In deference, perhaps, for me being like her, he fed me with books: shyly, at first. He brought home the daily newspapers and historical pamphlets from his newsagent’s shop. He bought dusty, dog-eared volumes from church fêtes and charity shops: everything from Oliver Twist to paperback Westerns by authors with names like Buck Tyrone and Cliff Ryder. He filled in little forms from the back of the Reader’s Digest in his sloping, careful hand, and sent off for handsome, maroon-bound tomes with titles like Strange Stories and Amazing Facts. They came thumping on to the doorstep, bursting with the lurid, illustrated mysteries of Spring-Heeled Jack, the fiery devil that terrorised the good citizens of Victorian London, and of the wailing faces which had appeared on floor tiles in Spain, mouthing inaudible agonies because the house had been built on the site of a medieval graveyard. There was even a photograph of the wailing faces: they were all smeary and open-mouthed, as though shocked at the cheek of the energetic Spanish housewives who had tried to wipe them off the tiles with a damp cloth.

He brought home the gleaming satin memoirs of Hollywood movie stars; and the autobiographies of long-dead sportsmen; and assorted poetry anthologies, trickling out lines of Larkin and Betjeman, Hughes and Heaney. Big Jacky didn’t say much, but every week floods of new words spilled from the pockets of his brown overcoat, and I danced around with expectation. The books piled up: Aunt Mary and Aunt Phyllis, my mother’s sisters, observed developments from a distance, darkly, twitching to take over. He must have sensed the conversations bristling self-righteously over their Carrickfergus kitchen table (Something should really be done. There’s just him and the wee boy in there now, and the place is coming down with all these books he buys, and the child looks as peaky as bedamned) and stubbornly ignored them.

If Spring-Heeled Jack and his clawing cohorts sprang into my dreams, and I woke up dry-mouthed with terror, I made my way to the room where Big Jacky slept. When he felt the nervous phut-phut of my breath on his sleeping cheek, he would stir and lift a corner of the quilt. ‘Get in,’ he said and I would lie awake, comforted, next to my big, flannel-wrapped bulwark against the dark.

Every so often the aunts would pay us a visit, motoring sedately into Belfast under the patchy pretext of a birthday (mine or his) or a spurious shopping trip (for one of those fine wool cardigans, a Christmas present for Anne next door, you know, can’t get them for love nor money in Carrickfergus, not even at McGill’s, just thought we’d call in and see how you two were getting on.)