‘A few days. We have to report to London in a week . . . Oh, I mean— Well, I do have news, Mum, but I’ll tell you when you’re not working. Now, let me introduce Marjie.’

‘Well, Marjie, it’s lovely to meet you at last. I can see you are a Roford, like . . . I mean, I – I . . .’

‘It’s all right, honestly. I am like my mother, though everyone says I am like my father as well.’

The moment was awkward for Sibbie, as it brought her history into focus – the long-running affair that her mum had had with Marjie’s late uncle, Harold Roford, her genetic father. But there seemed to be something more. As if her mum had nearly blurted something out. What it was, Sibbie couldn’t imagine. Only now, Mum was all of a fluster.

Sibbie took the best action she thought possible. ‘We’ll go for a walk, Mum, and let you finish your work. We’ll climb the steps to the Portpatrick Hotel. Do they still have afternoon teas? I’m famished.’

‘Eeh, we can put the kettle on here, lass – can’t we, Susan?’

‘But we need to eat, Aunt Betsy. We snatched a sandwich on the station at Glasgow, between running to catch the connection to Stranraer. And then we had the bus journey here. We’ll be fine – a walk will do us good.’

‘Are you sure, Sibbie? I didn’t embarrass you, did I, girl?’

‘No, Mum, why should you? We’ll see you later, when you get in. Is the key in the usual place or is Rory home?’

‘No, he’s out on his deliveries. Not that he has much meat to deliver these days, but he comes by a bit from the poachers. Though he spends most of his time on the boats, with Angus and Roderick. We’re planning to all eat at ours together tonight. I’ve everything ready to put on, and Angus will bring the fish to fry – he’ll gut it ready for me.’

‘That sounds wonderful, Mum. I love fresh fish. See you later then.’ Sibbie linked arms with Marjie and turned her round as she called her goodbyes.

‘Sorry about that, Marjie. Poor Mum got herself tongue-tied.’

Marjie was quiet for a moment. When she spoke, she shocked Sibbie with what she said. ‘Sibbie, I’ve always thought there is a lot about the past that we don’t know. And I got the feeling then that your mum knows what it is. I felt there was more than her just having an affair with my mama’s brother, Harold. I won’t call him “Uncle”, as from what I have heard about him, he doesn’t deserve the title . . . Oh, I’m sorry, I know he was your father, but . . .’