There was more washing on the line of the new house. Casual women’s clothes and a row of baby jumpsuits and tiny cardigans. Nothing that might belong to a girl aged about ten. A pushchair stood in the front porch. Polly lingered while the others walked on. It was still a fine day and the window was open. From inside the house came the sound of a radio playing country music, then of a baby crying and a woman’s soothing voice.

In the Malcolmsons’ kitchen there was the smell of meat cooking, and Polly was sure there’d be the awkwardness of reminding everyone that she was vegetarian and then a scramble while they found something she could eat. The inevitable omelette or lump of old cheese. But it seemed that Caroline and Lowrie had explained, and Grusche pulled out of the oven an open tart with leeks and mushrooms and home-grown chives, which she left to stand on top of the Rayburn while drinks were poured and the table was laid.

For a while during the meal Eleanor wasn’t mentioned at all. Ian and George were drinking steadily, both intent, Polly thought, on getting drunk. All she knew of George was that he’d once been a lightkeeper. Lowrie had talked of growing up with the ritual of his father disappearing for four weeks out of eight. ‘The Lighthouse Board flew him out to Muckle Flugga in the helicopter and sometimes the weather was so wild that he couldn’t get home.’

‘That must have been tough,’ she’d said. She and Lowrie were both only children, and her father had doted on her. She’d looked forward to him coming home each day from the factory where he was a supervisor, the sound of his key in the door. She couldn’t imagine having grown up without him.

‘Not at all.’ Lowrie had laughed. ‘My mother spoilt me rotten. And it wasn’t so unusual then. Lots of kids’ parents were at sea or worked on the rigs. It was almost easier when he was away. He’s found it hard to adjust to life with more than two other people. If he seems a bit odd just now, that’s the reason for it.’