‘Yes, I see it now. Come in a bit. You’ve got the hair, haven’t you? The red hair.’

I didn’t like the way he said the red hair, but I still hadn’t given him the things he’d rung for, the hot water bottle and the glass of ice, which my mother had told me to fetch without making a nuisance of myself. He gave no sign of rising, so I went to the foot of the bed. I could see him better now. His face was soft and toady, and his grey hair needed cutting.

‘That’s it,’ he said, ‘into the light. Well, you’re a bonny thing, aren’t you? That’s what you say up here, isn’t it? “Bonny”?’

‘I suppose.’

‘Oh, you suppose? Well, I think you do. I think I’ve heard it. My mother was from these parts, you know. Don’t look so surprised,’ he said, though I wasn’t. ‘I know, you wouldn’t think it to listen to me. Sound like a right Sassenach, don’t I?’

I held the items towards him.

‘Oh, you’re in a rush, are you? Everyone’s in a rush these days, aren’t they? But what have you got to get back to? A cartoon you’re watching? Some homework? God, for the days when all I had to worry about was a bit of homework!’

He gave a clogged sort of laugh and moved slightly, and the smell of my father in the mornings reached me: whisky and unwashed dressing gown.

‘All right,’ he said, ‘all right, just put that here.’

I went right up and put the glass of ice on the nightstand. I gave the hot water bottle to him, and he sighed as he took hold of it.

‘Such a simple thing,’ he said. ‘Such a simple pleasure.’ And he placed it on his stomach.

I asked, as my mother had told me to, ‘Is there anything else you need?’

‘No, no, this is it. Just reach us that bottle, would you?’

He pointed past me into the shadows. I turned and saw the whisky bottle on the desk. It was half-full. I picked it up and took it to him.

‘Just pour us a bit in there,’ he said, pointing to the glass.

‘With all the ice?’

‘Listen to you! What do you know about ice?’

‘My Dad doesn’t like it.’

‘Oh yes? And why not?’

I felt I had already said too much, but the Englishman was watching me eagerly.

‘He says it’s sacrilege.’

I thought he might be angry, but he laughed. He seemed delighted. ‘Sacrilege! Listen to her! Do you know what that means?’

‘Yes.’

‘Go on, then. What does it mean?’

‘It means spoiling something.’

‘Spoiling,’ he said, thoughtfully. ‘Yes, I suppose it does.’ Then he brightened again. ‘Trust a Scot to turn his whisky into a religious experience!’