My quality of work had improved when I’d first arrived at Mount Temple, and I’d done better in class than at St. Patrick’s, but when Iris died, I lost all concentration. Teachers lamented my scrawly handwriting when my father’s letters to them about me were such beautiful calligraphy. They asked why I hadn’t noticed leaving complete sections out of essays or why I could do higher maths but not lower. I wasn’t able to explain myself.
