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I have told the story of my grandparents’ arrival in England countless times Their bags, their passports, even the car that picked them up It was a blue Rolls Royce, sent from the family in whose huge country house they would work, an auspicious sign for my grandfather: England was going to be good to them They had left Portugal in 1971, during the last years of the regime of António de Oliveira Salazar – a name familiar to me both from the story of my grandparents’ departure, and from the Harry Potter series Reading the books as a young child, I came to imagine that the historical figure I heard about from my family was also the figure in the books I was reading: Rowling had had a Portuguese partner, and so knew that Salazar’s name stood for something bad The fantasy series seemed, to me, to be grounded in a reality I felt I somehow, obliquely, had a stake in   This resonance between history and fiction seems fitting, because throughout my life I have come to relate my family’s journey as a story, even though I know it to be true The narrative of my grandparents’ move to England is so familiar to me: I know what my mother saw, standing on a balcony in Cartaxo, watching soldiers march on a protest my grandparents took part in; I know about secret police and disappearances, and my grandfather being on a blacklist and not being able to get work I feel sure in the details, and perhaps take liberties with some of them, as I recount these tales to friends in pubs, describe my grandparents’ experiences as cleaners or hospital porters in a Marxism and creative writing seminar, or in casual conversation Or in this writing here   But I don’t repeat the facts without some trepidation I have learnt parts of the story, but not the way to tell it I always feel guilty, as if I’m using it to present myself, rather than describing real things that happened to people I love It’s hard to know the right tone