My car stalls. I'm in the middle of a crossroads with the lights against me. More horns blare.

Someone calls me a stupid bastard. I start the car again and move out of the way. The traffic flows on.

Pull in, stop the car, close your eyes.

Deep breaths; in, out, in, out.

My heart rate returns slowly to near normal.

Keep breathing.

Count to ten.

Open your eyes.

I'm outside the gym. I recognise the roundabout up ahead. Beyond that there'll be a junction with lights. Straight through the junction and I'll be almost home.

Concentrate.

Concentrate on getting home.

I'm sure it's nothing to worry about. I'm 66 now. Not old by today's standards I suppose, but not young either. I keep myself fit.

I can still jog for a mile or more, still play a lot of golf. Gave up the old smokes years ago. Retired last year and enjoying the freedom.

Spend more time with my lovely wife Agnus. We took a little trip last year to see our daughter Elaine in Canada. This year we intend to visit our son John in Australia. When the weather is fine we take off in the car for a couple of days; Galway, Cork, Donegal. Wherever the humour takes us. Stay in a nice B&B. Go for a meal in the evening. I'd be lost without the car. It gives us such freedom.

Agnus needs some cash to do the shopping. I pull out my wallet. It's empty. "But you were at the bank yesterday, " she says. What did you do with the money?"

I can't remember. I become angry.

I say, "The money is mine to spend as I choose."

"But what did you buy? How could you spend the week's money in one day?" I tell her to go to hell, storm out of the house, slam the door. I'm in a sweat. I try to remember what I've done with the money as I walk. I don't want to go far. I don't want to drive. I walk round and round the block.

Eventually I get tired. I go home.

Agnus is waiting for me. She smiles but not with her eyes. She makes me a cup of tea. Then she places a wad of bank notes on the table in front of me.

She says, "They were in your sock. I was putting on a wash. . ."

She goes over to the sink and washes her cup. I stare at the notes, try to remember putting them in the sock. Try to imagine myself doing it.

"Going into the money laundering business are you?" I say. She smiles weakly, fiddles with the clip in her hair. The gesture is so familiar. I've been watching her do that all our married life. I feel like crying.

It's been a good marriage. Agnus was a wonderful mother. Still is. I did my best as a father, and as a husband. We're more friends these days than husband and wife. But we still have our moments. My son asked me one day recently when he was home at what age did we give up sex. I told him I'd let him know. Agnus and I laughed at that for ages. We laugh a lot together. She's a wonderful lady. I'm very lucky to have her.

The dart hits the board with a satisfying thunk.

Double 20.

Thunk.

Double 20 again.

Thunk.

And another double 20.

"Good shooting Tom."

"You haven't lost the eye."

"One-fifty for Tom. What's your score now?"

I walk over to the chalkboard.

The number 169 is written beside my name.

Take one hundred and fifty away.

One-fifty minus one-six-nine.

The numbers blur. I squint at them. Someone else is taking their turn with the darts.

Thunk. It lands near my ear.

"Watch out there Tom. You wouldn't look well with a pierced ear at your age." Everyone laughs, including me.

One-fifty-minus one-six-nine.

I stare at the number on the board.

Someone leans across me. He rubs out 169 with the side of his fist. Writes in 19. He pats my shoulder. Looks away. No one else has noticed. They're talking, laughing, drinking. I pretend to go to the jacks but slip out the door instead.

I was a maths teacher for 40 years. I could teach a class for 90 minutes without referring to a note. Filled the blackboard with calculus, geometry, trigonometry.

Never had the need for a calculator. Could do most of them in my head. And I could keep the children's attention. Made it interesting. There was never any need for grinds in my class. I saw a lot of changes in my time. The maths changed, and so did the children. More bolshie. More balls. Even the girls. Made my job difficult at times. I admired them.

I wish I'd had their confidence.

The park is looking very pretty in the sunshine. Borders of marigold, aster and nemesia create a colourful backdrop to the manicured lawns. Agnus is holding my hand as we walk and talk.

"Where's John?" I ask her. She looks puzzled.

"He was here a moment ago, wasn't he?" I look around.

"John!"

I make for the pond. Perhaps he went to feed the ducks. I'm panicking now. He knows that he's not allowed to go near the pond without us, but he's only three years old.

"John, where are you?"

Agnus is running after me, calling my name. She keeps telling me it's all right, but how can it be?

I see him. He's standing beside the pond with a piece of bread in his hand. I run up to him. Grab the bread and throw it into the water. He looks up at me and screams, a look of terror on his face. A woman rushes to him and picks him up. Agnus grabs my arm.

"Tom, that's not John. It's okay.

John's okay. He's not missing."

She goes over to the woman with the child in her arms and says something to her. The woman purses her lips and shakes her head. She walks away with the still crying child. Agnus comes back and makes me sit down on the bench. She sits beside me.

"John is grown up now Tom.

Don't you remember? He lives in Australia. We're going to visit him next month."

"Yes, I know."

And I do. Now.

I loved it when the children were very young. When John was born I thought that there was no one as happy as me. He was a beautiful little boy. Affectionate and sweet.

He loved the park. We'd take him to the playground to play on the swings, and then we'd have to go and feed the ducks. He always stood too near to the edge of the pond and I'd have to gently pull him away.

John was four years old when Elaine was born. A blonde-haired, blue-eyed little girl who could wrap me around her little finger.

And clever. She could count to 10 by the age of two.

"Another mathematician in the family, " Agnus would joke.

They were happy days.

"What day is it?"

"Who is the President of Ireland?"

"What age are you?"

Why is this woman asking me all these stupid questions?

"Can you count backwards from 10?"

She hasn't examined me, hasn't listened to my chest at all. What kind of a doctor is she?

My mother was a strong woman.

She always said that you had to rear children with an iron fist clad in a kid glove. And that was how she reared her eight boys and one girl. She ruled my father with the iron fist too, but the kid glove wasn't that much in evidence. My father was a fitter down on the docks. We lived in a small twobedroom house in Ringsend when I was very young. But my mother believed passionately in education, and we all did well for ourselves. When the older ones were working and there was a bit more money coming into the home, we moved to a bigger house in Ballsbridge. It had a fireplace in every one of its six bedrooms, including the attic room.

There was a large kitchen and three other rooms downstairs, and French doors leading out to a long garden. Mother loved that house more than anything else in the world, including her children I sometimes thought. She took to wearing more expensive clothes, and to having her hair done once a week. My father continued to work on the docks, but now she had a civil servant, a banker and a teacher in the family. She was made up.

The woman comes out of the house and looks down the garden.

The sun shines in her eyes and she lifts her hand to shade them.

She sees me sitting on the garden bench and smiles. She comes and sits beside me.

"Would you like a cup of tea love?"

I nod. I'm shy with her. She's so good to me and I don't even know her name. She pats my knee and stands up to go back into the house. I blush. She's nice but a bit forward. She stops at the door and smiles back at me, fiddles with the clip in her hair. Then she's gone into the house again.

My bedroom looks nice. There's new wallpaper and curtains, and a new carpet. The fireplace is blocked up though, which is a pity.

I'll have to ask mother about that later. I can hear the rattle of dishes from the kitchen downstairs. There's a smell of frying bacon. A woman stands in the doorway and smiles.

"Are you coming down for your tea Tom?" she asks. I nod. My voice doesn't work very well these days. She takes my hand.

"You'll settle in in no time, " the woman says as we negotiate the stairs. I wonder who she is and what she's talking about. Perhaps she's the maid mother always talked about employing. I wonder why she's dressed in white, and wearing trousers. Very odd uniform for a maid I would have thought.

Anne Kelly lives in the Dublin mountains with her husband, two teenage daughters and a black cat.

She has been writing poetry and short stories for the past 15 years so and has been published in various publications, including 'Woman's Way Magazine', 'Ireland's Own' and 'The Works' (now defunct). She is a long standing member of the Aisling Writer's Group in South Dublin.