In the grey mist of that November afternoon she found herself making her way down to the stumpy oak and the secret hollow. Perhaps he was waiting for her there. She darted into the undergrowth and shinned up to the hollow, fishing with her hand for the bottle. She smiled with relief to feel it there. When she pulled it up into the light, she saw that it was open and empty. Drew must have drained every drop. So much for hope, she sighed as she made her way back up the slope towards Denny House. You’re on you own again, Netta. It’s up to you now!

Ray’s photograph kept Netta moving forward, away from that black fog of despair by the rivers of tears. The cocktail of drugs in the egg cup changed its taste and smell from sweet to metallic to a more normal flavour on her tongue.

In the dayroom she watched the snow falling with excitement, and when it was exercise time the group threw snowballs at each other and danced around in the snow. Dr Goldberg promised a Christmas revue and asked for volunteers. Netta offered to help with costumes, some of the staff put on a show and they invited in a dancing troupe to cheer the patients up.

She was given a trunk of old costumes to sort out. The trunk was musty and some of the costumes moth-eaten, reeking of camphor candles. ‘These must have been here since the Ark!’ Netta laughed, prancing around waving a flimsy gauze evening dress. She fingered the materials lovingly.

‘These aren’t costumes, they’re real! Look at the beadwork on this bodice – and the lining of this waistcoat is pure silk.’ They were handling ancient dresses of a bygone era, handstitched, full of exquisite embroidery; gold filigree needlework on crumpled uniforms. This lot should be in the Stewartry Museum not a dressing up box in a madhouse, thought Netta as she salvaged the best of the costumes before showing them to the Revue Committee. She felt the texture of them, rubbing the materials against her cheek; the green velvet pile with the gold braid, the orange damask brocade with ivory lace edging. The greys and duns of the dreary past months disappeared in this visual feast. Colours were coming into focus again: she noticed the whiteness of the snow dusting the red bricks, turning Park Royal once more into a fairytale palace, not a mental hospital. The cloud of depression and weariness no longer pressed down on her forehead.

With such rich colours close at hand Netta could forget all her sadness and knew release could not be far away. The last promotion was to go before the panel for a final assessment. How many times in those last weeks did she imagine holding Ray in her arms, cradling him to sleep, hugging away baby tears while singing her favourite lullaby?