About the book
Four Generations of June
On the morning the house chose its witness, June Muir laid four photographs on the kitchen table and turned each one face down. She did it with the care other women reserved for communion cloths or newborn cardigans: thumb at the corner, breath held, heart behaving itself only because she had trained it, over seventy-six years, to keep quiet in company. The table was older than any living person in Ardglassan.