Celia was always the first to wake. When Stephen came down in the morning – he tried not to let it be later than 8.30, to be respectful – she was usually alone in the kitchen, standing with her back to the range with a cigarette in her hand, or sitting at the table with a mug of tea. She didn’t seem to be occupied with anything, nor to read a newspaper. This was new to him: at home the adults got busy as soon as they’d finished breakfast, and expected the kids to do the same. No one at home left their cereal bowl or coffee cup unwashed on the table. Here things piled up until someone did a sweep and filled the sink. A cleaner came in three afternoons a week. Stephen often chanced upon Celia or Nick on different parts of the property, just standing still, staring into space. This, more than anything else, made him feel he could fit in at Stony Hill Farm. He knew what it was, to want to stop and ponder a while; to be struck by the way a shadow flitted across the trunk of a tree, or to wonder how you’d design something – the henhouse, the stile into the orchard – in a better way. His father had taught him that: whenever you handle something man-made, imagine how it could’ve been improved. He anyway liked to just take a minute. This was maybe the point of smoking, he thought. A cigarette gave a person permission to pause.

He’d been there for four days before Georgie came home, bringing the London friend she’d been visiting back with her. When he first saw her, he was relieved that she wasn’t as beautiful as her sister. He still struggled to meet Cass’s eye, still felt himself colour when they found themselves alone together. Her beauty was a barrier to friendship, not an invitation. Whereas Georgie was shorter, with hair that was three shades darker and fell more heavily. He couldn’t help noticing that she had big bosoms. Something about her made him guess she could be temperamental. Helena, the friend, reminded him of a girl from home: blonde, wearing shorts made from cut-off jeans. She seemed more like someone brought up on a Cornish farm than either of the Clarke girls did: wholesome and straightforward. She smiled a lot, whereas the sisters did not, which made it hard to know what they were thinking.

At bedtime, the first night that Georgie was home, the three girls congregated in Cass’s room.

‘When Mum asked him if he’s related to Sydney Nolan!’ Georgie laughed. ‘Poor Stephen, I’ve never seen anybody look so blank.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t have known who Sydney Nolan was either,’ said Helena.

‘Yes, but you’re not an Australian whose name is Nolan,’ said Georgie. ‘He’s meant to’ve been to art school, you’d think he’d have heard of him.’