You woke one clear June morning and drew back the curtains to see an unexploded bomb lying in the corner of the vegetable-patch. There it lay, organically asquint, looking for all the world like some strange breed of marrow, dark-skinned, of preposterous proportions. Only the rich brown earth scattered like cinnamon across the dewy lawn suggested that it might explode at any second, that the house might explode at any second.

What did you feel as you stood there at the window, your nightdress half open and your hand upon the coolness of the metal window-catch? It was such a peaceful morning. All you could hear was the sound of birdsong and, coming from somewhere far away across the gardens, the dull thin clink of milk bottles being put on doorsteps.

By some strange ­­-- miracle, coincidence -- the bomb had landed not in the rows of potatoes, cabbages and turnips which you had been so carefully nurturing for the past two months but in a bare strip of earth which you had turned over the day before in preparation for sowing lettuces and chives there.

You must have felt amazement, fear, a welling of relief, and then fear again (the bomb might explode at any second, yourself with it). You would have prayed, I know. You would have asked God what this sign meant. Did it mean that Father was dead? A prisoner-of-war? Did it mean that a raid had been cancelled at the last second, the raid in which he would have lost his life, perhaps? For a second you let an image flood your mind’s eye as it floods the silver screen; thousands of bombs falling on Hamburg, every one of them exploding.

Mother is not looking well today. There is a weakness in the arms she raises to my neck, and her lips are dry and coarse upon my cheek. “How are you?” she asks me, in a voice which is striving very hard to sound ordinary.

”Oh well,” I say, in an exactly similar tone of voice. For a second we say nothing. That is all our news exchanged, all our important news, anyway. Mother lets her arms fall from my neck. She steps back, fiddling with the scarf at her throat. The moment is just about to become embarrassing.

“Come and see my tomatoes,” she suddenly says, in a voice which is animated, artificial and just as dear to me as the first voice: “You must come and see my tomatoes.” We step through into the kitchen. “How many have you got this year?” I ask, staring around me at the familiar things I don’t really want to see. “Plants?” says Mother. “Or tomatoes?”

“Either,” I say, “both.”

Mother pauses with her hand on the doorknob. “I’ve got fifteen plants,” she says, “and a hundred and twenty-seven tomatoes.” She cocks her head at me and I know that I am supposed to understand these figures. I take it that it means a really good crop. “Really?” I say, resigned to the game, almost relieved by it. Mother nods her head, girlishly. “One hundred and twenty-seven,” she says. “Come and see them.” I nod, not knowing what to say. “Come and see,” calls Mother, already outside in the garden.

I could never tell you how much I dislike this house. It would hurt you too much, and anyway, there’s no need for you to know. But every time I come back, my stomach turns at the sight of this narrow hall, that kitchen with its memory of scones and tea-towels. Or not the sight, the feel.

I can feel the very proportions of the walls, the weight of the ceilings, the wear in the banisters. I can remember the wallpaper that used to be in this room, the picture that used to hang in that one. I have a perfect memory of carpets and the threadbare patches in them.

None of the alterations you have made here since Father’s death have made the slightest difference; it’s still his house, it’s still your house as it used to be. The changes are all cosmetic, and they have the quality of make-up put on at the last minute, more for morale than for show. Perhaps you should have left everything as it was, a period piece, a monument. The bookshelves I put up for you look more precarious every time I see them.

“A new variety,” I say.

“Tiger-stripe,” says Mother, “I’m trying it for the first time this year.”

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