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can hear her sobbing. Terrible racking sobs. I’m not sure now if that’s the bad Mary or not. I don’t like to hear her cry. It’s upsetting. I lean to see through into the hall, but they are out of my line of sight. I suppose I should go and see if I can help. But bad Mary told me to stay here. I suppose Marsaili will be comforting her. I wonder what’s upset her like this. I remember the day we got married. Just twenty-five I was. And her a slip of a lass at twenty-two. She cried then as well. A lovely girl, she was. English. But she couldn’t help that.
    Finally the crying has stopped. And I have to strain to hear Mary’s voice. ‘I want him out of here, Marsaili.’
    ‘Mum, that’s not practical. Where would he go? I’m not equipped to deal with him, and we can’t afford a private nursing home.’
    ‘I don’t care.’ I can hear how hard her voice is now. Selfish. Full of self-pity. ‘You’ll have to sort something out. I just want him out of here. Now.’
    ‘Mum …’
    ‘He’s dressed and ready to go, and his bag’s packed. My mind’s made up, Marsaili. I won’t have him in the house a moment longer.’
    There is a long silence now. Who on earth were they talking about?
    And suddenly, as I look up, I see Marsaili standing in the doorway looking at me. Didn’t hear her come in. My wee girl. I love her more than almost anything in the world. Someday I must tell her that. But she looks tired and pale, the lassie. And her face is wet with tears.
    ‘Don’t cry,’ I tell her. ‘I’m going on holiday. I won’t be away for long.’

EIGHT
     
    Fin stood surveying his handiwork. He had decided to start by stripping out all the rotten wood, which lay now in a huge pile in the yard between the house and the old stone shed with the rusted tin roof. If the rain stayed off long enough, the wind would dry it, and he would cover it and keep it for the bonfire in November.
    The walls and founds were sound enough, but he would have to take off and renew the roof to make the building watertight and allow the interior to dry out. The first job would be to remove and stack the slates. But he would need a ladder for that.
    The wind whipped and pulled at his blue overalls, tugging at his checked shirt, and drying the sweat on his face. He had almost forgotten how relentless it could be. When you lived here, you only noticed it when it stopped. He glanced down the hill towards Marsaili’s bungalow, but there was no car, so she wasn’t back yet. Fionnlagh would be at school in Stornoway. He would go down later and ask if he could borrow a ladder.
    The air was still mild, blowing out of the south-west, but he could smell rain on its leading edge, and in the distance saw the blue-black clouds gathering on the far horizon. In the foreground, sunlight flashed across the land in constantly evolving shapes, vivid and sharp against the brooding darkness to come. The sound of a car’s engine made him turn, and he saw Marsaili in Artair’s old Vauxhall Astra. She had pulled in to the side of the road, and was looking down the hill towards him. There was someone else in the car with her.
    He seemed to stand for a very long time, looking at her from a distance, before she got out of the car and started down the track towards him. Her long fair hair blew in ropes around her face. She seemed thinner, and as she approached he saw that her face was devoid of make-up, drawn and unnaturally pale in the unforgiving daylight.
    She stopped about a yard from him, and they stood looking at each other for a moment. Then she said, ‘I didn’t know you were coming.’
    ‘I didn’t decide until a couple of days ago. After the divorce came through.’
    She pulled her waterproof jacket around her as if cold, folding her arms across the front of it to keep it closed. ‘Are you staying?’
    ‘I don’t know yet. I’m going to do some work on the house, and then we’ll see.’
    ‘What about your work?’
    ‘I quit the force.’
    She