Billy follows her down. It smells of damp and saddle-soaped horse tack. He says, ‘No one found my joke funny.’ Classical music murmurs from a scuffed stereo in the corner. Ann-Marie Walker is sitting at the broad oak table, her teenage head bent as she carves a jack-o’-lantern from a turnip. The sleeve of her grey turtleneck is rolled up past her elbow and Lauren can see her muscles flex under the material. A small pile of silver bracelets and rings lie on the knotted surface. She shows the children how much she has carved out of the middle of the vegetable. ‘It’s hard going,’ she says. ‘How’s school?’

Billy shrugs and kicks a ball towards one of the dogs, who bombs out from its basket.

‘Fine,’ says Lauren, absently, as the other dog comes close to her, sniffing for attention. Its coarse hair moves like rough seas.

‘Sure?’ Ann-Marie asks.

‘Yeah.’ Lauren looks back down at the dog, who is more interested in Billy’s ball game.

Ann-Marie props her head on one elbow. ‘You’ll tell me if that girl bothers you again, won’t you?’

‘Yeah.’ Lauren tries to pull the lace cuff of her sleeve over her wrist.

‘I love your hair, by the way.’ The brightness pops back into Ann-Marie’s voice as she carries on with her carving. ‘I think my mum’s got some sweets for you guys.’

On cue, they hear Angela on the creaky stairs, a little breathless as she bears her weight carefully. ‘Ann-Marie, have you shown them the turnip? Last time we were in Inverness, we bought this book on Halloween traditions.’

Ann-Marie flicks her eyes up and says, ‘It’s called Samhain,’ and goes back to work.

Lauren leans on the Aga, avoiding the Hunter wellies that are drying in front of it. ‘Are you off school?’ she asks Ann-Marie, who is looking at her strangely. ‘We had our tattie holidays already.’ She wonders then if Ann-Marie’s older brother Fraser is here too, before remembering he set off for university last month.