‘Let’s go look at the rabbits,’ she suggested. In the lawns between the monastery and the loch, the rabbits were mounds of brown fur, nibbling diligently. Occasionally, one of them would dart across the grass and the boy would follow. She did not allow him to follow the rabbit that scampered into the monks’ graveyard. There, the land was completely flat, the grass marked only by short white crosses, with clubs on the tips and a circle on which was written the name of the deceased. No, he mustn’t go in there; it was disrespectful. The rabbits ate the grass of the graveyard because they didn’t know any better. Let’s count them instead.

He loved the snack machine that was in one of the cloisters of the monastery, overlooking the garden. She gave him coins and with great concentration, his body tense with excitement, he inserted each coin in the slot. A coin slipped through his fingers, fell on the tiles and rolled away. ‘Catch it,’ Moni cried out, ‘quick before it gets away, before it escapes.’ The drama in her voice as he scrambled to pick up the coin, an exaggerated sigh of relief when he did, a clap of her hands. He stood tall then, pushing the last coin into the slot. Then he made his choice. The anticipation of the packet of crisps sliding down, then dropping to where he could pick it up, his small hand inserted through the rectangular compartment, not without a little hesitation, but still made brave by the treat to come. And then, at last, the snack.

She taught him to share, showed him how to be generous. He must offer her some of his crisps, he must give her a bite of his chocolate. Then she would want a snack of her own too. Back to the machine. Oh, do I have enough coins? I hope I do. Have a look. Help me count. Alhamdulillah, I have enough. Here, you get it for me. He would insert the coins and select the juice, her choice of flavour, the satisfying thud of the bottle down to the compartment. She must share it with him too. Would he prefer one sip each in turn or the last quarter of the bottle all to himself?

‘I must call you something. You must have a name. My son’s name is Adam.’ They were on the croquet lawn, the water and mountains within sight. She showed him a photo of Adam on her phone. In the photo he was wearing a striped blue T-shirt and only a bit of the wheelchair was showing. She rarely showed Adam’s photo to anyone. This one she had sent to her parents. The grandchild they weren’t proud of.