This cousin was always half in a hurry, although he never had anything really important to do. If there was a vase set next to Gavin’s elbow, you knew that it was destined to crash to the floor, the casualty of some sweeping gesture. If he loaded his clothes into the washing machine, you knew that he would shove them all in with reckless speed, and then twist the dial just hard enough to break it and leave you ankle deep in churning, foamy water not long after. He never did break the washing machine, to be absolutely fair, but you always felt that he was right on the verge of it. And in one way that was worse.

He liked his food, although he was large rather than obese. In a few years, though, he would almost certainly slide into a corpulence that would be lent dignity only by his height. For now, a vast amount of fuel was needed to keep his bandwagon on the road. The Murdies’ fridge door swung back and forth like a hurricane lamp in a high gale. Much of its contents eventually poured into the same deep pit: Gavin’s perpetually masticating, chattering, questioning, exclaiming, capacious gob.

After a few minutes, I wouldn’t have cared if I had never seen Gavin again for the rest of my life. After a few hours, I would have been actively and powerfully grateful not to. I observed politely to Murdie that Gavin certainly seemed to have more energy than the rest of us.

‘That’s because he does eff all but lollop about Belfast like an effing Labrador dog,’ said Murdie sourly. It was uncharitable, but I took Murdie’s point. A generous heart was a luxury he could no longer afford. It was costing him enough just to keep Gavin in sausages and soda bread.

On the first day at Murdie’s, after Mrs Murdie departed for her secretarial job and Murdie went off to the Whistle, I was left alone with Gavin and a large pot of tea. Gavin had his map of Belfast out and a couple of paperback books about the Troubles, and leaflets about forthcoming events all spread across the table.

‘So,’ he said, ‘what brings you to the Murdie Family Hotel?’

A revealing choice of pleasantry, I thought. But I didn’t really fancy telling Gavin all my business, especially with him rattling around Belfast on Troubles Tours in black taxis, gabbing on heedlessly about things he shouldn’t.

‘I’m having a few family troubles,’ I said. ‘Mr Murdie kindly offered to put me up for a few days. He’s an old family friend.’

He slathered crunchy peanut butter on a hunk of bread and looked back at me with undisguised curiosity. ‘What sort of family troubles?’

‘I’d rather not talk about them, if you don’t mind,’ I said tightly.