‘How old were you?’ I ask.
‘I was just four when we were sent here . . . nine by the time the war ended. My brother was a few years older, though. He always took care of me.’
He leans forward and takes the photo of Mum from the mantelpiece. ‘This is a great picture of her. That’s how she looked when I first saw her, not that she ever changed much. And she died far too young.’
I take a sip of my wine. ‘She’d have been sixty this year.’
He sets the picture back above the fireplace and raises his glass to it. ‘Here’s to her, then. Flora Gordon: much loved and much missed.’
At his words, a sudden surge of grief threatens to overwhelm me. In order to cover up the sudden dampness in my eyes, I pass him a bowl of Twiglets and change the subject. ‘Thanks for yesterday. It was great to get out on to the water. A magical day.’ The memory of the sunlight on the sea and the seals coming to listen to our song is still vivid in my mind.
‘It was good having the company. I’m glad we had the weather for it. It’s not often we get a day as calm as that, even in the shelter of the loch.’
As I set the dish of squat lobsters on the kitchen table, next to the jug of white campion and dog roses that Daisy and I picked earlier, I steer the conversation back to Davy’s story, still trying to unravel that tangled skein of memory.
‘So when was it that you returned to Aultbea?’
‘I came back in the early sixties. You would have been about sixteen or so, I suppose. It was just about the time you were setting off to London. Everyone was talking about how you’d got a place at stage school. You were the toast of the community. Bridie and your mum couldn’t have been prouder of you.’
The strands of long-forgotten memories resurface at last. ‘Oh yes, I remember now. You moved into your house that year, I think.’ I dimly recall the gossip that heralded his arrival – something about his having inherited the house that he’d lived in during the war years. ‘Of course. It used to belong to the Carmichaels.’
He nods. ‘It felt like a homecoming to me, being back in Aultbea. And I was lucky to have a home to come to. Glasgow was a tough gig. Even though it was hard coming away from the city when we were so wee, being refugees turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to me and Stuart.’
‘And where is Stuart now? Still in Glasgow?’
Davy’s eyes cloud over and he ducks his head. Then he says, ‘He died. He was stabbed in a fight after a football match.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ I reach across and put my hand briefly over his.
He shakes his head, remembering. ‘We were on our way home after the game. We ran into a group of rival fans. They started in on me. Stuart stepped in, looking out for me as usual. Someone drew a knife . . . It was all over in seconds.’
‘That’s awful. I’m so sorry I never knew him.’
Davy gazes out to the waters of the loch, which are turning to gold in the evening light. ‘He loved this place,’ he says. ‘He’d have loved the fishing. I named the boat for him. And for my mam. She’s gone now, too.’
‘Bonnie? That was her name?’
‘Aye. She tried her best to be our mammy, but she was on her own and life was tough and when we came away so young she hit the bottle hard. She tried to shake it when we came back to her, but she never quite could. Losing Stuart tipped her right over the edge.’
We’re both silent for a few seconds: him lost in his grief, me lost for words.
‘I couldn’t rescue either of them. And that’s something I’ve had to live with ever since. So I painted their names on the boat when I came home to Loch Ewe, and they sail along with me when I’m out there.’
‘And ever since then you’ve turned your attention to rescuing everyone else you could, looking after Bridie and my mum and anyone else who needed a helping hand?’ The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. I mean them kindly, but they come out sounding wrong.
He gives me a long look. Then says levelly, ‘I’m not so sure that’s true. It’s just the way it goes around here. We all look out for each other. Maybe that’s something you forgot in all those years you spent in London.’
Anger rises in my chest, but then I realise he’s entitled to defend himself against my bluntness. ‘Okay, good point,’ I concede. ‘I’ve got out of the west coast ways and perhaps that hasn’t been for the best.’ Admitting that comes as something of a relief I discover, cutting through the bramble hedge of defensiveness that I’ve grown to protect myself from my own guilt.