A new silence fell, weighted with expectation. The islanders, aware of their audience, became inhibited again. The sailors – their duties completed – were standing to attention beside the captain; the crowd on dry land didn’t stir, their waving hands fallen still now too. Effie could see a line of officials waiting for them on the pier. They were distinguished from the local men’s tweed and cloth caps by their uniform of dark suits and bowler hats.

Lorna took the lead, offering a steady arm to Ma Peg and helping her down the gangway, a blizzard of camera flashes accompanying their every step, the spell broken as they stepped onto the level. Mad Annie and Old Fin followed after, arms linked and talking closely to one another all the while; it wasn’t clear which of them was supporting the other as they descended into the mass of strangers.

Beside her, Effie’s father’s body shook as he leant on his stick and prepared to go next. She went to give him her arm but he was still angry at her and he gave a pointed look to the navy men in their white ducks, one of whom stepped in and escorted him with rigid ceremony instead. Effie followed three steps behind, thinking her father looked like a prisoner, which was ironic for someone walking to an easier freedom.

‘Name, please?’ one of the hatted men asked, moving forward as the crowd shifted closer too.

‘My father speaks no Engl—’

‘Robert Gillies. Euphemia Gillies,’ her father said proudly, guessing what information was required. His head was tipped back as he strove for dignity amid the strangeness of the unknown.

‘Welcome to Scotland, Mr Gillies, Miss Gillies,’ the man said with a brief smile.

Effie didn’t smile back. Part of her wanted to point out that they had always been in Scotland, that they were every bit as Scottish as he.

‘My name’s Mr Croucher. I’ll be escorting you to your new home today.’

But Effie wasn’t listening. Her attention was diverted by the proximity of the onlookers, all so close now and staring at her with open interest. She was tall, taller than most of the women, but only half their width. She could almost feel their temptation to reach out and brush a hand against her salty skin, her rough skirt, her wind-tangled hair. But her own curiosity was pricked too as she stared back – what was that powder on their faces? How did their hair settle into smooth, regular waves like that? Why were their ankles wrinkled? Were they in Sunday best too, or did they always wear shoes—

‘No!’