Malcolm returned to his own book, but after a moment Tommy said, “Shall I cook tonight?”

He was looking up at Malcolm now, almost shyly. It was only cauliflower cheese, Malcolm thought. It can’t have been that bad. But then Tommy added, “To give you a break?”

“I don’t mind,” Malcolm said. “It’s no more trouble cooking for two than cooking for one.” Then he thought of Tommy’s agonized politeness and wondered if it would make his nephew feel less awkward if he was allowed to cook for them, so he said, “Sure, if you’d like. That would be nice.”

“Do you like omelettes?”

“Aye.”

“Great,” Tommy said, with a small nod to himself. “O.K. then.” He returned to his reading.

Tommy made a good cheese omelette. Malcolm tried to take his time eating it to show Tommy he was enjoying it, then noticed Tommy had inhaled his own in about half a minute. In some ways, he hadn’t changed. Malcolm had a sudden vivid memory of Katrina leaning over Tommy, ruffling his hair and saying, “No one’s going to take it off you, bairnie.”

Once they’d both finished, neither made a move to leave the table. Malcolm wasn’t sure if Tommy wanted to talk or if, like Malcolm, he simply didn’t know what to do next.

When Tommy did speak at last, what he said was unexpected. “I learned how to make an omelette from my father.”

Malcolm was careful not to show any reaction. “Is that right?”

“Yeah,” Tommy went on, in the same casual, distant voice. “It was the only thing he ever taught me to cook.”

Malcolm said, “He was never very interested in cooking, as I recall.” Thought it was a woman’s job. But so, Malcolm admitted, had he for many years. It was only more recently that he had come to realize how old fashioned he had been. Heather, too, in some ways.

“No,” Tommy said. “He never cooked. Wouldn’t. But he said my mother didn’t know how to make a decent omelette. He prided himself on his. Insisted on showing me and Nicky how. Somehow, through the years, I remembered.”

“Not a bad skill,” Malcolm said, choosing the most non-committal response he could come up with.

“But it occurred to me later on,” Tommy said, “how strange a thing it was, for a man to pride himself on his omelettes. I mean, was there really nothing else?”

“I think he prided himself on a lot of things,” Malcolm said.

Tommy nodded and didn’t reply. When he did open his mouth, it was only to yawn and say, “I think I’ll get to my bed soon. Maybe read for a bit. What time is it?”

Malcolm looked at his watch. “Just gone eight.”

“So early? Christ.”

“Evenings can be long here.”