Alison and Ruth both had tears in their eyes at the end, for different reasons. Ruth excused herself to the kitchen, dug her nails into her palms. Because it’s different for men, she whispered, as the cat twisted at her feet. It’s always, always different for men.

DONALD

Isle of Skye, 2020

‘Well. This is the place. Here we are.’

‘That must be it up there on the dune, then? Looks new. Here, man, take my arm.’

‘Away, Andy, I’ll be fine. It’s not far. And I’d rather do this by myself. I’ll get you at the car – better you stay in there where it’s warm, anyway.’

The wind was sharp on the beach today, bleakly crested waves snapping at the shore. In order to get up to the dune from the small car park, Donald needed to ford a rocky stream cutting down the wet sand. He stumbled, almost dropped his stick, turned back to wave to Morna’s anxious son to let him know everything was all right. The dune was footery to climb, although he got purchase on a couple of clumps of grass, managed to haul himself up. There it was, the bench, pale wood and its brass plaque. Just as the pictures he’d ordered from the Internet had promised.

IN MEMORY OF
CLIODHNA CAMPBELL,
AND HER FATHER
MALCOLM CAMPBELL.

THEY WERE HAPPY TOGETHER
ON THIS BEACH ONCE.

He turned round to seat himself down on it, was seized by a momentary panic that he’d got the wrong place. Had it been here, after all? Could it have been two or three coves along? He stared out to the horizon point, strained his eyes for America just like they’d done as young men. No, here was the place. He remembered that rocky stream, of course he did. He looked all around him, tried to conjure up the two figures down by the shore, himself running towards them. The skinny naked man drawn to the sea, the slender toddler eating sand, their red hair blowing into the same sunstruck clouds. Yes, yes, here it had been.

The ancient shrugging mountains watched the old man on the new bench, didn’t care.

EILEEN

Glendale Retirement Home, Ayr, 2018