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‘Pow, hello,’ Ferg says, shaking the impressive mitt of Powell Imrie as he arrives to loom over us. Another visitor. My, we’re popular, or at least conspicuous. Teach us to stand in the middle of the window recess.

Dressed in formal black, Powell looks even more like a high-class bouncer than usual. He even stands — once he’s shaken our hands — with his hands clasped just above his crotch. Powell has a way of looking at a person — a sort of polite but tight, You still here? smile — that works on all known types of human.

Ferg takes the hint, holds my upper arm briefly. ‘See you at the comestibles.’

Powell watches him go, turns back to me. ‘Heard Murd and Norrie came to see you yesterday.’

‘That’s right,’ I agree.

‘You okay?’

‘Fine.’

‘Wasn’t anything to do with me, just want you to know that.’

‘Didn’t think it was, Powell.’

He glances smoothly round towards the centre of the room and the Murston family table. ‘I’ve had a wee word. Shouldn’t happen again,’ he says. And, as he says it, I completely believe him. Then, after a short pause, he adds, ‘…Aye.’

And just the way he says this — says that single, innocent-sounding, seemingly affirmative little word — suddenly it’s like there’s this sliver of fear sliding deep inside me. Powell glanced over at the Murston table again as he pronounced the word and there’s something about both his voice and his body language that shrieks uncertainty, even worry.

‘Thanks,’ I tell him. I think my voice sounds hollow, but Powell doesn’t seem to notice.

‘Just don’t mention it to Mr M, eh?’

‘Wouldn’t dream of,’ I tell him.

Powell is smiling. It’s a good, believable smile; I’m already starting to convince myself I was reading far too much into a single word.

‘Aye. Right.’ He nods sideways. ‘You coming over to say hello?’

‘Just about to; Al and I missed the receiving line at the start — taking Mum back to her school. We were waiting for people to finish their food.’

‘Ah, they’re mostly just picking. Apart from the boys, of course. Come on over.’

‘Be with you momentarily.’

‘Hunky McDory,’ Powell says, nodding. ‘See you shortly.’

He heads off, still smiling. I’m thinking I definitely need to be a bit less fucking paranoid. I go to the buffet, right behind Ferg, pick up a sausage roll and stuff it in my mouth. ‘Off to pay my respects,’ I tell him, with a degree of flakiness.

Ferg has assembled an impressive plateful. ‘Okay. Play nice with the big boys.’

I go to get Dad, say hi to Mike Mac, Sue and Phelpie, and cheekkiss Jel. She looks…very controlled. A girl with a tight rein on herself. I’m sort of getting inevitable resonances about this place and this occasion, this size of gathering; maybe they’re getting to Jel, too. However, I think I can guarantee that she and I will not be getting up to any toilet-cubicle-related shenanigans, not this time.

Al and I head to the Murston table.

‘Will I do the talking?’ he asks quietly, en route.

‘Fine by me,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll speak if I’m spoken to.’

The three brothers are wolfing into seconds and Mrs M is staring into a small mirror, reapplying make-up when we arrive. Donald has seen us coming and stands to shake our hands stiffly, formally.

There are a few aunts and uncles and some older relatives I recognise from family occasions way back. I stand like Powell did, hands over lower belly, a little back from where Dad is, and nod when any of this lot catch my eye; they look away again quickly if they do.

‘Aye, well,’ Dad’s saying, ‘a good innings, like they say south of the border, but still before his time, eh? He’ll be missed. He’ll be missed.’ Mrs M reaches out and holds onto Dad’s forearm, gripping it.

‘Thanks, Alastair. Thanks.’

She doesn’t look at me. The two junior brothers do. Murdo is calmly ignoring me, eating onwards, but Fraser and Norrie, ties pulled loose by now and just generally not appearing too comfortable in their best suits, are trying hard not to glower over-obviously in my direction. Still, their plates beckon invitingly before them and I’d give it thirty seconds at most before the call of the nosh consumes their full attention. Norrie must have sculpted his beard for the occasion, limiting it to a centimetre-wide strip like a strap down the sides of his face and under his jaw. It’s not a good look. Fraser has a fairly full beard these days, much like the one Murdo used to have, though redder.

Ellie’s watching me, a small, sad smile on her face.

Sort of beside her — there’s an empty chair in between them that I suspect is Powell’s — Grier is using her veil to good effect, not shifting her head but her gaze darting round the important players at the table, concentrating on her dad — back to grimly shaking Al’s hand as they trade platitudes about old Joe’s general wonderfulness — Ellie and me. At least I think that’s what she’s doing; the veil does make it hard to be sure.