How many times had she watched her mother run it back and forth to her knuckle, turning it absently, her fingers playing across the precious stones as if they held some sort of charm that only Enid was aware of? Years and years of sitting in hard silence, watching her mother grip the burnished gold. Finetta had asked to look at it once, when she was little, thinking it might amuse her mother to see her taking an interest, but Enid had snapped that Finetta meant only to squirrel it away. She’d said she wasn’t old enough to touch it.

She should have given it to her when she’d got married; that would have been the correct order of things, that’s what their grandmother had done for Enid. It was an engagement ring. It was supposed to go to your daughter when she got engaged. Whether you like the chap or not, Joan had added, when Finetta had asked about it. Still, even though that ship had sailed, there was no shirking the female line. Joan had told her it had been passed down from mother to daughter for generations.

“Well, she hasn’t anyone else to give it too.” Finetta put her knife and fork together. The waitress came and cleared their plates.

Ian said, “I had a lovely letter from Michael.”

“Did you?” There, the thrill, the lightening of her heart whenever her son was mentioned. She smiled.

“He’s doing rather well, north, isn’t he. I was fascinated to hear about Shrewsbury.”

“He’s terribly happy,” said Finetta, seeing her son in her mind, imagining him walking across the room, the sensation of his company; precious, delicate, there as long as she didn’t reach out and touch. She watched their second courses approach.

“I shall be out with Barbie next week,” said Ian.

It was always a shock to be reminded she had a daughter too. Her son vanished as she pushed her daughter aside. “The thing is,” plates of steaming fish and meat were put in front of them, “I’m afraid she knows.”

“Knows what?”

“That you’re coming.”

“Of course she knows. She wrote back a month ago.”

“You wrote to her?”

“Of course I wrote to her. I can’t just turn up at her school unannounced. I’m taking her to Gstaad for Christmas.”

“Oh.” Finetta lost control of her fork, the prongs clattered on her plate, and a speck of sauce flicked onto the tablecloth. “Barbie, of course. You wrote to her.”

A dish of boiled potatoes, cauliflower and carrots was set between them.

“You didn’t think I’d written to our mother?”

“I—”

“Why would I write to her? The last thing I want is a fuss.”

“No, I quite understand.”

“I’ve never written her a single letter.”

“But you see it was all rather a shock, as you say.”

“My wanting to see her? Did you think I never would?”