Today was turning out to be the warmest day of the holiday. She lay on the grass and watched the boy drink the last of the juice. His lips changed colour. She checked her phone’s signal and called the nursing home to see how Adam was getting on. The nurse said he was with the other children in the garden enjoying the fine weather. Moni watched as the boy stuck his tongue into the bottle and tilted his head back. A few drops of purple juice fell down his chin.

‘This will stain your T-shirt,’ she said, gently taking the bottle from him. ‘Be careful. Get a tissue from my bag and clean your face.’

He wiped his face with the back of his hand, leaving streaks of grass and a bit of grit on his cheeks, then rummaged in her handbag, becoming distracted by her house keys and a leaflet about immunisation before he pulled the tissue out. ‘That’s right,’ she said to encourage him. ‘Wipe your face so that you can go home later nice and clean. Your clothes are always clean. Such a nice T-shirt you’re wearing today. Smart.’ He smiled as he looked down at the train design on his T-shirt and handed her the dirty tissue. A bee buzzed in front of her nose. She swatted it away and closed her eyes. When she opened them, the boy looked more substantial, as if he had moved to sit closer to her. She would miss him when the time came to leave the loch. The thought brought a prick of tears to her eyes. Silly to form such an attachment, exaggerated and sentimental.

‘I don’t even know your name. Next time I will bring a paper and pencil and maybe you could write me your name. Or –’ she sat up, propelled by a sudden idea ‘– why wait for paper, write your name on my phone.’

She opened the Notes section. A new page. ‘Here, type out your name for me. I am sure you know all your letters.’

When he handed her back the phone, she said, ‘No, that’s not your name.’ Her voice was sharp. The boy’s expression, open and full of goodwill, changed to disappointment, a slight frown in the attempt to understand why he’d been rebuked.

Moni started to explain, ‘Adam is my son. Not you. It’s not your name. You’ve heard me speak about him. That’s all. But I wanted to know your name. I wanted you to write it down.’ She made an effort to speak gently. She didn’t want him to think that she was telling him off. ‘I’ll give you another chance. Here. Now write your own name, not my son’s name.’ She handed him her phone.