When the lights were dimmed and she was half asleep Netta could see shadows flickering at the end of her bed. She could make out Sister’s triangular headdress and a man in an overcoat standing looking at her.

‘How are you?’

‘I don’t know, Doctor.’

‘I was just on my rounds, thought I’d pop in to see how it was going. You nearly made it! We had to break down the door. There was just something in your eyes, making alarm bells ring. I couldn’t settle after our consultation. An instinct warned me about you and I had to check. You owe your life to giving me the right address, telling the truth. Don’t waste your second chance.’

‘What’ll happen to me now?’ Netta felt small and vulnerable, looking up at Sister who was checking her pulse and tutting.

‘I’ll be giving you a good talking to before we send you out of here,’ she said darkly.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be too hard on the lassie, there’s quite a story behind all this. She’s not a soul in the world to turn to. I think she was just at the end of her tether. Mrs Hunter will come and see me again and we’ll talk it all through. Promise?

‘I promise, and thank you.’ They left her bedside and went into a huddle out of earshot. Netta strained to hear them. Dr Anwar had understood her pain. He had saved a stranger, followed her to drag her back to life. At least there was someone who believed in her enough to think her worth saving.

In the morning she stood on the balcony of the day room, looking out at a misty blue sky and hills in all directions. They were not the gentle green hills of home but dark high Bronte moorland with black stone dykes running in all directions, sooty sheep dotted like boulders amongst the last of the purple heather now burnt into a burnished coppery hue. Where the heather burnt were rainbows and Rae. ‘Set the heather on fire, my darling.’

His last words scorched her heart with shame. How could she have forgotten his precious orders, abandoned her bairn and given in to such temptation? How could she think so little of her life when he had had to give up his?

I’m sorry, dear heart, she cried silently. I’ll never do it again, I promise. I’ll try to set the heather on fire for you and make our baby proud of me. I don’t know how I’ll do it but if Netta Nichol could find a way to end her life so determinedly and fail, there must be a way Mrs Hunter can find it again and succeed!

Nothing To Write Home About, March 1946