The old man laughs and begins to play his accordion, which protrudes like an extension of his belly. The rangy man and Sandy Ross set up their electric fiddles. Don takes out a few yellow cans of Tennent’s from his backpack and offers them around. He drinks one sitting behind the drum kit as the ginger boy takes a swig and picks up his bass guitar.

‘Is it legal for you to drink that?’ the old man says.

‘Hey, Sandy.’ The rangy man is ignoring the ginger boy and nearly everyone else. ‘You’re in a good mood the day. New bird on the scene?’ A couple of jeers rise from the band.

‘I couldn’t possibly comment,’ says Sandy, raising his hands in mock innocence, before smirking into his beer can. His eyebrows are so neat, Niall wonders if he waxes them.

Niall shakes his head and takes out his guitar, a few paces from the rest of the group. They are the kind of men he might spot in the pub or the post office but would not say hello to, except for Sandy Ross, who seems to be on good terms with everyone. A moth-eaten deer’s head hangs above the stage, its glassy eyes frozen forward. The hall is dim, the thick castle walls decked in red tartan banners that match the tablecloths in the dining room next door, where the guests are eating cranachan.

A woman enters the hall with a tray of wine. ‘I’m Aileen. Welcome.’ She looks around at the cans of beer. ‘I see you’ve already made a start!’

The guests enter from the dining room to the ceilidh hall. The women wear dresses in shades of autumn leaves and holly. The men wear Bonnie Prince Charlie jackets and kilts, their long socks the colour of moss.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, good evening!’ Sandy’s voice reverberates into a microphone. The audience cheers, tipsy. A few people shout back amid a current of chatter.

Niall catches sight of Angela and Malcolm whispering to another middle-aged couple, weary and grey-haired. He hopes he won’t have to talk to them. Angela always acts friendly, but he knows she looks down on him. Sandy Ross strikes his foot against the stage, a sign to play the opening song. Niall comes in on the guitar at the right beat and steadies himself. He grins at the men around him as if they are old friends. They finish the song. Niall picks up his can from the floor and takes a long gulp.

‘And we are …’ Sandy calls out, ‘the No. Troosers. Ceilidh. Band!’

Applause ripples. Someone whoops.

‘To start off the night, we’ll play one everyone knows … Gaaay Gorrrrdons!’ His voice rises and falls in an arch. ‘Go on, ladies and gentlemen, find your first partners for this evening. Anyone here need told how to dance this? Nope, good … C’mon! Don’t be shy now!’