My mother Gwynneth Tighe was the It-girl of her day. The youngest of two daughters from a grand Anglo-Irish family, she was impossibly beautiful, incurably romantic, had porcelain skin, a willing smile and was a model as well as Debutante of the Year.
But when it came to her children, her heart seemed to have been carved from granite.
She abandoned me when I was two, leaving me in a hedgerow on the back lane of our Devon farm in