Mr Croucher smiled, as if believing her to be happy about their new circumstances. ‘A rudimentary map has been drawn for you of the area,’ he said, speaking over his shoulder as he disappeared into the kitchen, before reappearing a moment later with a sheet of paper. ‘But you’ll work it out for yourselves soon enough, I should imagine.’ He held the map towards the light. ‘You are here,’ he said, pointing to a small black X in an otherwise unmarked part of the sheet. Blue waves, seemingly drawn by a child’s hand, lapped due west. ‘The Forestry Commission is here; this is where the men will report for work on the morrow.’ His finger stabbed upon an area due east, demarcated with looping green squiggles. ‘The village is a mile and a half thence. As well as the harbour and fish market, there’s an inn, a general store and post office,’ he said, tapping due south. ‘There’s a bus to the Corran ferry and over to Fort William twice a week. Mondays and Thursdays, I believe, but Mrs Lamont in the store is the person to keep you straight. Not much happens round here without her eyes and ears on it, so I’m given to understand.’

He looked back at the young woman and her crooked father staring at him with stern expressions. ‘Well, you must be weary. If you’re settled in, it only behoves me to equip you with the keys to your new home and to take my leave. I’ve a journey back to Glasgow before the night train to London.’

Effie arched an eyebrow. Officials from London. Braided sailors. Press men. A waving, staring public. All to ship thirty-six islanders sixty miles off a speck of rock in the Atlantic. Why was there such a fuss?

He wasn’t at the car before Effie had her boots unlaced and her bare feet were pressing to the stone floor. Immediately she felt her pulse settle, her blood cool. ‘I thought he’d never leave,’ she said to her father’s back as he shuffled to the kitchen again.

‘Aye,’ he said flatly.

She looked up. With that one word, she knew his feelings about the place too. This move had been a mistake.

Her heart beat a little faster and she followed after him, quickly turning his chair the right way up and setting it down at the far side of the stove. His low, three-legged stool she set as he liked it, in front, just to the left. Her father sank down with not a sound but the small wince that accompanied the release of his standing bones told her he’d been suffering. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his black twist tobacco and clay pipe.