‘Sorry, what? Look here, woman, my ex-wife told me she was here. This is an arrangement. I am here to get my daughter and take her away for her birthday. I’ve come all the way from Skye and I’m not going to have you stop me, you h—’

‘Mrs McGrouther,’ said Donald, stepping in. ‘Cliodhna Campbell it is we’re looking for. Her middle name is Jean. Do you have a Jean Campbell here, who hasn’t been picked up yet? And she might be registered under her mother’s maiden name, Johnstone? Her mother is Eileen Campbell, Eileen Johnstone that was. Her father and her Uncle Donald are here. She’ll know us, don’t worry.’

It was not usual for Donald to be the one to spin the charm spell, to make things happen. Small Jean Johnstone was brought out to the front door, and asked if she recognized these men, but she was already flinging herself happily at her father’s knees. Their reunion set the tone for the next three birthdays: a van ride to Girvan, the wee wriggling body squashed in between them in the front seat talking non-stop about school, dropping names of other children, giving them high-pitched renditions of all the dreary Presbyterian hymns Mrs McGrouther apparently did thump out. And if it was Donald who would chase her down the beach more often, roaring and pretending to be a monster as she squealed in delight; if Malcolm swayed and stumbled while they walked on the sand, or had a funny smell on his breath, his daughter didn’t notice. She would stare admiringly as he made the waitresses in the ice-cream parlour giggle and blush. Every time she’d run straight for Malcolm’s legs, the hair rising in a fuzzy orange halo no matter how short Eileen clipped it, screaming, ‘My daddy! My daddy!’

That first time, after the last of the fish and chips had been eaten and a second round of ice cream bought even though they were all full to bursting, as the sun began to go down and Donald nudged them back towards the van, something that had been bubbling up in Malcolm burst open.

‘Cliodhna. Why has your mother got them calling you Jean at the school?’

She looked at him for a little while, trying to remember.

‘Mum saaaaid – that nobody would be able to say it proper. She said it was too silly for school and for here. It’s a bit confusing trying to remember it’s me when they say Jean!’

‘But your name is Cliodhna. Not Jean.’

‘Jean’s my second name. Cliodhna Jean. Jean’s my name for when I’m with Mummy and Cliodhna for when I’m with Da— with you. It’s my secret name. Nobody else has got a secret name.’