‘Judas!’ she whined at him, standing up and pointing a witchy fingernail, while the students in the audience, apparently unfamiliar with Miss Campbell’s ‘cool’ former career as a pop star several years before their birth, sniggered openly.

Judging from a recent Yes Campaign press release, we can look forward to further interventions on the subject from Miss Campbell. They seem somewhat proud of their newest recruit, and good on them. What this debate was really missing was some authentic fishwife sensibility.

DONALD

Glasgow and Achiltibuie, 2004

Pub gig, with Phil and Aly, in Glasgow. Morna had come down with him; they’d splashed out on a hotel and were making a holiday of it. It would do them for a honeymoon until they could properly afford to go abroad. The next day they were going to go to that big museum, maybe get a fancy dinner, and Morna had her eye on some of the shops.

There was a tiny stage, and brighter light than he’d been accustomed to; he could only tell the place was packed by the bobbing silhouettes of heads. One eejit down the front kept shouting ‘Hoooooch!’, in a loud, exaggerated American twang.

Afterwards, while the main act played, the eejit approached. Yellow teeth, a frayed look about him, his eyes faded from too much sunlight. Something desperate plastered over with a manic smile, his hair almost completely gone on top. If it weren’t for the beard, silver flecking the darkened auburn but still magnificent, Donald wouldn’t have known him.

‘Brother,’ he said, holding out his arms. American word. It was not a way they’d ever addressed each other. ‘You’re a hard man to track down, Donald Bain. A hard man. And the softest.’

Donald pulled Malcolm in, held him closer than he ever had, now it was safe to.

‘You loved that man a long time,’ Morna would say, the day before the funeral. ‘Well before I came along. Go on. It’s OK to admit that.’

Malcolm smelled of sweat and dirt and piss and whisky, much of it rising from the massive, grimy fisherman’s sweater he’d thrown over the top of himself.

‘Malcolm, man. What are you doing here?’

‘In this bar, or in Scotland?’ And he laughed too much at this.

‘Scotland. It’s not unusual for Malcolm Campbell to be in a bar. Right, come on over here. You’re going to tell me everything. And I need you to meet my wife.’

‘Your wife?’ Malcolm chuckled, an unpleasant noise. ‘OK. OK, brother.’

Partly fearing an interjection from the friends Malcolm had failed to make in the crowd, Donald moved him quickly across the bar to the table Morna had huddled up at, still on her first gin and tonic.

‘Morna. Morna lass. You’re never going to believe – this is Malcolm. Malcolm Campbell.’

‘Your Malcolm?’

‘Aye. Aye. He’s here. Well, of course he is. Sit yourself down, Malcolm.’