‘They appear as a warning sign, of sorts. To watch out for what’s ahead. And the truth is’ – now that there is a story to tell, Vairi has resigned herself to the pavement in the silver November light – ‘your mother and I didn’t get on at first. I thought she was wild. And she was. Wild. She didn’t have any family near by, they were from somewhere else, further north, on the west coast.’

‘I know,’ says Lauren.

‘But I could see that she understood some things. Eventually, I saw that.’

‘What sort of things?’

‘Oh, traditions and the like.’ Vairi stops, and looks ahead down the road, then back behind her. ‘Things my granny used to do for good luck. Y’know, superstitions, perhaps.’ She looks down at her two dogs as they pull on the leads. Then Vairi whispers: ‘She still does. I still talk to her.’

Lauren recoils and looks at the long road towards home. ‘How?’ She is daring herself. The curiosity is feeding a skinny part of her. She finds the antler handle, deep in her jacket pocket, and clenches it in her fist.

‘How? She’s … present. In my dreams, and in the evenings recently I’ve seen her. I know you see her too.’ Seeing Lauren’s disbelief, she goes on, ‘I know Christine. She’s visiting to say there’s trouble afoot. Most don’t remember seeing her though, do they? Most don’t want to, that’s the thing. It’s a kind of shock that passes over and they push her away out of their heads. I can see from your face that you do see her though. I’m right. After all this time, she’ll be back for a reason. Protecting you, like her over there.’ She gestures to the buzzard. ‘You see your mammy. And you remember her, of course.’

This is too much. Lauren turns and starts running towards home, her school shoes slapping on the broken pavement as the wind draws tears from her frozen face. That auld wifey. She hears her father’s voice in her head. That maddie. The day has almost faded. A timber lorry passes, piled with rocking logs that look set to roll away. She starts walking, out of breath. Her creased black Clarks pinch from the running and she wonders whether to ask her dad for a new pair. She is nearly home now and can see the kitchen light through the shrubs. She’s visiting to say there’s trouble afoot.

As soon as she twists the back-door handle, Jameson starts barking. ‘Jame-son,’ she says, then louder, ‘Jame-son.’ A guitar album is playing quietly.