‘That’s my bowl,’ Daisy said. She seemed younger this afternoon and eager for attention and praise. ‘It’s not finished yet.’

‘So, Daisy.’ Philip Tallis seemed more at ease talking with his daughter. ‘What do we do first?’

‘We take a disc of . . .’

He held up a finger. ‘Before that.’

‘Oh – make a drawing.’

No wonder she’s so adept at drawing, Margaret thought, listening, fascinated.

‘And then?’

‘Calculate the size of the blank we need – the diameter of the bowl plus the height and then,’ she spoke in a singsong tone with impatient speed, ‘we use dividers and then we cut it out and file the edges, otherwise there’s blood everywhere!’ She giggled. ‘And then we put it on the head and we go bang bang bang!’

She pointed to a stump-like thing on the side of the bench.

‘We shape it on there.’ Margaret almost jumped as she realized Philip Tallis was actually talking to her. ‘And, Daisy, what do we not do?’

‘Go – too – fast!’ Daisy recited, as if she had heard this a thousand times.

Her father cuffed her affectionately about the head and Margaret laughed.

‘No trying to run before you can walk, eh, Daisy?’ he teased.

Daisy made a face. ‘Anyway,’ she said. ‘That’s just part of it.’ She recited, ‘Metals are malleable, fusible and ductile. They are crystalline in structure and you sometimes have to heat them up which is called annealing, to make them soft again so you can work them properly.’

‘Heavens,’ Margaret said, genuinely impressed. ‘You are already a little expert.’

‘She’s lived and breathed it,’ Philip Tallis said.

Margaret was about to say, I suppose she learned a lot from you and her mother. But she did not say it. She found she did not want to mention the late Mrs Tallis, both for his sake and her own.

Mrs Flett came in then with a tray of tea.

‘Hooray, cake!’ Daisy said. ‘That’s because you’re here, Miss Hanson.’

‘Anyone’d think you never had cake,’ Mrs Flett said drily. Margaret saw that despite her gaunt, almost sour look, she was a good soul.

‘Not usually with jam in,’ Daisy said, eyeing the sponge greedily.

‘Thanks, Mrs Flett,’ Philip Tallis said as the stiff-looking lady left the room. He laid a hand on his daughter’s shoulder. ‘You pour, Daisy,’ he said. And as he did so, Margaret, watching them, found herself moved to tenderness. You need love . . . It was directed at both of them, her heart running startlingly ahead of her more balanced thinking. I could love you . . .

‘Shall I show you the file for smoothing off these ends?’ Philip Tallis was saying to her. ‘Come and sit here.’

She moved towards him, feeling a blush spread up her neck. She forced herself to concentrate on the loop of copper as he handed her a file. Again she saw the wide nails, the index finger of his left hand blue with bruising.