I move to his side to see whom he’s pointing at, then take the photo from him and tilt it. I can’t see any particular family resemblance between Ben and his father, but Ali’s father is unmistakable. They share the same dark, rumpled features, though his father is a big man, both tall and broad, whereas Ali has inherited the smaller frame of his mother. The photo suddenly has added significance. All those friends, together in the same room, enjoying one another’s company, and only the other night, over a quarter of a century later, their offspring were doing the same in the Quaich. It feels like looking into an infinity mirror: the same image repeating endlessly, getting smaller and smaller, until the end of light and time.

“I can’t see Glen there, or your mum,” Ben is saying to Jamie. Jamie reaches out a hand and I pass him the photo. “Maybe it was taken after she died. Come on, Callum, we’d best get going.”

“It was lovely to meet you, Callum,” I tell him.

“I liked it, too,” he says with an endearing earnestness. Then he pipes up again, in the blunt way of children. “I like the dining room best. It’s how it should be.”

“Me too.” He’s perceptive, this little mite.

“Was the gold writing always there?”

“What?”

“In the corner, just under the window.” I shake my head blankly. “You’ll have to look at it. I cannae read it; it’s too curly. And . . . and I’m not very good at reading. My teacher thinks I could be dyslexic,” he says dolefully, as if it’s a death sentence. “I have to go for an assessment.”

“We talked about this,” Ben says gently. “It’s not a bad thing. It’s just different. And they’ll give you extra time in exams if it’s diagnosed.”

Callum looks thoroughly disgusted. “Why would I want exams to take even longer?”

I meet Ben’s eyes over Callum’s head, stifling a laugh. He throws a hand in the air as if exasperated, but it’s belied by the amusement in his face. I’ve opened the back door now, and Toast’s head is just visible above the garden wall as she stands anxiously awaiting her master. “Why wouldn’t Toast come in?” I ask Callum.

“None of the animals will.”

“What?” I scan his expression for some kind of explanation, for the hint of a joke waiting to step out, but his little face is still shiningly, earnestly clear. I think of the cat circling the garden, never actually setting a paw inside, despite the bird . . . “But no, that’s not right; there was a bird in the garden only last night. It was injured, poor thing.”

“Oh, that was from before,” says Callum, unconcerned. “Or later.” I look at Ben again, confused, but he has turned back to say good-bye to Jamie.