Few visitors appeared: the Reverend Mackay brought news with his blessings around the beds; Father came once on her birthday in June, looking awkward in this confined space in his new heather tweed jacket smelling of bracken and open moors – the one ordered from Wee Alec behind his back. Netta could remember that incident but not her own baby’s face. Angus was his usual reticent self when she begged him for news. He produced one precious picture of Ray held by Peg under the apple tree but said little. It was kept proudly by Netta’s bedside locker to prove she wasn’t dreaming him up and shown to everyone who entered the room.

There was no sense of time here and she was unaware of the victory celebrations, fireworks and bells ringing all over Dumfries. The seasons crawled by barely noticed: summer arrived when the upper windows were opened and the brown blinds drawn against the light. The gardens were crimson and gold with bedding. There was the sound of racquets from the tennis courts where the army officers who were billeted in their own hospital quarters challenged each other to long tournaments. Autumn soon followed. Kitchen windows misted over; there was the smell of bonfires, walks among the scrunchy leaf fall, queueing for the cinema in the ballroom theatre in a fug of cigarette smoke. Then the spicy smells of a kitchen preparing for Christmas celebrations.

Her every mood swing was observed by nurses and reported to Dr Goldberg who was monitoring her progress. Over the months Netta had graduated from raving lunatic to drugged bed rest and then been allowed to shuffle along the corridor, deemed fit for occupational therapy and distraction.

She found her fingers wouldn’t obey her orders. They were thick and swollen with stiff joints. She sat in the occupational therapy room watching the other patients struggling with basket work and weaving while the craft teacher guided slow fingers, chivvied restless patients into some task.

She had taken a careful inventory of all Netta’s interests and skills but Netta still refused to look at a needle and cotton or knitting. It was a line of stuffed dolls that finally took her eye: dolls of all shapes and sizes, raffled and sold for funds and charities. Teddy bears and golliwogs, knitted soldiers in guards uniform, sausage dogs and draught excluders, dolls with cloth faces, puppets on strings hanging limply, and party dolls in gypsy costume. She fingered the baby dolls with matinee coats and lacy bonnets.

‘Would you like to make one of these, Jeanette?’ asked the therapist, gently guiding her towards the table. Netta hung back shaking her head. ‘I can’t, I already have a baby somewhere, you know…’

‘Yes, I’m sure you have, dear, but why not make one to give some poor wee orphan who has nothing?’