‘This won’t do, Mr Bain. This won’t do at all.’

Donald picked the girl up; she folded herself into his chest like her father had done when he was drunk, and the howl bubbled down to a whimper. In the hallway, he threaded her skinny form through the neck and arms of his good green jumper; it came down to her feet like a big wool dress.

‘That’s a pretty colour on you, little bird. Shall we go for a walk then, eh?’

He carried her down the street under his coat. She was much heavier than she had been the last time he’d held her, some months ago, but any time he tried to put her down her legs would buckle and she’d crumple onto the flagstones. He tried not to think about what she must have seen. He had no shoes for her, anyway, so eventually they worked out a silent compromise: the girl on his back, her arms locked around his neck almost tight enough to choke him, her breath funnelling hot down his spine. He walked through the town towards the river, at a loss so simply pointing out what they could see – a car, a dog – and then he started to sing. Just humming at first, ‘Green Grow the Rashes O’, the vibrations moving through his back to her, and slowly she pulled her head out of his shoulders. When he got to the chorus

Green grow the rashes o

Green grow the rashes o

The sweetest hours that e’er I spend

Are spent among the lasses o

she began tickling the words into his ear, not much more than a whisper at first. By the time they’d reached the river, though, she was belting out the top notes of Malcolm’s harmony with him. He found them a bench, and she curled in under his armpit to watch the river, flowing fast, swollen after a week of rain. He thought about singing her through a set list – Malcolm always liked to start with ‘These Are My Mountains’, get the crowd warmed up – but decided against it; Cliodhna didn’t need to think about her parents just then. So he started at the beginning, Robert Burns, ‘A Red, Red Rose’, his own mother’s favourite. Malcolm was the singer, of course, but Donald could hold a tune, form a useful bassline. When he concluded, they sat in silence for a second, and then Cliodhna whispered, ‘Again please, Uncle Donald.’ This time she joined in, a sweet note of wordless birdsong, from the third line.

Almost two hours they sat there on that bench, repeating the song over and over. By the time her stomach started rumbling its own rhythm, and he realized they should go back and get some of Mrs McKenzie’s soup, she had it by heart.

Guardian Weekend magazine, August 2010

The Song I Love …

… by Jennifer Hayman, Labour MP for Hoxsmith