You know, we don’t have to go,” Malcolm added, when he told Tommy that Fiona had rung them to ask them round for a meal the following evening. He’d forgotten Gavin’s invitation until Fiona called, and found it hard to explain why he felt dismayed.

Tommy’s face was, as so often, difficult to read. “It’s fine,” he said. “No reason not to go.”

“She said she’s invited the MacDonalds, too. Kathy and Ed. You met Kathy again in the shop, you remember?”

“Yes,” Tommy said.

“And the Dougdales. Chris and Mary. They . . . well, they moved into your old house. Not long after you left for the mainland.” He stopped, suddenly unable to look at Tommy. It’ll be more fun for Tommy with more people, Fiona had said. Malcolm was not convinced.

“Right,” Tommy said, his voice neutral.

“They’re very nice,” Malcolm finished lamely.

It was later than usual in the evening, but Tommy had yet to disappear upstairs. They were on the chamomile tea tonight; Tommy had asked Malcolm the morning before if he had any non-caffeinated tea to have in the evenings (he didn’t always sleep well, he said), and so Malcolm had picked up the herbal tea in the shop on his way back from helping Robert with the feed buckets. Chamomile was the only option. He was surprised, in truth, to observe that the tiny shop stocked anything other than normal tea, but he supposed herbal blends were becoming all the rage these days. Still tasted like ditchwater though.

Kathy had raised her eyebrows as she rung up the purchase.

“This is a new one for you, Malcolm.”

“Aye,” he said, feeling it was too much effort to explain.

Perplexingly, he’d opted for chamomile himself this evening, possibly out of a vague desire to be companionable. He wondered what Ross or Davey would make of this scene, Malcolm and Tommy sitting here in the kitchen at nine in the evening, quietly sipping their herbal tea. He tried to work out whether these long silent moments between him and his nephew were becoming more comfortable. Perhaps he was just getting used to the discomfort.

“What time will we go to Fiona’s?” Tommy said.

Malcolm realized then that he had half hoped Tommy would say no, that he would save them from having to go. The evening, he felt, would be hard work. More than that: he had an inexplicable sense of dread. But Tommy would never say no. That blankness seemed to have come over him again, expressed as a kind of distant amenability.

“Seven.”

“Do you go for dinner there often?” Tommy said. “Do you eat with your neighbours often?”

“From time to time,” Malcolm said, wondering why he felt guarded.

“You haven’t since I’ve been here,” Tommy said. He was looking into his tea.

It’s only been nine days, Malcolm wanted to say.