‘Just one wee thing,’ Euan Morrison says. ‘The University of Glasgow has had the extension on its dig confirmed.’ He stands up, while pulling his too-tight tweed jacket down over his too-big belly. Anywhere else, Euan Morrison would be chairing these meetings; he is, after all, the one who owns most of the island. I should probably see Kenny Campbell as a welcome alternative.

‘We knew it was coming,’ Euan says, to quell some half-arsed mutterings. ‘But this late in the year, it should only be a limited dig with a small crew. They’re still promising to have it wound it up by next summer.’

Beyond the initial noise of the excavation, the Cladh Dubh dig has become just another lazy source of complaint, like the weather. Sometimes I walk out to the ridge and watch the archaeologists – come rain or shine – on their hands and knees in the long trenches on top of Tòrr Dìseart. There’s a calm about the place that matches the standing stones beyond on the cliffs of Oir na Tìr. A stillness never disturbed by wind or storm or voice. Fierce and fragile; it reminds me of home.

The pub door bangs open, admitting an almighty gust of cold air. Jimmy strides in, grinning and still in his waterproofs. He works on a creel boat out of A’ Chàrnach, though doubtless has an eye on a crew spot on the Unity, or even one of the deep-sea trawlers in the north. A fisherman’s never more fearless than he is at nineteen.

His grin dies when he sees who’s serving behind the bar. Alec’s already put in his tuppence worth this evening, and none of it constructive. If complaining is an islander sport, then arguing is his. Men would sooner have a drink with me. I knew plenty of riggers in Aberdeen, and they all had the same kind of feral look about them: as if they left more than half of themselves behind every time they came back from the sea in those rickety Sikorskys. A couple of nights ago, he and Jimmy nearly got into a punch-up over something or other, notable only because for once it was Alec who backed down first.

‘Pint, is it?’ Alec says, and long, uncomfortable seconds pass before Jimmy nods.

Once he has it, he comes into the lounge, pulling off his wet jacket before he sits down.

‘Glad I caught yous. Listen, I know we gave to the funeral fund for the crew of the Leverburgh, but I thought we could maybe start another collection for the families, maybe here in the pub?’

‘Moira’ll be happy to make up a box, Jimmy,’ Charlie says. ‘Thom, you okay to have it on the bar?’

Thom Stewart looks up from cleaning ashtrays on the other side of the pub. He rarely takes part in these meetings, preferring to loiter on their periphery under the guise of busy landlord, volunteering nothing until directly asked. He’s got a wife, Kate, who Mary says won’t say boo to a goose, and a one-year-old girl called Kelly, who I’ve seen crawling all over the pub floor until her hands and knees are black. While Thom just goes on standing behind the bar, smirking and oblivious to anyone but himself, cleaning out his ashtrays and polishing his pint glasses until they shine. He pushes his too-large glasses up the long bridge of his nose before folding his skinny arms and nodding. ‘’Course, Charlie. No need to ask.’