‘Cliodhna and Eileen had a fight, when she was about sixteen, that’s right,’ Donald said, slowly, feeling the pub grow closer and hotter around his collar. ‘I don’t know if they keep in touch that much.’

‘Knew it!’ Malcolm’s eyes gleamed with the triumph of his victory, even all those decades later. The slights Eileen had committed had clearly not been forgiven. ‘I thought so. And it seems to me you might be the only person who knows how to find her. I found an article where she talks about going on tour with her Uncle Donnie. The man who taught her everything she knows about music. Everything she knows.’

Donald drew breath. Of course Malcolm was here with a purpose. Of course he was.

‘I haven’t seen Clio in a couple of years, Malcolm. She gets in touch when she wants. She has her ways. Last I heard, she was living in London. She’s active, is that girl. Politics and the like. She’s always going to the demos and whatnot – I’ve had to bail her out a couple of times. Doesn’t settle down.’ He raised his glass. ‘Like her daddy, there.’

‘Pfff. Politics. That’s her mother’s nonsense, that. I had hoped – I’d thought maybe you might have got all that out of her.’ There was a note of accusation there that Donald felt unable to tolerate.

‘Well, I took her in at sixteen, fed her, got her music lessons, helped her get into college, got her started on the gig circuit. I didn’t need to do any of that. I’m not even officially her godfather.’

‘And I thank you for that, Donald. Really I do—’

‘We’ll not have this conversation again, Malcolm. Not twenty years on. I will say that had you wanted to have any influence in the girl’s life you should have actually been there. She’s a fine woman, is Cliodhna. She’s strong and honest and she speaks her mind, she’s got a beauty of a voice, and she’s trying to make a difference in the world. Any father would be proud of a daughter like that, even if she’s not really what you’d call conventional in her lifestyle.’

‘Donald. Donald. I just want to see her. Tell me how. Please.’

His face had dropped. The swagger, the charms, the façade: all gone. Malcolm was alone and lost, and needing, needing so badly. Donald noticed waxy tones to his skin, a greyish film mugging up the whites of his eyes.

‘How long have you got, Malcolm?’

They both sat there for a second.

‘They’re saying eight months. Maybe.’

Morna had been standing there, just behind them, not wanting to intrude. Now she bustled herself into the empty seat.