I was now on the wrong side of five and a half years old and at about this time our prodigal parents returned to Kilaglin to take Michael and me back to London to live with them both. The last time they had seen us was when I was six months old. In the weeks before they came, Granny kept reminding us of their imminent arrival and of the great adventure that lay ahead of us. It was as if she was softening the blow really for herself. She didn't tell us the full story of where we were going, or even where we came from. Or perhaps simply didn't register that much with us anyway. We played as we always played, happy in our childhood, our surroundings, and our fort.

The next few days were very sad for her and Jeremiah. He became easier to tease and play games with for he had become resigned to our fate. Even Granny would let us get away with almost anything. The atmosphere had changed and we were not fully aware of it yet, but strong feelings were mixed with an instinct that all was not well in our garden. Our parents arrived that Friday.

They were dressed to the nines as they stepped out of the taxi and made their grand entrance into our lives. My mother, Maise, had an over-the-top beehive hairdo and too much makeup. She was over dressed and she spoke in a singsong voice. She never seemed to be speaking to anyone in particular or maybe it was that no one was listening. Trying too hard to impress us, she brought toys for Michael and me, but nothing for Derek. Jeremiah looked embarrassed in her presence, while Margaret was trying just to please her.

My father Michael wore a dark jacket and pants that were nicely pressed. He looked like a model advertising suits and was dressed to impress. It worked. Often he stared out of windows for the longest time or I would catch him holding his head down deep in thought.

He spoke and acted humbly, and carried a hurt about him as if trying to say sorry for Maise's exaggerated persona. To Michael and me, they were just strangers who happened to give us sweets and toys and we gave it little more thought than that. As the weekend wore on, Mother did play with us, and after a while, Dad did too. I preferred Dad. By the time Sunday came around, he had brightened up a lot and got into the swing of things. He played and got down on his knees with us and was just plain good fun. There was an excitement to him that made me feel as if we were really going on a new adventure. In those moments, perhaps my father believed it too.

Bernie was support for everyone, serving tea and sympathy to whoever needed some.

Like my Grandparents, there was a growing apprehension in her too as the weekend counted down. Each moment for them was growing more and more tense as if waiting for bad news to come. The following Monday it had arrived.

A man was at the wheel waiting with the engine running. In the front passenger seat sat my father, in the back my mother. Bernie refused to come out of her bedroom, while Derek was nowhere to be found. It now fell to my grandparents to begin the heartbreaking task of getting Michael and me into the car with our parents. Embracing my grandmother's neck, I wiped away her tears. To please her, I let her put me in the car and I didn't cry.

Granny turned her attention to Michael, who was nestled between Granddad's knees.

Clinging to one of his trouser' legs, while crying uncontrollably. Granddad's eyes glistened with tears; deep sadness was written in every line of his face. His hands rested on Michael's shoulders tightly.

"There is no need to cry," Granny said soothingly to Michael. "Look at Barry, he is not crying," she added.

Michael shot a glance at me as children do, and stopped crying. A bit of pride probably crept in. As Michael neared the car door, it set me on cue and then I started to cry. It was with relief and a release from pain when the car rolled off slowly. Granny was clutching her blue flowery apron and wiping her eyes while Granddad turned away in a pitiful shuffle.

Then their figures faded into the background like actors leaving a stage. We would never see each other again.

Twenty years later, I returned to my grandparent's house, home then to my grand uncle. I really wanted to see if our old "fort" had stood the test of time, or even that it had existed at all. Ten years in a reformatory prison can play great tricks on a child's mind and I had few reminders of where I came from. Sometimes it seemed that it all was just a dream or some figment of my imagination that grew out of that dream. I needed to know. Then suddenly there it was, our "fort," or at least what remained. A hunk of rusted metal flattened out on the grass. The glass and the engine were gone and it looked like a cardboard cut-out of an ancient relic pressed and fossilized to the earth. It had not been a dream after all, but a very reassuring reality. A rusting, decaying, carbon footprint of my former life and an iconic image of my real childhood was there on the ground and it brought comforting proof that it had all been true.

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