Malcolm had known this already. John had even banned Malcolm from speaking to his children in Gaelic. Malcolm had never been sure whether this was a reaction against their own father, who would hit them if he heard them speaking English, or if John had regarded Gaelic, as he did so much else about island life, as “backward”. Always in John there was that need to set himself apart.

“Tha i fliuch,” Tommy said unexpectedly. His accent was passable.

Malcom smiled. “Always is here.”

Nothing like having a stranger stay with you to highlight the immense tedium of your own life, Malcolm thought later that afternoon, after hearing himself offer Tommy a cup of tea for the third time in an hour. Christ, when had he started drinking so much tea? It was amazing he got anything else done.

“No thanks,” Tommy said, also for the third time.

“Just me then,” Malcolm said, and went into the kitchen.

They’d been sitting together in the living room since returning from their walk, which had taken them south towards Alban Bay and the lower reaches of the island. They hadn’t managed to spot any seals. Malcolm was reading a detective novel and Tommy was reading one of Heather’s old books, which he’d taken off the shelf with a polite, “May I?”

“Of course,” Malcolm had said. He hadn’t glimpsed the cover as Tommy took the book over to the sofa.

Now, returning with his mug, Malcolm glanced at his nephew. Tommy was sitting with his legs tucked under him, just as he had as a child, a frowning expression of concentration on his face. The book he’d selected, Malcolm saw, was The Portrait of a Lady, which seemed a strange choice. Malcolm could never get on with Heather’s old books. Tommy, though, seemed absorbed. He had always been a bright lad, Malcolm recalled. Did well at school. He’d been clever in the same way Heather was, always reading and asking questions (not that Heather would let anyone call her clever). They’d heard from Jill a couple of years before she died that Tommy had got a place at university, though he couldn’t remember where now. Somewhere in the north of England. Manchester, maybe, or Durham. Malcolm and Heather had sent him a card to say congratulations, though they hadn’t received a reply (hadn’t, by then, expected one). Malcolm didn’t know what subject Tommy had studied, didn’t know whether he’d even graduated.

He watched Tommy across the room for a few more moments, but wasn’t sure how to start the conversation.

“I don’t read much these days,” Tommy said, perhaps feeling Malcolm’s eyes on him.

“No?”

“Used to. Somehow got out of the habit.”

“I expect life moves fast, down in London,” Malcolm said, unable to imagine it.

“Depends,” Tommy said, and then didn’t expand on this.