After the third message, a letter had arrived. Cliodhna explained she didn’t want to phone the house; she didn’t say why but he knew fine it was just to avoid speaking to Malcolm. Leave me a message, she said, or send me a letter back. The address she gave was a London one, in a place called Homerton. It had taken them a further month of back and forth, Malcolm fuming and beating his thin fists on the table (‘For crying out loud why won’t the girl just talk to me on the telephone? I’m her father!’), to agree on a date and a place – Edinburgh. Morna and Donald hadn’t been sure that Malcolm was up to the trip, but he’d insisted. He’d returned a day later, in high spirits, although the journey had clearly taken it out of him and he’d needed two days of bed rest, enforced by Morna. He kept talking about Sandy Bell’s pub, about how he and Cliodhna were about to embark on a tour of the country, doing father-daughter gigs. Knowing both as he did, Donald kept his own counsel.

‘She’ll be up here for a visit soon, and I thought you could help us out – just a little local thing, start us off?’

Cliodhna did not arrive. There were no more letters. And slowly, the light behind Malcolm’s eyes had gone out.

There were many reasons why Donald had put off calling again. Nobody wants to be the bearer of bad news. Nobody wants to hear it. Not in an answerphone message. While Elspeth was dealing with the undertaker, the body leaving the house finally, he slipped out and took a short letter to the roadside, flagged down the post van.

Surely. Surely this time. Then, in the middle of the night, unable to sleep properly in the house without Morna’s comforting presence in the bed, he was gripped by a terrible panic. Why was the lass having to learn of her father’s passing by letter? No, no, it wasn’t right. He counted down the hours till dawn, then till eight, drinking endless cups of tea as Elspeth sighed and packed her smart little suitcase back up, then gritted his teeth and left another damned message.

‘Hello lass. It’s Uncle Donald here. Donald Bain. Your uncle. I’ve got some bad news, my love. Can you phone me? Just give me a call, here at the house. Before you open my letter, anyway. Any time. I’ll be here any time.’

Nothing, nothing.