How long was she there?’

‘Maybe she did both,’ suggested Mairi. ‘She might have gone to see family, but supported herself with a job when she was there.’

Cal flicked again through the contents of the box. ‘None here.’

‘What about letters from Mary to her mother?’

‘There were some, but they all had British stamps. She probably wrote them when she was staying with us on the mainland.’

‘Well, well. It’s a mystery right enough,’ Mairi said with humour as she rose from a crouching position.

‘What’s so funny?’

‘Just the fact that Mary has kept something to herself. We all have our little secrets don’t we?’

‘Yes, but even if she kept it to herself, you’d think my father or mother would have mentioned it.’

‘Maybe they did, and you just weren’t listening.’

The evening was busy and emotional with the doctor and the minister and the villagers coming to pay their respects. Some he recognised vaguely from years before. All offered sincere condolences and spoke brief words of tribute to his aunt. Cal was the uncomfortable conduit for their expressions of sorrow. For some of the women, Mary had been a life-long friend. This was a sad time for them, and a reminder of their own mortality.

‘I still can’t believe Mary’s been taken from us so soon. She was a lovely woman, lovely,’ was a message repeated in various forms. Cal listened courteously to their whispered words of eulogy.

Later, the minister held a service in the house. There were long prayers and the unaccompanied singing of the psalms. Church elders and some women, conscious of their rank as God’s converts, sat on the chairs in the living room with Cal. Mairi and others made do with standing in the kitchen and the hall. Cal would have preferred Mairi to have sat with him.

When the sermon was over, Mairi came through offering tea and plates of sandwiches and cakes. She was accompanied by a middle-aged woman who smiled at Cal.

After all the prayers had been proffered, people began to leave. There were older folk, men and women, in the traditional church garb of dark coat and hat. Others, ages with Mary, were less formally dressed, and there were younger people there too. This was not a gathering to say a sorrowful farewell to one who had lived a full life and whose time had come. There was shocked dismay that this had happened to someone who had so much more to give.

At the end of the evening, Cal watched Mairi walking down the path arm in arm with what he assumed to be the last of the visitors. When he returned to the kitchen, he was surprised to find a woman he vaguely recognised was still there.

‘I’m sorry a’ghraidh,’ she said, trying to pull on a raincoat. ‘I’m forever at the cow’s tail.’

‘There’s no need to rush,’ he assured her. ‘Let me help you. Forgive me, but I didn’t get your name earlier.’

‘Kate-Anna. I was a friend of your aunt. We were pals at school.’ The final sentence was wistful. ‘And I remember you growing up. She was always so proud of you.’

‘I’m going to miss her.’

‘Won’t we all, a’ghraidh, won’t we all?’

Kate-Anna leaned down by the side of the table and lifted a handbag, which she hung from her forearm, and headed towards the door.

‘We’ll see you again at the funeral,’ she said by way of farewell.

‘Can I give you a lift?’

‘No, that’s very kind, but I’m as quick to walk.’

‘Just before you go,’ said Cal suddenly, ‘I came across something today that’s made me curious.’

She smiled indulgently at him.

‘I was going through some of Mary’s papers, just to check if there was anything needing to be dealt with.’

‘Don’t worry yourself.