Settling on a direction at random, Tom followed the upper loop of the road, going north-east instead of south-east as he and Malcolm had gone the day before. On either side as he walked north, the hills increased in size, shaggy with bracken and moss. But it was the air, most of all, that he noticed. It had struck him first in Oban, the freshness of the breeze and the smell of salt, how different it was from the polluted air of London. He noticed it even more now, as he breathed in air that was damp and cool and even on the clearest days carried the suggestion of mist.

Tom walked for an hour without giving it much conscious thought. Although he stuck to the road, he met no one, not even a passing car. He didn’t remember experiencing this kind of isolation when he was a child, but perhaps that was because he’d always been with Nicky.

When he reached the point where the road met the coast and ran alongside it, he stopped. Whichever way you headed, you came up against the barrier of the sea. It was surprising how little interest the islanders showed in it, though their whole lives were circumscribed by water. Perhaps that was what made them narrow. Tom turned away at last and retraced his steps back to Malcolm’s cottage, still feeling the sea lapping at his back.

Malcolm returned as the light was starting to fade. Tom was sitting in the kitchen, not exactly waiting for him, but not doing anything else either. Malcolm said, standing in the doorway, “Your day been O.K.?”

“Yes,” Tom said. Then, remembering his manners, “And yours?”

“It was fine.” Malcolm went to hang his jacket up in the hall. “Do you still like cauliflower cheese?” he called after a moment.

This threw Tom. “I think so.” He hadn’t eaten it since he was a child. “My mother used to make it.”

“Is that so? I thought we’d have it for tea,” Malcolm said, coming back into the kitchen. “All right?”

“Yes.”

“I’m going to change,” Malcolm said, and went upstairs.

Later that evening, Tom sat at the kitchen table and watched Malcolm cook. He had offered to help, but Malcolm said it was a one-man job.

“You can lay the table in a bit,” he added, as he stirred flour into the pan of milk on the stove.

“Sure.”

“Took me ages to master white sauce,” Malcolm remarked. “Hard to get the consistency right.”

“Yeah. Tricky getting rid of the lumps.”

“You have to keep stirring the whole time.”

“That’s true.”

Tom couldn’t think of anything further to add, and apparently Malcolm couldn’t either. They fell silent.