He took out the screw-top jar he brought water in, checked his brush for stray hairs and wiped over the vase in case of dust before unscrewing his Indian Red calligraphy ink. He dipped his brush several times, squeezing off the excess on the lip of the bottle to saturate the bristles evenly. Then he began stroking on the colour, brushing out the ink to avoid hard edges. Although he usually became absorbed in his work, he was aware of Laurel’s gaze, though her hands remained busy weaving willow.

Daisy and her mates chatted. Niall was working with wire, frowning over the construction of a red, green and silver 3D star, a wooden form cut at a variety of angles helping him form regular points. Zuzanna was embroidering Christmas cards with silver thread but when she paused to consult her phone she frowned. ‘It says here to do the next bit with French knots.’ She lifted her voice. ‘Anyone know how to do French knots, please?’ A woman further up the table smiled and nodded and Zuzanna went to her for a demonstration.

Laurel selected a fresh willow whip from Daisy’s pile. ‘Can you leave the vase here to dry?’ she asked Grady.

‘Luckily, yes.’ He paused to check his brushwork for streaks. ‘But if you leave something to dry you should pick it up by noon on Sunday so the café staff aren’t inconvenienced. If you fail to meet the deadline,’ he added, reloading his brush, ‘I think Carola makes you a member of the village hall committee as penance.’

She tilted back her head and laughed, her hair streaming away from her face to reveal the curve of her throat. He found himself smiling stupidly until she returned her gaze him, then he looked quickly at his vase. A woman called Iris across the table was painting and she asked Laurel about wet-on-wet watercolour techniques. Before long, Laurel was up on her feet to demonstrate washing Iris’s piece of card with a pale blue-white, then, in a few strokes and changes of colour, she’d created a robin, beak open, chest out, as if mid-song. The soft, out-of-focus effect of painting on wet paint drew appreciative murmurs from those looking on.

Tess, who’d been watching Laurel’s brush technique over Cody’s head, entered the conversation about Christmas cards from the perspective of an illustrator, sketching a couple of cutsie animals in demonstration.

Iris, who ran the group by virtue of the fact that she was the one to collect two pounds from everyone for use of the room, said shyly to Laurel, ‘I don’t suppose you’d do an official demo some time, would you? How long will you be here for?’