She looked at him, her face turned to the light so he could see the high cheekbones and fine, wide mouth, and he thought, with detachment, that she was quite lovely.

‘I don’t want to go,’ she said. ‘Why do we live so close to my bloody parents? Perhaps I should get rid of the pottery altogether and set up a hostel for teenage heroin addicts in the city. I’d be good at something like that.’

Simon showed no reaction. She often spoke of leaving the valley, of travelling to India, of living in Chelsea, or at least of doing something worthwhile with her life. He tried not to sound bored. He humoured her as he always did.

‘You’re a good potter,’ he said. ‘And you know you’d never leave the valley. You’re miserable if you’re away for a week.’

It was true. Something seemed to hold her at Crowford. He thought she would find it impossible to break away. At Easter they would open the shop and the visitors who came to the lake to picnic and the collectors who knew of her reputation would come to buy. The shelves that had been built across the large school room already held unglazed pots. This was her busiest time of year. She worked best in the winter and the spring when it was quiet.

He waited, knowing that if he tried to bully her she would have a tantrum and it would take hours to calm her. Despite what she said she was tied to the family and the Cadver as much as to the valley, and despite the protests she was always there, at the parties, to play at being Daddy’s loving daughter. She stood up suddenly and moved to the deep white porcelain sink and began to wash her hands. There was dried clay on her cheek and in her hair.

‘You’d better come and have a shower,’ he said, ‘before we go.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I suppose I should.’ She seemed very tired.

They walked out into the yard. There was a view of the lake and the dark silhouette of Crowford Rigg against the starlit sky. She locked the door behind her and shivered. After the warmth of the pottery it seemed very cold. He took her elbow more like a nurse helping an elderly patient than a lover, and together they ran to the house. In the storm porch she waited, staring out over the reservoir, while he opened the door.

‘Don’t trust my father when he’s giving favours,’ she said suddenly. ‘He always wants something in return.’

‘Oh,’ Simon said lightly. ‘I think I can handle your father.’

‘I thought that once,’ she said. ‘ I know better now.’

They went inside and up the stairs in silence to prepare for the dinner party.