Both the plant and the sofa had travelled north with her and back again to this spacious study overlooking the garden. And the bookshelves Ralph had built for her were still there to greet her on her return, albeit painted black by the erstwhile occupiers, to enhance the emerald green they had imposed upon the walls.

A little time and a lot of money had restored the flat to its former ambience, and soon restored too was the rhythm of Marianne’s work.

But while I’ve been pounding my typewriter, family history has gone on writing itself, she reflected while giving her plants a drink of water from the copper can she kept topped-up because Busy Lizzie and African Violet preferred it to be room temperature. She had once lost one of Violet’s sisters after thoughtlessly holding her under the tap. Next day, the plant was wilted as if in protest, never to recover.

Begonia and Ivy, though, seemed not to mind about temperature so long as they got their drink. Marianne’s habit of humanizing her plants was a family joke. And back with what had gone on in the family since her return to London… Well, Marianne Dean was not short of material should she ever try her hand at writing a family saga.

But which author would fictionalize the skeletons in their own cupboard? You took your themes from life overall as you observed it, though an understanding of human nature came in handy when you found your characters behaving on paper as you hadn’t planned that they would. When a nasty character suddenly performed an act of kindness, you knew that you had created a true to life person. Nobody was all bad, nor, conversely, all good. And there had to be a reason for the unpleasantness some people habitually displayed, buried deep in their pasts perhaps.

In Harry’s case, though, illness accounted for it. His body had let him down, and he was consumed by an inner rage and making others pay for it. Now that Marianne no longer saw him frequently, she was able to put into perspective a situation which had puzzled her when she was on the receiving end.

A situation which time would do nothing to alleviate, as it had for Uncle Nat. Her uncle was now relishing a freedom to be himself formerly denied him. He had not wanted to be a doctor, but obligation imposed upon him by his family had shackled him to that profession. Nor had he wanted the marriage his mother and brother had viewed as a foolproof way of smoothing his path.

Time had proved it the opposite of foolproof, and was there, thought Marianne, any such thing? Even those who set out with goodwill, which her uncle had not, were liable to encounter unforeseen hurdles along the way.