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the deck with Jim, just as she always did, whatever the weather, drenched by sea-spray, searching for the first signs of the Old Man of Hoy. Jim had struck up conversation with an old fisherman, his features etched by saltwater, and she had listened to his tales of island life, uncertain whether he was retelling his own past or the distant history of his ancestors. Long ago, the fisherman had said, Orkney was at the heart, not on the edge. In those days, if you had a good boat, then it was quicker to travel by water than land; water offers less resistance than land, less friction. Jim had nodded in agreement. Orkney was in the backyard of the Norsemen, the fisherman had continued, once they had perfected their oak-timbered longboats, built to bend not break. Beautiful oak boats, he had said, peering into the distance. And then he had pointed. She had thought, for a moment, he had spotted a dragon’s head prow advancing through the swell. But he was indicating the dark fins of a pod of porpoises, chasing the warmer waters of the Gulf Stream.
    ‘Seafood paella,’ Liz said now, ‘I must buy some saffron.’
    ‘Isn’t that a bit expensive?’
    Liz ignored her comment. ‘He’s thinking about taking an early retirement deal. Picking up his history degree with the Open University.’
    ‘But the Open University degree was a joke.’
    Jim had registered with the Open University in the wilderness weeks after leaving the docks; something to fill the empty hours between lunchtime closing and evening opening, an excuse for getting out of the house and visiting unidentified people in unspecified locations. He had abandoned it as soon as he had joined the Diggers.
    ‘You shouldn’t be so dismissive of your father’s academic interests.’ There was something immensely irritating about the way Liz asserted that Jim was ‘your father’, when she suspected he was up to no good but didn’t want to admit it. ‘We should give him a chance, support him if he wants to leave the Force and do something different.’
    We. Sam glanced out of the window, spotted a sleek blackbird with its head tilted to one side, listening for worms.
    ‘Are you going with him then?’ she asked.
    ‘Unfortunately, I can’t. Roger has organized a conference on concepts of gender in Marlowe’s work and I have a long-standing commitment to present a paper. It’s a shame I can’t go, but it’s too late to do anything about it now.’
    Somewhere in another room the dog growled as if it were having a bad dream.
    ‘I thought Roger did modern literature,’ Sam said.
    ‘That is his specialism. But as head of the department it’s his job to ensure that we maintain our reputation in all areas.’
    She was about to make a sarcastic comment about all the areas in which Roger had a reputation, at least according to Helen – Roger the Todger, Helen called him and cackled in a disturbingly knowing fashion whenever she said it – but Liz spoke first.
    ‘I was thinking.’ Liz was looking directly at Sam now. ‘Maybe you could go and keep an eye on your father. You seem to be getting along with him better than anybody else in the family these days.’
    Sam dropped her jaw, mouthed a silent scream like the Munch poster she had bought from Athena and Blu-Tacked to her bedroom wall.
    Liz remained unmoved by her daughter’s gurning. ‘You loved Orkney when you were a child. You and Jim were the ones who insisted on going there every year. You two were always more interested in all those ancient ruins than the rest of us. We always wanted to go to the beach, the Mediterranean, anywhere it didn’t rain the whole time.’
    Sam was momentarily taken aback by her mother’s undertone of accusation, the suggestion that they were on opposing sides.
    ‘So, are you asking me to spy on him?’
    ‘I didn’t say spy. I said keep an eye on him.’
    ‘What’s the difference?’
    Liz didn’t answer.
    ‘Why does he need watching if he’s just taking a break? What can