Fin said, “I’ll get changed and come into town with you. We’ll take your dad for a pub lunch then drop him at daycare while we go and talk to the social work.”

She looked at him with searching, watery blue eyes. “Why would you do that, Fin?”

Fin grinned. “Cos I need a break, and I could do with a pint.”

The Crown Hotel sat up on the spit of land called South Beach that separated the inner and outer harbours of Stornoway. The lounge bar was on the first floor, and from up here there were views of both. The fishing fleet was in, at anchor in the inner harbour, rising and falling gently on the incoming tide, rusting trawlers and raddled crabbers, painted over in primary colours like elderly ladies vainly trying to hide the ravages of time.

Tormod was confused. At first he didn’t appear to know Fin at all. Until Fin spoke to him about his childhood, when he had visited Marsaili at the farm, already smitten, as if future pain had been predestined. Tormod’s face had lit up with recognition then. He had a clear recollection, it seemed, of the young Fin.

“You’ve grown fast, boy,” he said, and ruffled his hair as if he were still a five-year-old. “How are your folks?”

Marsaili glanced, embarrassed, at Fin, and said in a low voice, “Dad, Fin’s folks were killed in a car crash more than thirty years ago.”

Tormod’s face was washed by sadness. From behind round, silver-framed spectacles, he turned moist blue eyes on Fin, and for a moment Fin saw his daughter in them, and her son. Three generations lost in his confusion. “I’m sorry to hear that, son.”

Fin sat them at a table by the window and went to the bar to get menus and order them drinks. When he got back to the table Tormod was struggling to take something out from his trouser pocket. He twisted and wriggled in his chair. “Damn, dammit,” he said.

Fin glanced at Marsaili. “What’s he doing?”

She shook her head despondently. “He’s started smoking again. After giving up more than twenty years ago! He’s got a pack of cigarettes in his pocket, but he can’t seem to get them out.”

“Mr. Macdonald, you can’t smoke in here,” Fin told him. “You have to go outside if you want to smoke.”

“It’s raining,” the old man said.

“No,” Fin corrected him gently. “It’s still dry. If you want a cigarette I’ll stand outside with you.”

“Can’t get the damn things out of my pocket!” Tormod’s voice was raised now. Almost shouting. The bar was filling up with townsfolk and tourists in for lunch, and heads turned in their direction.

Marsaili’s voice was a stage whisper. “Dad, there’s no need to shout. Here, let me get them for you.”