Donald sang the next verse with her, a husky bass rasp that echoed under Clio’s sweet-and-sour. From the back row came a wavering note of soprano, growing stronger as the people around her smiled encouragement. Clio stretched out an open hand. And then they were all singing together, the whole room, even those who didn’t know the words joining in at the refrain.

‘For a’ that, an’ a’ that,

It’s comin yet for a’ that,

That man to man the warld o’er

Shall brithers be for a’ that.’

Neil would hear Burns, and that song in particular, performed many times over the years. In 1992, though, it was still unfashionable. Tartan tat, the stuff of shortbread tins and fat conservative men at Rotary Club suppers. He still thought the spirit in that room had never been equalled.

As the storm of applause didn’t seem to be dying down, Clio spoke over them.

‘Robert Burns, Oban. A true radical. A revolutionary. And born just half an hour up the road from where I grew up, in Ayrshire. Hello, Oban. I’m Clio Campbell. And I’ve got something to say.’

Back in the bed-and-breakfast, Neil put a pillow over his head to muffle the noise of Clio and Danny’s celebration in the room next door.

The next night, though, a working men’s club in Fort William, their hangovers still pulsing, the room cold from a draughty window and only a quarter full because the football was on, no one stamped, no one sang, and Clio drank and swore and tainted the air around them in the pub afterwards. The cut seemed all the deeper for what had gone before, and Neil eyed his travelling companions round the table unsure of how on earth they’d get her out of it.

‘Look,’ he said, eventually. ‘You’ve still got last night, right? It doesn’t matter that this one wasn’t your best. You’ll always have Oban!’ It was intended as a joke, but the reaction was seismic.

‘It wasn’t my best, was it. Oh God. I should have engaged them more – that sort of cold open is sometimes a mistake; I should have been able to see that they needed warming up. God, I call myself a professional at this, but I’m so fucking inexperienced really. Ah, man, why did I ever think this was possible? A month-long tour! A fucking month! I want to go home.’

The other men at the table were frowning, looking away from him. Lee had reached over to stroke her shoulder.

‘Hey, la. You listen up. You were bloody great tonight, all right? This is some shit you’re talking now. You had a small crowd freezing their bollocks off, and you gave them a show. You gave them a helluva show. Their own lookout if they couldn’t appreciate it, eh?’