Shellaig. Isabel Miles

A dark figure was struggling with the gate latch. It turned and, a moment before their eyes met, Rory recognised his father. He had a curious way of looking at Rory, head cocked to one side, bright eyes unblinking. It was benevolent, kind even, but more like a well-meaning stranger than a father. Of course, they hardly knew each other. Every year this black-clad semi-stranger appeared on the doorstep with a generous present and an invitation to spend the school holidays on Shellaig, the island where he was…