“I never think of it in summer.” Tommy put his hands in the pockets of his coat and continued to stare ahead. “I always picture it in the rain or the mist. I always see it in greys and browns.”

“There are plenty of those.”

“But other colours, too.”

Back at the house, Tommy went upstairs and didn’t reappear for some time. When he finally came down, Malcolm saw that he’d changed into the shirt he’d first arrived in. He wondered if he himself should put on a smarter shirt, a less holey jersey, since Tommy seemed to have made an effort, but decided against it. It never would have occurred to him usually. He’d picked up a bottle of red wine in the shop on his way back from Robert’s farm that morning, and now he brandished it awkwardly at Tommy and said, “Well, I suppose we’d best be off.”

Tommy was silent in the car. It was dark outside, so the scenery provided little opportunity for conversation. Malcolm realized suddenly that they would have to pass Tommy’s old house to get to the McKenzies’, which lay further along the same track. He wondered why this fact hadn’t occurred to him sooner, and had no idea whether he should comment on it or keep quiet. It was the Dougdales’ house now, of course. Malcolm supposed that sitting down to eat with them would be strange for Tommy; he hoped no one would bring up the connection.

As they neared the eastern side of the island, he felt he had to say something. All he could manage was, “You all right with this, Tommy?”

“What?” his nephew said, turning towards him; he had been staring out of the window into the darkness. “Yeah, course.”

“We don’t have to stay long.”

“It’s fine.”

A few minutes later, they turned off the main road on to the lane where Tommy used to live.

“Almost there,” Malcolm said unnecessarily.

Neither of them commented as they drove past Tommy’s old house. No lights were on inside, and the porch light was off too, so it was difficult to make out the house beyond its dark outline, set a little way back from the road. The Dougdales must have left already.

Five minutes later, they reached the McKenzies’ house, right at the end of the track. Two cars were in the driveway, and Malcolm recognized the red Volvo as the Dougdales’ and the blue Toyota as the McKenzies’ own. The MacDonalds, it seemed, had not yet arrived.

Malcolm pulled up on the verge. The silence that followed felt unusually thick and still without the sound of the engine.

“I’m not very good at small talk,” Tommy said after a moment.

“Me neither.”

They didn’t have time to ring the doorbell before Fiona opened the door, presumably having heard the car.