Ruth had gone down to London to make sure everything ran smoothly on recording sessions for The Northern Lass; she’d done all the sums and the cost of transporting and housing Clio and the number of London-based musicians she’d wanted to bring in on the album up to Glasgow far outweighed the more expensive studio rental. Donald Bain, who Clio had referred to as ‘Uncle Donald even though he’s not really my uncle’, was staying across the hall from her in the cheapy hovel she’d mistakenly chosen for them on Clapham Common; they’d worked together in the past as he was often in demand as a backing musician on other Vey Records albums, but their interactions had only ever been over the phone. She enjoyed his usually quiet but always pleasant company over breakfast time, where they learned early on not to order the watery, sloppy scrambled eggs. They were also very similar in their ways of dealing with Clio, her threats and strops, the high emotions of her. Ruth noticed early on into the recording that Clio craved reassurance from one or the other of them at any little jolt or snag in the process, almost like a child careening between parents. If something wasn’t quite right with the music, some aspect of the sound, Clio would fret herself anxiously around Donald who would speak calming words to her, rub her shoulder, go off to intervene with the album producer on her behalf; for everything else in her life there was Ruth. It seemed very strange behaviour for a woman of almost forty, particularly one who spoke often about how she’d always really been a lone wolf, providing for herself.

That fretful, twitchy side of Clio was completely hidden whenever the guest musicians came into the studio, though; the shoulders would pull themselves back, the dimple in her left cheek would wink away at all comers, and she’d be tactile, adult, fully in control, her persona grown to fill the room and charm the newcomers. These were usually young men, cockney, loud and flustered, unsure of what to do, and Ruth and Donald watched their girl ease them into the situation with the same arm-patting and stroking they’d been using on her maybe half an hour earlier.

Decorating the wall of the studio for the duration of their stay there was a huge A1 poster, Robert Burns’s face repeated in smudgy pop-art neons, occasionally wearing Ray-Bans. Ruth had spotted the image on a book cover, presented the cardboard tube to Clio on the first day of recording.