Her mind was moving out from the cocoon of her room in Denny House, out from occupational therapy and shock treatment – dreadful though that had been to endure – out once more to the world beyond the hospital. Yet inside throbbed such a loneliness, a yearning to be with her baby, that it tore away her careful composure, reducing her to floods of stifled weeping which she was desperate to disguise. If she showed her weakness when would she ever be sent home? Would she always be stuck with a label with ‘mental’ written on it?

The drugs trolley still came round regularly and the patients were dosed like children. On the days when Netta was given the latest shock treatment, she soon learned there was no breakfast and waited with dread to be wheeled down the long corridors, looking up at the fine scrolled ceiling until the last moment, trying to avoid seeing the table with the straps and black box on the trolley. She was laid flat, numb with terror, as out of the corners came those dark mysterious figures holding equipment, looming over her. Then there was nothing, for days afterwards just headaches and blanks. Now the fug in her head was clearing and the taste in her mouth fading. Her course of treatment was complete.

As she sat by herself, sketching the outline of the tall church tower, her fingers clutched the charcoal tensely at first and then, as she relaxed, her hand flowed over the page filling all that her eyes could see. Not bad! she thought to herself, and to her surprise noticed that the usual black morning cloud which always floated above her head had lifted like a balloon set free. Her feet were no longer so full of lead and fresh air was stinging her cheeks. One of the young officers in the art class was leaning on the wall, dragging on his cigarette, watching her. She sensed his shadow falling over her sketch and fakes of ash wafted down on to the paper.

‘Not bad,’ whispered a deep voice in her ear. ‘Now who was it said a church is best viewed from the outside, a public house from the inside, and a mountain from the foot? I wish I could draw like that.’ Netta looked up at a shock of sandy hair, caught a whiff of tobacco breath. The voice was Scottish pan loaf, softened round the edges by years away from its native source. His uniform was smart enough but his shirt was undone and his trousers unpressed. Here was a washed out young officer eyeing her efforts like a judge at an art show. ‘Not one for God-bothering myself but that’s a fair attempt. Bit of a student, are we?’

‘No, this is my first attempt for years. Can you get out of my light? Thank you. It’s bad enough putting pen to paper without having an audience.’