was born. One afternoon, in August 1951, they got in their car, drove off, and they never came back.
There was an accident?
A tractor had broken down in the lane. They went straight into it.
You got out ok.
I wasn't with them. They left me behind – in my pram, at the side of the road, alone.
They must have had a reason.
To leave a three-month-old baby on its own?
So, your Aunt Lavinia brought you up.
Dad's sister, the family genius. She did the best she could, but she was always so busy, never in one place long enough to lick a stamp. She always said my mum and dad were the best parents in the world. But I couldn't help thinking – was she covering up for them? Because that day they just upped and left their baby alone. Left me behind.
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