There was never money in the household for buying books. Neither your mother nor your father ever read them. Her reading did not extend beyond The Sun News Pictorial—delivered to her in bed with the breakfast tray by your father every morning. He never read anything other than the form guide. The only books in the house were those scrounged from relatives by Rosely or given her as school or church prizes, but there were never enough and over the years that you refused to go to sleep until she had read to you, the choices were very limited.
    The library was never expanded for your benefit—reading was not considered a suitable activity for a boy. So all the books she read to you were hers, most commonly about animals, or else yarns about girls named Jenny who kept chocolate bars hidden in their drawers to sustain them while they crept out at night in their overcoats with torches flashing to track down smugglers and rescue hostage friends from haunted lighthouses.