Finn was blathering away about his actual girlfriends, of which there were many apparently – I didn’t believe that for a second, though maybe it didn’t take much up here and his stupid skin-and-bones moped got all the lassies a bit damp down below.

His gran put a chamomile tea in my hands and sat down opposite me. ‘So, what’s your story then, Polly?’ Her voice had a doll-like quality to it.

‘She’s looking for love and she’s just in denial about having a younger man.’ Finn was walking around, jiggling his arms.

I slurped at the tea. A noseful of steaming hay, old flowers, sweat.

‘She’s actually a spy and she’s found you out at last, Gran-gran.’

‘Oh, you,’ she said to him, still gazing at me. Her face was incredibly lined, deep gouges like some of the mountains had around here, even though she was probably only in her late sixties. A red and black bandana saying ‘Trinidad and Tobago’ swept her hair back off her face. ‘Everyone has a story.’

‘Um, I’m up here with my mum, and doing some work and that.’ There was something about her calm that I found slightly unnerving. A gentle sea-sway all of her own. And it was like she could see through me, to my bones. Hear them rattling with guilt.

‘When did you last come?’ she asked me.

‘How do you mean? Oh, no, I haven’t been here before.’

‘Yes, you have.’

I sat up and looked at her. She had spoken so surely, as if she’d said that I was a girl, or that my hair was brown. ‘No, I – this is the first time I’ve been to Scotland. Except I went to Edinburgh Festival when I was little with my folks.’

‘No.’ The word was like a long bubble blown from a wand, wobbling in the air. ‘You’ve been here before.’

The table was sticky. My cup made a sucking sound when I lifted it. ‘Yeah, I don’t think so.’

She didn’t say it again but just continued to look at me, not quite smiling, her eyes soft and curious. They were blazingly green, sun-on-the-sea stuff. She seemed to be waiting for me to say something else. I swiftly asked Finn about the last girl he’d mentioned and off he went, talking about skirts and paper birds and trying to make lip gloss out of PVA glue and cherry liqueur. The windows fogged.

‘Gran-gran?’ I asked as we walked back to the still-deserted car park.

‘Yeah, she says she’s the best of the two, so she should get double the name. Gran One hates her.’

‘Is she, you know …’ I tapped my temple. ‘Is she all right?’

‘Yeah, course she is. Sharper than anyone. She can tell you the names of every king of Scotland and the year they were on the throne. She can do it backwards or forwards. And she knows all the types of submarines they used in the war. She’s mint. Do you mind if we go quite fast? I’ve got maths homework.’