‘He’s on the lifeboat roster out of Macduff,’ her neighbour clarified, with a smile at Anna’s blank look. ‘If they got a call he may not have had a chance to make alternative arrangements for you. I can call Barbara, she’ll know. Why don’t you come in and I’ll put the kettle on? You look as if you could use a cup of tea.’

For one brief, unbalanced moment Anna thought she might actually burst into tears.

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Yes. Yes, please. Thank you.’

‘I’m Pat, by the way,’ the woman said, as she stood back to usher Anna in. ‘Pat Thorpe.’

Two

Pat Thorpe’s home bore the name of the Weaver’s Nook. It was spread over three levels that reached back against the cliff, the original builder tapping a well of ingenuity to make a comfortably spacious home in this unforgiving place. The front door was up a short flight of stone steps to one side, where a small patio housed a rattan table and chairs.

‘We take guests in through there,’ Pat told Anna, ‘but you and I will use what my husband calls the “tradesmen’s entrance”.’

This was the door that Pat had opened in order to speak to Anna. Inside it was a narrow passageway, which on one side housed a door through which Anna could see a tiny WC. Ahead was another door, which Pat pushed open and walked through to reveal a large, warm kitchen. The floor was laid with grey flags, the walls had been taken back to their original stone and then rendered and painted white. In one wall a well-sized hearth housed a wood-burning stove. The rest of the room was taken up with beautiful units painted a sunny yellow and a big oak table surrounded by sturdy chairs. Pat filled the kettle and flicked it on, telling Anna to take a seat before going up a flight of steep wooden stairs to use the telephone. Anna listened to the murmur of her voice filtering down from above as she looked around. Against one wall was a dresser full of what looked like hand-thrown pottery, each piece glazed with a wash of glorious colour.

Robert MacKenzie had, in fact, been called out with the lifeboat, to aid a struggling pleasure boat that had set out from Lossiemouth and had run into trouble in the busy shipping lanes of the Firth.

‘It shouldn’t be too hard a call to set right,’ Pat said, as she busied herself making tea. The kitchen smelled of the fresh shortbread that was cooling on the rack beside the huge range cooker. ‘With any luck he’ll be here soon enough. Although I can imagine that the last thing you want is to be watching your P’s and Q’s with a new neighbour on moving day. You must be tired.’