But it wasn’t so easy to stay focused on the present when the past rose up before you so insistently, when it wandered about the island and bumped into you unexpectedly, when it came round to your house to eat. And it was unfortunate, Fiona thought, how much Tommy looked like his father. Nobody would be able to forget the connection while looking at him, not even for a second. But it was true too that there were touches of his mother in him. Fiona hadn’t noticed it at first, but it was there when she pictured him now. It might be the shape of his eyes, or it might be his mouth. It might just be something in his expression. Fiona had never been very good at faces.

She had done her best by Tommy, for Katrina’s sake, but he had made things awkward. He had actually come close, Fiona thought, to making a scene. She had tried to discuss it with Gavin afterwards, but Gavin had said, “It wasn’t that bad, Fi. Of course he’s going to be touchy about John, and you know how Ed is when he’s drunk.” Then, when Fiona didn’t reply, he’d added, “The lamb was delicious, hen. Very tender.” She managed, just about, not to reproach him with his own wretched error: calling the man John, for God’s sake.

Fiona had been forced to come upstairs today because Gavin was downstairs, stomping about and verbalizing every thought that came into his head—Just looking for a stamp—God, what a day it is, all this rain—I pity Malcolm if he’s out with Robert today, he’s earned his rest, poor man—Aye, the wind’s getting up now, isn’t it?—and Fiona thought if she had to listen to him any longer she might actually kill him.