IT might seem strange to begin a memoir on one's father by saying one hardly knew him, but my sister Vivien and I were not at the centre of our parents’ universe. In the London house where I was born they had many other things to occupy them besides us. We lived in the nursery, looked after by nannies.

In those early years I saw my mother for an hour a day, around four o'clock (teatime), and my father even less, but this is not to suggest they were unloving or uncaring parents. Both of them would always come and kiss us goodnight.

As a small child I used to have bad earaches and one of the strongest memories I have of my father is of him coming up to the nursery and, on this occasion, instead of the nanny putting drops in my ears, Father put his hands to my head, close but not touching. I could feel the warmth of them. He shut his eyes and concentrated, willing the pain to leave me and enter him. After a while he shook his wrists as if he were shaking down an old fashioned thermometer. That was my earache, which he had absorbed, now leaving him. After I fell asleep and woke up next morning, the earache was gone. Whether his method simply caused me to relax, or whether his hands did have healing power, I have no idea, but I basked in his love and attention. Laying his hands on me was an example of ‘therapeutic touch’, something my daughter, Amanta, has inherited. It is now quite widely practised, but in 1930 was considered quackery, at least in orthodox medical circles.

In my sixth year the family moved to another part of London, to a large house near Holland Park where my maternal grandmother lived. Father worked on the main floor, composing and writing, Mother wrote her novels on the second floor, and my sister and I lived on the third. The downside for us was not being allowed to be too boisterous or noisy in case it distracted our parents. Fortunately, there was the square, available to those of us who lived in the houses surrounding it, where we could be as loud as we wanted.