Skylar shrugged.
‘Probably scrubbing out some extra toy mice for the windows,’ she said. ‘Bless.’
Blair was still looking around, not listening.
‘She should really read Live the Life You Love,’ said Skylar. ‘There’s an exercise in, like, Chapter Fourteen … ’
‘She’s fine how she is,’ growled Blair. He grabbed a glass of wine off a tray – didn’t hand one to Skylar – and then turned round full beam to an excited flushed-looking woman who had decided to buy six of his books for all her relatives （after the television broadcast had gone out, they had such a steady stream of customers he practically had his own corner）， and took out the Sharpie he carried in his jacket pocket. Skylar stood by him proudly as he signed, keeping a hand on his jacketed elbow, and giving the woman a very quick burst of side-eye when she asked for a selfie. Just in case.
Carmen was very concerned, partly because she couldn’t quite square what the odd little boy had said about her own dreams – surely it was just a coincidence. Because she was in the shop all day, looking at the train. Of course it had got into her subconscious.
But of course mostly because Mr McCredie was sitting by the fireside, photo in his shaking hand, eyes wet.
‘What is it?’ said Carmen. ‘Please. Please tell me.’
Without answering, he simply handed over the photo.
Carmen stared at it for a long time. It was soft, creased with age, a small photo, about two-by-one inches, a black and white head and shoulders of a young man, fair and square-jawed, his hair Brylcreemed back in an old-fashioned style.
Carmen looked at the picture, then looked at Mr McCredie – his light hair and pointed chin. She looked at the picture again, then turned it over.
In faded blue fountain pen was written just one word – Erich – and the date, 1944.
Carmen looked back at Mr McCredie.
‘Do you know when I was born?’ he said.
She shook her head.
‘1945.’
‘This is your dad?’
He tilted his head, and suddenly the nose and the profile were unmistakable.
‘So the Arctic explorers … ?’
He shook his head.
‘Old Mr McCredie raised me.’
Carmen blinked.
‘Is that what you call your dad?’
‘Well, he was there. He loved my mother. They didn’t have any other children. I think … I think they probably couldn’t. He … maybe couldn’t.’
‘But who was Erich?’
‘Have you heard of Cultybraggan?’
Carmen shook her head.
‘It was the wartime internment camp. In Perthshire. Comrie. Where my mother’s from.’
Carmen thought of the beautiful, sophisticated woman in the photographs from a few weeks ago.
‘She volunteered nursing services during the war … ’ He shrugged. ‘I suppose … it’s hardly fair to think your mother has to be a saint … ’
‘So, hang on … ’
‘I don’t know anything about him,’ said Mr McCredie stiffly. ‘Except he was a German. My dad was a German POW.’
Carmen’s heart overflowed with pity.
‘And you knew?’
‘Oh, my relatives had a lot to say about it. The McCredie side were quite a loud and vocal people.’