In a kind of daze, Alice took the piece of paper, with the name EVA written on it in slanting black capitals. She walked back to her car. The rest of the day passed in a haze, as she tried to rationalise the information she had absorbed in the museum, while continuing her tour of the islands, as planned: north to the stone circle, where the signboard detailed how, in these islands, the adoration of the mother goddess was a controlling principle of life in the Neolithic; east to a nearby ruined convent where you pressed a button on the interpretative panel to hear a young woman’s voice describe how this remote outpost, with the abbey as motherhouse, was a cult centre for women from early Christian times; back to Ayrness, where a leaflet claimed that many early saints took male names but were really women, including the islands’ early medieval anchorite in the harbour – a merry-go-round, in short, to get a general sense of the place, before returning at a later date. She wanted to visit the chambered cairn on the island of Cwen, with its V-symbol carved on the back wall, but it required a special boat trip, booked through a skipper called Gemma, and there wasn’t time.

During the ferry ride home to England, Alice stood on deck, watching the islands recede into the distance. A juggernaut of fog rose and covered them completely. She blinked; and as she unfolded and looked at the piece of paper with the number, and the name, EVA, her mind misted with uncertainty. She only partially enjoyed the CD of female folk voices which she had picked up in the ferry shop and listened to, dutifully, all the way south, as rain hit her windscreen: vengeful needles, thrown by fairy-tale spinsters, tired of being typecast.

As it was, the very moment she pushed her way through her front door, family life swamped any nascent thoughts about the islands. Ma-ma! Little arms clasped around her neck; a snotty kiss on her cheek; a bottom asking to be wiped; a burgeoning spirit, demanding, demanding, demanding her full attention.