Mr Scott, a burly but gentle docker, would painlessly pull my loose baby teeth out for me and give me a penny.

If I was in trouble, or to show his contempt for me, he’d call me Christine, almost spitting the word at me. All the various names he had for me – my sister was only ever called versions of Pamela – were like code names for his moods, and I soon realised this and responded according to the one he used.

That fundamental emotional benchmark, set at such an early age, meant that I also recognised when things didn’t feel right or measure up.

Grandma Rarity

That was my environment and I loved it.

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