Once they were back from their afternoon walk, they would sit at the kitchen table, drinking tea and not saying much. Tommy might ask a few questions about the croft in the years before it was broken up, or about the state of farming on the island now. He remained knowledgeable, Malcolm thought, about their ways. You’d know he’d grown up here if you heard him talk about sheep farming. It surprised Malcolm how much Tommy knew, since John had been so intent on distancing himself and his family from the farming life. John had shown no interest in the croft after he left home, not even after their father was dead and Malcolm was working it. In fact, Malcolm had to admit now that John had sneered at it; there had been something self-conscious, something deliberate in the lack of interest he would display if Malcolm or anyone else brought the subject up. No, John was an accountant, John worked with his brain, not with his body, not his muscles and sinews; he was not interested in the rough, gruelling existence the rest of them eked out on the island, breaking their backs day after day in the mud and the rain. Malcolm had heard mutters about this in the bar, how John thought he was better than everyone else. Still, there was no real harm in it; people liked John—were impressed by him even. But now John’s son, his grown-up child, sat across the table from Malcolm and talked of foot rot and subsidies and silage.

What they never discussed was Tommy’s life over the past twenty years, or his plans for the future. The longer this went on, the more anxious Malcolm felt about it, and the more impossible it became to say anything important. He had asked Tommy so few questions, had been so afraid of prying.

You’re both as bad as each other, he imagined Heather telling him. You never get to the point, you men. It was the sort of thing she might have said when she was alive.

Tommy had originally mentioned staying only a week. Malcolm wondered when he’d leave, but Tommy hadn’t brought it up. Malcolm wasn’t sure now whether he wanted Tommy gone or not. He was uncomfortable, and longed to have the quiet of his house restored, to be able to return to his familiar routines. But he worried about Tommy, and he felt responsible for him, even after all this time.

During their walks over the past few days, they had twice come across other islanders. The first time it had been Ken Stewart with his collie Morag. Malcolm had found himself holding his breath as Ken approached, but Ken was naturally taciturn, and he didn’t seem eager to chat for long.

“So you’re back again?” he said to Tommy once he and Malcolm had exchanged greetings.

“Yes.”

“You find it much different?”