At Emmanuel Head he’d stopped and looked around him again, this time with more purpose, as if he had an appointment. He even looked at his watch. After a few moments Vera saw the woman walking along the beach, scattering the wading birds, which settled again behind her. It was as if she were kicking up large flakes of confetti. She had red hair and wore wellingtons and a long Barbour coat. Rather county, Vera thought, watching from a distance, but as the woman approached she changed her mind. This woman was pretty, not middle-aged horsey, and under the waxed coat she wore a long floral dress. It was the time of Laura Ashley, of high waists and frills. The hair was wild. She could have been an art student, and that made her exotic to Vera. She was young – older than Vera, but not by more than five or six years. What could her father have to do with this woman?

The couple stood for a moment, looking at each other. Hector rested his elbow on the back of the wooden bench that stood next to the monument, a way of steadying himself against the wind. Perhaps he was still a little drunk. They didn’t touch, but they’d met before, Vera was sure of that. Words were exchanged, but she was too far away to hear. She tried to read the relationship from the way they were standing, but failed to make sense of it, couldn’t decide if it was affectionate or hostile. Now, she thought, she’d make a better fist of it. Now she was more experienced at picking up a gesture, an expression. Then she was young and naive.

When Hector held up a hand after several minutes of conversation, Vera couldn’t tell if he was cautioning patience or asking the woman to wait for him. Or perhaps it was just a stilted way of saying goodbye. In any event, he turned away from her and began to walk along the path skirting the shore that led back towards the castle. The woman did wait, her coat pulled around her. As she watched him walk away, she seemed suddenly to shrink. Her shoulders dropped and it was as if the life had been sucked out of her. There was a sense of terrible resignation. Then she straightened her back again and returned to the beach, retracing her own footsteps in the sand.

Vera scrambled up to the triangular marker stone of Emmanuel Head and watched them, far apart on different tracks, making their way down the island. But although they walked separately, she had the sense that they were aware of each other’s position. This was like a dance, with the whole of Holy Island as the ballroom floor. It seemed inevitable that eventually they would come together once more.

Vera decided that she would follow Hector. If she dropped down onto the beach the redhead would notice her. It would be impossible to be quiet, with the waders calling whenever they were disturbed. She watched until Hector turned into the crooked lonnen and was hidden by the hedge and then she went after him, moving very quickly, light despite her size. She was close enough to see him turn into the small cottage, hardly more than a shack, that stood surrounded by an overgrown garden. It had a corrugated-iron roof, covered in rust, and a small wooden veranda. There were no other houses in this part of the island and, now that the light was fading, nobody else was about. Hector took a key out of his pocket and let himself in.