Cassie Liddle slept badly on Saturday night and Marie had to go up to her several times. Cassie’s bedroom was at the front of the house under the roof, with a sloping ceiling and a small bay window. Marie crouched by the girl’s bed, stroking her forehead, and watched the moonlight come through the thin curtains. When Cassie finally slept she drew back the curtains and looked out over the lake, then up the valley towards Back Rigg. She saw that there was a light in one of the bedrooms at the Old School House and wondered why Joanna Barton was still awake. Any troubles Joanna had were surely of her own making. At last, when it was almost dawn, she went back to her room, to Vic, who was only pretending to sleep.

They woke late on Sunday morning but still they were all listless and overtired. Vic went out to work in the garden and from the kitchen Marie watched him. He was planting seeds in rows of obsessive straightness, pacing the distance between rows with his boot, marking the line with a piece of twine stretched taut between two sticks.

She had not told him about the letter from the school. She was not sure exactly what she was frightened of – and occasionally he looked up at her, hurt, because she seemed so wrapped up in herself. At eleven o’clock she dressed Cassie up in her coat and scarf and wheeled her out into the garden to give her some fresh air. Usually Cassie liked being out with Vic. She would watch him intently, pointing and clapping when he reached the end of a row. But today she huddled into her clothes and stared blankly ahead of her, so he might not have been there.

At midday Marie phoned her sister. They always spoke to each other at least once a week and the woman did not assume there was any special purpose to the call. She had married a teacher and moved south and she and Marie rarely saw each other. Besides the distance, she had never really got on with Vic. Marie had always been close to her sister and thought she might gain some strength from the call, but it only made things worse. Her sister’s cheerful description of family life and holiday plans, the background noise of pop music and teenage voices made her want to cry. When Vic came in to wash his hands she was sitting at the table, quite still.

‘What are we having for dinner, then?’ he said, looking round for signs of cooking. Usually they had a traditional roast at Sunday lunchtime, and a pudding.

‘Oh. I don’t know. I hadn’t thought.’

She jumped up and took the colander to go into the outhouse to fetch potatoes, but he stopped her.

‘Are you all right, lass?’ he said. ‘ You don’t look well.’