Effie climbed out of the car and went round to pull her father out too; the seats were dashed low to get out from and they had to link arms to get him up. He steadied himself on his stick as Effie turned slowly on the spot, trying to orientate herself. The road had swept back from the pier and then looped round to the left. They had come over a low hill and now faced towards distant purple hills. From the brackish wind that blew her hair forward, she sensed the sea was behind them. The land was rolling and gentle, thickly heathered moors butting up to the cottage’s stone walls with a stand of trees just beyond a small rocky outcrop. It occurred to her that there was nothing to climb – no mountains, no crags, not even any boulders – and she felt the yawn in her body again, the urge to stretch and reach.

In all, she estimated they had probably travelled the length of Hirta. It had taken minutes in the car, but by foot – unless there was another route – it was likely a mere half-hour walk back to the village, for there were no mountains to climb. It would be nothing for her, but for a lame man with a stick . . .

Her eyes narrowed as she looked further down the lane. She could see another white cottage, a hundred yards along; and another a hundred yards past that. Perhaps this was considered close by the mainlanders, but coming from a village where the entire street had been a hundred yards long, the cottages standing shoulder to shoulder like weather-beaten sentries, people dipping in and out of each other’s houses just like the gannets diving for fish . . . Their village was really just a ribbon of different rooms. But here there was space and gaps and roads and trees.

The glistening hulk of another of the black cars sat outside the nearest cottage and she wondered who had been placed there. She hoped it was the McKinnons and the MacQueens, though they were both large families and these cottages – from the outside, at least – looked small.

‘So you are in number three,’ Mr Croucher said, opening the gate for them and leading them down the short path. ‘Your belongings were unloaded from the Dunara Castle last night. Everything should be there, but if there’s any problems, speak to Mr McDougall down at the harbour.’

‘Did they bring my stool? I need it for my leg,’ her father said.

The man looked back at him blankly and Effie quickly translated, for he appeared to have no Gaelic.

‘They’ll have brought everything of yours there was to bring, Mr Gillies,’ Mr Croucher said, sliding a key into the lock and turning it as Effie relayed his reply. He stepped back to allow them to pass.