Cal was seated in the cafeteria, the large, salt-stained windows giving a view of the land sliding away. Soon the swell of the sea gently lifted and rolled the boat.

Cal walked out on deck. The fresh breeze tugged at his hair and seagulls provided a noisy accompaniment from the stern, their eyes ever alert to any edible scrap. A young girl, overseen by her father, was throwing crusts of bread overboard, laughing gleefully as two or three birds squabbled over them. One younger gull was sharp enough to catch a morsel before it hit the water. The girl pointed excitedly to her dad, who laughed indulgently.

When he was a similar age, the voyage had been an adventure for Cal. The sight of the waves frothing against isolated beaches and rocks was magical and by the journey’s end it was if he’d been borne away to a different life. When had it all changed? And why? It was uncomfortable to think of it now. Rebellion mostly, he supposed. A reaction to everything his father had wanted him to be.

They oscillated at different frequencies, Cal and his father, causing constant collision and friction. At its core was Cal’s rejection of his roots. His heritage was of no interest to him and his father’s strong, slow accent was a source of constant embarrassment to the city boy. The annual holiday home to the islands lacked the variety of the holiday camps, coastal resorts and foreign trips his contemporaries enjoyed.

Cal had also rebelled against the strictures of the church. His parents were devoted Sabbatarians, which caused him much humiliation. ‘How can ye no’ play fitba’ on a Sunday?’ That burned deep into a boy who just wanted to fit in. ‘Take pride in who you are and where you’re from,’ his father had admonished him. ‘I do. I’m from the city.’ It was a running feud.

His father had given up the crofting, fishing life to which he was born to come to the mainland and join the police, persuaded by his wife that the city would give any children they might have a better start. That’s why Cal’s sloth and arrogance galled him so, particularly as the boy grew older and bolder and there were no siblings to make a comparison. ‘You’re no son of mine,’ his father had cursed more than once. His mother had kept her own counsel, trying to maintain harmony. Sometimes she would try to strengthen the bond when they were alone. ‘Your father is trying to do what he thinks best for you,’ she would say.

Cal remembered these conversations with regret. His mother had died an early death, when he was only eighteen. It was a miserable time. Her body had withered before them. She had been so stoical, confined to a chair and then, finally, to her bed. Whatever she knew, she never acknowledged to him that she would not survive. And when the end came, suddenly, he missed the chance to tell her how much he loved her.

His father became a brooding, impotent presence. They had rattled about the tenement flat, trying to keep out of each other’s way.