He continued to write to her, though, keeping her updated, at least four times a year. He wanted to make sure there was a regular, steady thing in her life, and he thought as her godfather it was probably his job, now. A picture of his new cottage, on the mainland. A programme from a music festival he was playing at, a postcard from Orkney or London or wherever his new life as a session musician took him. ‘I play in other people’s bands,’ he wrote to her, trying to explain it. ‘It’s a free life, a good life. There’s always music around.’

She never replied, over the years, but he thought that was OK. None of the letters had been returned to him, addressee unknown, so he thought they were probably getting through. In a way it began to free him up, to write things he wouldn’t tell anyone face to face.

I thought I’d never really be able to do it, without your dad. He was always the one who was good at finding us work, as a band. But I seem to be doing just fine. Somebody’s always looking for a fiddler.

This one on a postcard from Paris, with pretty dancing girls on the front. He’d slipped it in an envelope with a little model of the Eiffel Tower on a key ring. Just in case.

And time passed, and life was good, and he was forty. He was forty, and he was washing up the dishes at half past eight. He heard the late bus coming down the hill like it always did, was confused when it pulled on its brakes. The headlights streamed through the cottage windows and he went outside to see if Roddy the bus needed a hand. Roddy was helping a woman down off the stair, a woman with high-heeled shoes and lots of hair. He was carrying a big bag for her, and they were coming down the path to Donald’s bothy.

‘What’s all this, then, Roddy man?’ he called out, at the same time as Roddy was saying, ‘Here you go, Donald. Brought her safe to you.’ And he realized as she got nearer that she wasn’t really a woman at all, she was a girl, with Malcolm’s huge, mellow eyes under all that make-up, and she was saying, ‘Hello, Uncle Donald.’

He made her tea and offered her a blanket, because her clothes were thin and the fire hadn’t properly heated the room yet. All she’d said so far was that she wanted to surprise him; he waited till she’d warmed up and calmed down before asking her properly.

‘So, now. What’s going on, then? It’s great to see you, obviously, but it’s been five years, lass. People don’t just show up on a whim after five years, Cliodhna. Sorry – Jean, is it now? What’s really going on?’