Marsaili was surprised. “What did he say?”

“He just about took my head off.” Fionnlagh smiled wryly. “Told me if I didn’t finish my studies and get a place at university he would personally beat the crap out of me.”

Fin raised an eyebrow. “In those words?”

Fionnlagh grinned. “Pretty much. I thought ministers weren’t supposed to use language like that.”

Fin laughed. “Ministers have a special dispensation from God to swear their fucking heads off if they like. As long as it’s in a good cause.” He paused. “So you’re going to go to university, then?”

“If I can get in.”

Donna appeared at the door with the baby propped over her shoulder and supported on one arm. “Are you going to feed her or am I?”

Fionnlagh grinned at his daughter and brushed her cheek with the backs of his fingers. “I’ll do it. Bottle in the warmer?”

“It is.” Donna handed the baby over to him.

He turned in the doorway before he followed her out. “By the way, you were right, Fin. About Donna’s dad. He’s not so bad.”

A moment passed between father and son, then Fin grinned. “Aye, there’s hope for him yet.”

When Fionnlagh had gone he turned to the next box and tore it open to reveal that it was full of books and jotters. He lifted out the top book, a green hardback. An anthology of twentieth-century poetry. “I didn’t know your dad liked poetry.”

“Neither did I.” Marsaili crossed the kitchen to take a look.

Fin opened the book, and on the inside cover, written in an elegant hand, were the words, Tormod Uilleam Macdonald. A happy birthday. Mum. August 12th 1976. Fin frowned. “Mum?”

He heard the tremor in her voice as she said, “They always referred to one another as Mum and Dad.”

As he flipped through the pages a folded sheet of lined paper fell out. He picked it up. It was covered in shaky handwriting, and titled, Solas.

“That’s the daycare centre we took him to that day next to the care home,” Marsaili said. “It’s his handwriting. What does it say?” She took the sheet from Fin and he stood up to look at it with her. Every third or fourth word was scored out, sometimes several times, as he had tried to correct his misspellings. Her hand flew to her mouth to try to contain her distress. “He always prided himself on his spelling.” Then she read, “There were about anything up to twenty people while I was there. Most of them are very old.” There were three attempts to write “old.” “Some are very weak and seem unable to speak. Others are unable to walk, but try to put their feet down on about one inch at a time. But there were a few who could step to a reasonable distance.” Her voice choked off her words and she could read no further.