An extra place was found for Luke, so the untouched knife and fork could remain, and my father asked him to say grace. I watched Luke’s Adam’s apple ride his throat at the prospect. He was neither a master of words nor memory in my classroom, though I’d heard he’d developed a particular swagger lately, holding court at the Anchor if he had a story to tell. His name was used as a reliable witness in gossip about the Eldest Girls and I imagined that he had an eye on one of them. His classmates Bernadette Dean and Tom Ainsley had left the island as soon as their exams were done and married on the mainland. Luke would need to look to the younger girls, to Britta, Anna or Jade-Marie. Perhaps they thought him appealing in return. He was nineteen, aspirational, had the same black hair as his fifteen-year-old brother. Both brothers were tall, the height difference barely noticeable, despite their age gap, though Michael carried more meat on his bones. Luke was the one with the sculpted cheekbones and jaw. There was a not-unattractive dirtiness to his skin that I imagined would remain no matter how hot the bath.

Luke launched into a stuttering, ‘Be present at our table, Lord …’ and we all closed our eyes and clasped our hands. Amens done, enquiries were made as to the health of Luke’s mother and father. Dad carved the chicken and Mum piled Luke’s plate too high with vegetables. This would be discussed in the Provisions Store the following day: how Susannah Cedars served up food like it was going out of fashion, as if rationing didn’t apply to her; how my father probably pinched what he fancied straight from the allotments.

‘Hold the wine for me and the boy,’ said Dad, putting a hand over Luke’s glass as my mother wielded the bottle. ‘We need a steady hand for the rifle.’

In defiance, she filled my glass to the rim, hers too. I watched Luke take this in, saw its onward prattling journey. The Cedars women are true sots. You wouldn’t think it, but they are.

‘And what’s new with you, Master Luke?’ asked my mother, spreading a napkin over her lap. ‘Is the boarding house still suiting you? Not missing your mother’s cooking? I bet she’s disappointed you’re not with her tonight.’

My mother was seeking ammunition of her own – Martha Signal’s dinners are so bad, even her own son left home to escape them! – but the boy came back with: ‘That stranger’s moved in.’

There was the shortest, loudest silence. Luke continued to fork food into his mouth. My mother’s eyes flitted to me, then quickly away again.