‘No need, I’ll pass them on for you. I’ll be going back there shortly once I’ve dealt with this.’ She was looking at McGregor’s boat and Effie realized Lorna’s reason for being here was not to drive them back in – she was waiting for the mail sack. Ian McKinnon, the postmaster, was still on Boreray. McGregor often brought their post over with him and he’d take their letters back on his return leg too.

Effie’s heart sank as she realized the older woman would continue to stand there for as long as it took for the trawlermen to unload and disembark. Her time alone with Sholto was already at an end.

‘Hurry along now, Effie. Your father’s heated the water for a bath for you,’ Lorna said, still looking dead ahead.

Effie looked back at Sholto, feeling desperate. ‘. . . Well . . . thank you, sir,’ she said, lapsing into their public personas again; they felt like pantomime roles now. ‘You have taught me to swim at last and for that I’m very grateful.’

‘Not at all,’ he said stiffly, looking pained as he too realized the clock had run out. Uncle Hamish and Archie MacQueen were making their way down to the dinghy, to row out. ‘You . . . uh, must practise, though.’ He glanced at Lorna. She was standing beside them watching the boats, but still clearly listening in. ‘. . . And then if you become strong enough yourself, you might teach your neighbours, too.’ His voice was flat, the words just a cover to stretch out their last remaining moments together.

‘. . . I’ll do my best, sir.’

‘Good . . . Good.’

They were all out of public niceties.

‘Well, g’bye then, sir,’ she said, beginning to walk up the beach towards the long grassy plot that led to her front door.

‘Goodbye, Miss Gillies,’ he said, the words falling behind her like paper aeroplanes, nosediving to the ground.

The tin tub had been placed in front of the fire in the main bedroom, her father sitting at the loom in the kitchen by the window. He couldn’t see down to the water from where he sat, but she knew just from the way he glanced at her that he’d already heard. A secret couldn’t be kept in this place.

‘I’m back, Father,’ she said quietly, standing shivering in the doorway with the towel clutched at her neck, the bag and ropes held in her free hand. The air in the cottage felt stuffy and stale, thicker than outside, as though she had to swallow it down; the pan of broiled fulmar was simmering gently on the stove.

‘You look like a skinned cat,’ he said after a moment’s pause, his arms and legs never stopping their work at the machine. ‘You’d best get in the tub before you rattle your bones apart.’