“So, listen, if you join the Kirrinfief Facebook you can find out everything that’s going on. There’s a barn dance coming up, if you’re not married—are you married? Cormac didn’t think so, said there was only one person coming, and then Mrs. Ochil said, ‘Well, maybe she’s just trying to take a break from her man for a wee bit—you know men, can hardly blame her, and maybe he’s got one of them big jobs down in London or you know.’ I know you’re from London and it’s all lesbians there too I suppose . . . Can I still call them lesbians? My son says I get it wrong all the time . . .”

Her face looked worried, as Lissa stood like a stone, completely unresponsive.

“. . . um,” said the woman, running out of steam. She met a lot of tourists in the summertime, but they were usually more than happy to chat, to ask about walking trails and Highland cows, and to buy bags of shortbread and tablet and big sandwiches overspilling with coleslaw. She wasn’t used to this. London, she supposed gloomily. She’d been once on a coach trip with her friend Agnes, and neither of them had thought very much of it, was her settled opinion.

Lissa tried not to panic—the woman was only trying to be friendly, she wasn’t some spy sent to track her down, the stupid voice in her head had to shut up.

“Um . . .” Lissa stared, bright red, at the food behind the counter.

A young laborer, unshaven and ready for the day in heavy work boots, came in with a cheery grin, shouted, “Hi, Deirds,” and ordered five steak bridies, two macaroni pies, and four cheese scones, and Deirds asked him did he lose a bet, and he replied yes, indeed he did, but it could have been worse, it being the last thing he had asked for. When her attention turned to Lissa again she nervously asked for a cheese scone and was there the possibility of a coffee? Deirdre said of course and simply made her a Nescafé rather than asking her which of ninety-five different varieties she’d like to try and charged her 80 pence for the privilege and handed her a scorching plastic cup, and Lissa muttered her thanks and got out of there as soon as possible.

“That’s the new girl?” said the laborer, Teddy. “She’s pretty.”

“Pretty rude,” sniffed Deirdre. “Honestly. Why English people can’t give you the time of day is beyond me.”

“It’s because they’re evil oppressors,” said Teddy, who had grown up in a staunchly independent family and was very clear as to what he thought of the visiting influx, which was why he kept working the land rather than somewhere nice and cozy inside in a tourist operation.

“Aye, she’s just never been made welcome afore,” said Deirdre. “When Agnes and I were in yon London . . .”