“When we were very young, we used to,” Malcolm said. “As we got older, I suppose we had different interests. And there was always work to be done on the croft, soon as we were strong enough.”

“Did you ever come here?”

“Just occasionally.”

Tom wondered if he and Nicky had really crossed the rocks as fast as he was picturing in his head. Probably not. But they had certainly been quick. He had felt the value of this skill the most when they were on family walks at the weekend. They rarely went as far as the northern coast of the island, but even on the east coast, only twenty minutes from their house, there were good rocks. They weren’t as big or as black or as jagged as the rocks at Craigmore, but this only meant Tommy could take them at an even faster pace, scrambling up a sloping cliff-face before the others had even reached the bottom. Nicky would catch him soon enough, but Tommy was usually first, and he liked to be first. Both children had intuited that their father needed them to be physically courageous. They taught themselves to be hardy and athletic, and if they hurt themselves, slashed open a knee or elbow on the sharp edge of a rock, they did not complain, although they could be sure of ready sympathy from their mother. But more than anything they wanted to be their father’s sons.

Tom said to Malcolm, “Nicky and I used to climb these rocks.”

“So you did,” Malcolm said. “I remember when Nicky broke his arm.”

Tom remembered too. “He didn’t break it. He dislocated it. His shoulder.”

“Ah, that was it. He was, what, seven or eight at the time?”

“I think he was just about to turn eight. I remember it was the week before his birthday, because we were supposed to go to the play centre in Oban with all the trampolines, but then we couldn’t because of Nicky’s shoulder.” Their mum had still taken them, once Nicky’s shoulder was better, but it hadn’t really been a birthday treat by then.