He had been amazed, over and over, that she did not leave him. Of course, he was not monstrous all the time, or even most of the time. They laughed a lot together. But it was always there. He was terrified of her leaving him, while judging her harshly for not doing it. It was a strange form of cognitive dissonance, being able to recognize his father’s attitudes as hideous while finding them living within himself. But he would not pass this sickness on to his child. And wouldn’t it be better if he avoided relationships completely? He would not inflict himself on women. He thought that if he could do nothing else for his mother, perhaps he could do that for her.

Sometimes he wondered if Caroline had been frightened of him. He didn’t believe she had, but perhaps that was because he couldn’t bear to believe it. He knew she’d been happy with him, knew because she’d frequently told him. The early days, especially, had been wonderful, and for a while Tom really had thought this time might be all right.

But it was no good. To be a man was to be angry. To be a man was to be afraid.

15

It took Malcolm some time to locate the source of his unease regarding the meal at Fiona’s. He knew it would be awkward for Tommy—was that it? He thought it might be awkward for him too. Someone, at some point, would say the wrong thing, and then there would be one of those silences that Heather had always claimed not to notice. But that wasn’t it either. At root, Malcolm thought it had to do with how little he knew Tommy. His nephew seemed unpredictable.

Fiona had rung up again that morning to confirm, as though it was likely Malcolm could either have forgotten, or received a more glamorous offer in the meantime.

“Of course, Fiona, we’ll be there,” he said. “We’re looking forward to it.”

“Seven still O.K.?”

“Aye, that’s great.”

“You’ll drive, won’t you, Malcolm? It’s a long walk in this weather and darkness.”

“That’s right.”

“I think even the Dougdales will drive.”

“We will too.”

He felt tired simply from the phone call.

Malcolm worked with Robert as usual in the morning, and then after lunch he walked with Tommy halfway to Craigmore. Although November was creeping closer, the sky was blue and the sun shone on them with watery persistence. The hills looked brighter than usual, even the dark patches of bracken spotlit with gold.

“It’s beautiful here,” Tommy said, as they climbed up on to the cliffs and looked down at the beach. “Sometimes I forget.”

“It’s more hospitable in summer,” Malcolm said. “I’ll grant you that.”