And now Tilda smiles. Smiles at the thought of having her father close by, even if it does mean putting up with her mother too. Smiles at his use of her pet name again. The name he gave her when she was old enough to ask about the way she looked, about difference, about why one thing is thought ugly and another thing beautiful. He had taken her to a pet shop and helped her choose a snowy white rabbit with pink eyes, the pair of them agreeing it was the most beautiful thing either of them had ever seen.

And now she smiles with relief at the discovery that she is, after all, still able to smile.

‘A visit would be great, Dad,’ she says. ‘Really. I’d love to see you.’

By the time she puts down the phone she is feeling altogether stronger. The rain has stopped completely, at last, and she decides a run will chase away bad thoughts and strengthen her further.

*   *   *

As always, the meditative rhythm of running, coupled with the sense of well-being exertion brings, added to the uplifting effect of the landscape through which she moves, act both as balm to Tilda’s troubled mind and tonic for her body. She lopes down the lane, crosses the road and speeds past the church, forcing herself to return to the place where she experienced her curious sighting of the people in the boat. There is no mist today, but the weather, which earlier seemed to be clearing, has changed its mind, so that by the time Tilda reaches the narrow path on the south side of the lake the rain has set in once more. Her lightweight running gear is no match for the deluge, and she silently berates herself for not wearing her waterproof jacket. There is no wind and the rain pelts down hard onto the surface of the lake, causing it to seethe and sing. Soon visibility is reduced to a few strides and Tilda is forced to slow her pace.

Run steady, run strong. Head down, work arms, work. No need to rush. Nothing to run from. Nothing to run to.