Her mother called her both names, Cliodhna Jean, emphasis on the second. Malcolm had a litany of pet names, each more ridiculous than the next and never used twice, and yet the wee girl always seemed to know who he meant, would fix her eyes on him like he was a gorgeous big plaything, gazing at the way his hair glowed as it soaked up the sunlight in the flat. She favoured Malcolm from the start – his easy, rangy limbs in miniature on her, his wide eyes, the wisp of gingery hair. Another blessing, that, Donald would think to himself, feeling disloyal to Eileen as he did. It was Malcolm who sang the baby to sleep, Malcolm who she seemed to cleave to, Malcolm who she’d take a bottle from and settle for more easily. Maybe it was just because he was calmer, Donald thought. Since the birth, on a night when they’d been playing out at the hotel in Garve, hadn’t made it back until 2 a.m., Eileen had been tighter, shorter with her praise, her movements brisk. She was retreating back into herself, as Malcolm blossomed in fatherhood. He wondered what she’d gone through in that hospital by herself, far away from her family. It was not a thing you asked a woman.