“Yes, but he’s not professionally working in the kitchen,” pointed out Isla.

“Neither am . . . Oh yeah,” said Konstantin, briefly forgetting himself.

Gaspard made Fintan repeat the process, Isla quick-wittedly stuck in some of the good sourdough bread to toast, and within five minutes, Fintan was sitting, somewhat surprised, in front of a huge plate of poached eggs on sourdough, accompanied by an enormous mug of tea.

It was the best meal he’d had in months. He realized yet again how often he forgot to eat. He was starving, ravenous. Gaspard watched him eat with a look so direct it was astonishing to Fintan that everyone else didn’t catch on instantly.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he said to Gaspard.

“Good,” snapped Gaspard with a smile. “I should like a raise.”

Behind the two of them, Kerry noisily dropped a ton of china into Konstantin’s sink, and the day went on.

Chapter 37

Y es, yes, he’d gone off his usual standards since Douglas was born. He got that. Why wouldn’t a beautiful, delightful baby be more interesting than his actual job? Joel was feeling guilty in front of the computer, trying to catch up as Douglas napped in his crib in the corner of the room.

And now he was staring at his computer in consternation. How could this be so damn hard ?! It was a few Christmas lights. But he couldn’t find a damn thing anywhere.

Every year from time immemorial, the town council had voted that money that would otherwise be spent on Christmas lights would be diverted to provide a lighted path for the children down from school, which was at the very top of the hill, the old redbrick building a happy sight, normally overrun with boys and girls even after the school day was over; the gates were never locked, and in the light summer evenings there would be a game of football or hopscotch, and anyone who wanted to could join in, pretty much.

From the back of the school there was the cobbled road downward. There were few cars on the island, and they mostly knew to go painfully slowly, not just for the children but for the occasional sheep or cow who wandered into the road at will.

But in front of the school was a grassy hill with a winding path, and this was always a much more attractive prospect. You could roll, tumble, or simply tear down the gradient, or if you had a scooter, you could attempt to steer it round the worst of the mud on the path. It was a universal option, and for years the council had lit it up—it was private land, but almost nobody could remember who on earth it belonged to; it was certainly too steep to build on—so that when it got dark at 3:00 or 3:30, there was still a way to get down, although it guaranteed you would be covered in mud and anything covering your knees would probably have a hole in it. The rule about wearing shorts to school (for the boys) had once been abolished some time before, but the mothers of the town, weary from darning the knees of trousers ruined on the wee brae, had revolted and insisted it be brought back for boys and girls. So now the only casualties were a few skinned knees, and the people of Mure were very much of the unfashionable opinion that you couldn’t be a kid without a few skinned knees.