‘There’s a lot going on in your picture,’ she commented.

‘Of course there bloody is!’ he screamed. ‘It’s an execution… can’t you see? And that’s my pal, Bigsy, getting a bullet through his brain!’

‘I’m sorry… how awful. When was this?’ She sat down beside him, staring intently at the horrifying detail with which he had drawn the event. ‘Were you there?’

‘Of course I bloody was! Why else does the flaming thing run through my head like a newsreel? Cowards, we were, standing to attention watching the whole damn’ show!’ Beads of sweat were pouring off the young man’s face. His skin was mottled coffee and cream, white and suntanned in patches.

‘I’m so sorry but you were prisoners too so what could you do?’ It felt good to be calming him down.

‘We did abso-bloody-lutely nothing but stand to attention, pardon my French!’ He put his arm round his sketch like a child at a school desk hiding work from a copycat. Netta moved away.

‘Would you like to join us?’ asked the art teacher gently. ‘There are plenty of paints and chalks. Come and join us.’

She picked up a piece of paper and charcoal and began to etch a shape, then stopped. ‘I can’t… It’s been such a long time.’

‘Would you like to copy something? It’ll get your eye back in focus. Or go outside and find some shape that interests you? Go on… have a try, you might enjoy yourself!’

With a chair and board Netta wandered out into the bright autumn afternoon feeling like a child again with a packet of crayons and a blank page to fill, not sure if her hands would express what she was seeing all around her.

Park Royal Hospital was no ordinary asylum, no dreaded place spoken of in hushed tones as the repository of miscreants who needed to be kept out of sight for their own good, but a baronial mansion with a fine central tower. She thought it looked more like a home for one of Sir Walter Scott’s heroes with its red sandstone bricks edged with golden stone lintels. This was no fortress up a long drive lined with dark oaks; there was no studded oak door to imprison the inmates. It was an open place where patients were free to mingle and walk to take the air in all weathers. Only when she looked up could she see that some of the round galleries were criss-crossed with metal grilles.

At its great heart was a huge parish church which was filled each Sunday, a place of contemplation and solitude for those who needed to find some peace. For those in need of company and music there were recitals and a choir, but best of all were the parkland and gardens, open vistas with green hills beyond, reminding her of home.