She had told him she was going to sort the laundry, but here she was, sitting on the bed and staring blankly out at the rain. Sometimes she felt there was little else in her life except water. The grey sea surrounding them, always seeming to creep closer, however much they tried to ignore it; the rain coming down hour after hour, the moorland sodden, the sheep’s wool glistening. Fiona had grown up on Mull, was an island girl through and through, hadn’t even hesitated when Gavin suggested they settle here, his home. But Litta was not like Mull. Mull was a large island: nearly three thousand people, several schools, shops, hotels and easy access to the mainland. Out here was another matter. It was cold and it was wild. It wasn’t civilized like Mull; Litta was all drenched land and sea. It felt like living on the edge of the world, at the point where other people had dropped away and there were just a few ragged survivors left, huddled together on this dark hunk of rock, braced against the wind and the endless rain.

She did not know sometimes how the others could bear it, but if she ever voiced these feelings to Gavin, he would laugh and say, “Aye, it’s not for everyone.” It was impossible to get him to take things seriously. Nobody else on the island ever seemed to mind its terrible isolation. They took pride in it, in fact, so that Fiona could never express any contrary opinion without revealing some weakness in herself, some shameful unfitness that she had always known it was her duty to hide.

But she coped well. She knew this was true. She put on a good show, made the best of things, and she expected her husband, who had brought her here after all, to do the same, so that if Gavin ever expressed any minor complaint—the ferries were irregular, or the service had been temporarily halted due to staff shortages—Fiona would snap at him, “We’re lucky to have them,” when really this was not what she thought at all.