The centenary year of the birth of poet and novelist George Mackay Brown sees the publication of three new books. A writer who remembers him from her childhood recalls one of the twentieth century’s most original voices, whose work is permeated by his Catholicism

For my dad Ian’s seventieth birthday, George Mackay Brown wrote an acrostic which ­celebrates their friendship:

I remember, and so does today’s birthday
man
A class photo, year of ’26
Now most of us come climbing up into
the ’90s.

The school photo he’s remembering is, like all such, a time capsule. My dad is in the ­middle, five years old, bravely holding a slate on which is chalked “Infants 1”. George is on the edge. You can see what Thomas Hardy called “the family face” – Georgie Broon’s chin jutting, Ian MacInnes’ ears jutting more. George is dark; Ian fair. There is poverty in this picture, and solemnity. Most of all, there’s innocence. 1926. Home-knitted socks. Children with rickets and squints and bare feet.