‘Now I know you aren’t keen to go into care, Auntie, but let’s look on the bright side. You’ll have lots of company of your own age in this lovely place we’ve found.’

‘I’ve told you several times, Mary, that I’m not going into a care home, not under any circumstances. I’d rather jump off a cliff, far rather. Living in an institution, even a luxury one, is my idea of torture. This place has shown me only too well that I’d go mad surrounded by people and noise all the time. I can’t wait to get out of here into my own quiet space again.’

‘You’d have your own room at the care home and the staff are really kind.’

‘I do not need people to be kind to me, as if I’m a pet dog, I need them to be interesting. And what about a studio to do my painting in?’

She was, if she said so herself, starting to make a name as an artist these days, though she hadn’t liked to boast about it to her family, who weren’t really interested. If it hadn’t been for that dratted fall, she’d have been in her home studio at this very moment with her beloved paints.

Her art had been such a consolation after her husband died. All she could do at the moment was draw sketches in the lined notebook Mary had brought her, with an HB pencil and cheap child’s rubber, for heaven’s sake. Her niece never really listened to her requests with more than half an ear, probably didn’t know 2B pencils existed.

‘I know you love painting and I can’t tell you how many people have admired the meadow of wildflowers you did for me – the colours go really well with my décor – but you can’t look after yourself properly any longer, you know you can’t. And there is an art room in this care home. I made sure of that. They run all sorts of painting classes there for residents. You’ll be in your element.’

Elise’s indignation began to burn higher but if there was one thing she’d learnt in life, and usually learnt it the hard way, it was not to jump in with both feet till she’d made sure of her landing ground. Honestly! Painting classes! After her recent success in selling her paintings she had started to run such classes, and people had paid her some nice chunks of money to do so.

Neither of her nieces was into art, or anything else that switched on the dull grey area between their ears. They were almost as unleavened as their sad sack of a father. What her sister had seen in him to make her rush into marriage, Elise had never worked out, and sadly the marriage hadn’t been a happy one, unlike her own.

After her Tom died Elise had turned to painting full-time to fill the dreadful, aching gap he’d left in her life. And amazingly, in her old age she’d started to find the fame that had eluded her in her youth. Much more important than fame, she enjoyed giving pleasure to the people who bought her paintings. She realised her niece was still wittering on about something, so tried to pay attention.