Pleasant, large, running, I supposed, the length of the house. Three windows in the south wall, none in the north. Beamed ceiling, canopied fireplace, tiled floor, rough whitewashed walls. A battered settee before the fireplace, covered with a tartan rug and a number of sheets of newspaper. There was newspaper over almost everything in the room, presumably to keep off the dust. A losing battle already.

A small doorway led down two steps into a flagged stone kitchen. Good electric fittings, washing-machine, cooker and so on. Newspaper over them too. Walk-in larder with a few bottles of fruit, cucumbers, some kind of jam, a large bread-crock, empty. The usual paraphernalia of pots and pans and rolling-pins, all used, but all clean, neat, arranged perfectly.

Upstairs (the staircase led out of the sitting-room by the side of the big fireplace), bedrooms. A large one, double bed in heavy walnut, lace cover, lace curtains, a wardrobe and small dressing-table with a modern glass mirror, nothing else. Next door a smaller room with a bunk-bed surrounded by some form of grill-work, so that it very much resembled a cage. Blankets folded, newspapers as usual over everything. A small chair. On the seat a red and green rubber ball.

Beyond this room, a small bathroom, empty cupboards, newspapers in the bottom of the bath, a washbowl with a dried green stain where a tap had dripped a long time ago, a cork-topped stool, empty towel rail. Next to that a lavatory, seat closed, a tin of Harpie rusting on the floor. A third bedroom quite bare.

Nothing much to it – a simple house – but there was another floor above, up a small stairway by the lavatory. This also ran the length of the whole house, with a row of circular windows along the south wall and one enormous, new window in the north wall. There was a scent of turpentine and linseed oil, of varnish and paper, of size and glue. In the centre a tall easel, paint-splattered, heavy. Around the walls row upon row of canvases stacked; some, a few only, were hung. You could tell, instantly, that they were James’s work … it hadn’t changed very much over all the years.

Abstract, mostly. Vast circles and straight lines, jagged edges, like enormous teeth in a saw, colours of startling vibrancy: there was anger here, and fear, and fury.