Tommy nodded and once more lapsed into silence. This time, Malcolm could not think how to break it.

But at last, Tommy said, “How’s the croft doing?”

Malcolm wondered where the shame came from, sudden and acute, as though Tommy would care that the croft was gone, as though he would have come back for that. He said, “I had to sell the tenancy. When Heather got ill. It was too hard to manage, and it wasn’t making us enough money. Not any money at all, really. And I needed to be with her.”

Tommy said, his voice low, “I’m sorry about Heather. I really am.”

Malcolm nodded. Six years, and he was still no good at knowing what to do with consolation. There was no consolation.

“And you?” he said, stirring himself, thinking of the questions Heather would ask. “Are you married?”

Tommy shook his head, and seemed almost about to smile, before thinking better of it. “No. Not me.” A pause, then he added, “I was with someone. Her name was Caroline.”

“Oh no,” Malcolm said. “She didn’t . . . ?”

And now Tommy really did smile, a strange upwards pull of his mouth that Malcolm didn’t recognize. “No, she didn’t die. We broke up.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Malcolm said, hearing the formal note that had crept into his voice. But he felt foolish for assuming relationships only ever ended in death. “Any children?”

“No.” There was no smile now.

Malcolm watched Tommy across the table, but Tommy volunteered nothing further, just sat there with his hands around his mug, as though nothing had happened, as though he was still eleven years old and had never left, had just been sitting here quietly all this time while Malcolm went about his business and failed to notice him.

“Where are you living these days?” Malcolm said.

“London.”

“How long you been there?”

“While now,” Tommy said. He paused, then added, “I’ve been here and there. Tried Edinburgh for a while. Manchester. Even Lisbon.” He squinted, as though seeing the brightness again. “Never did get used to the sun.”

“I’ve never been to Portugal,” Malcolm said.

“Have you ever left Scotland?”

Malcolm looked at Tommy, but his face gave nothing away.

“No,” Malcolm said. “I never have. Furthest I’ve been is Edinburgh.”

Tommy nodded.

“We were planning a trip to Spain,” Malcolm said. “Me and Heather. Not to lie on a beach or anything. Heather wanted to see Barcelona. The—” he couldn’t for the life of him remember the name, though it had sounded beautiful, the way it had unfolded and dropped off Heather’s tongue—“cathedral. And all the rest. We were all set to book the hotel, but then Heather had the stroke. Her first one.”

Someone else might have said they were sorry again, but Tommy made no comment, and Malcolm was grateful.

There was a pause, then Malcolm said, “Did you stay overnight in Oban?”