It was Torcuil, and seeing him made my heart sing – I tried to hide it, but my smile gave me away. “What are you doing here?” I said, pretending I wasn’t hoping he was there for me. “Why aren’t you at work? Are you skiving?” “I had stuff to do here,” he laughed. “For the Glen Avich History Association. Are you busy?” he said, looking down at my flour-covered hands. “No, of course not! I mean, I am now, but I’ll be finished in twenty minutes. Come on in.” “What are you making?” “Ladies’ kisses.” Awkward silence. Okay. Say something, anything. “What are you doing with the History Association?” I said quickly, stepping back into my mum’s kitchen. “Well, there’s this soldier from Glen Avich. He died in Ypres in 1916. He was lost for years . . .
