There was no one waiting at the station halt, just the old porter who smiled and doffed his cap. ‘Home for Hogmanay, a Guid New Year to ye!’ She was just another weary traveller returned from abroad. His cheery wave gave her the confidence to feel normal. There was no prisoner’s circle of shame on her coat, no label ‘Mental Patient Out on Parole’. Yet shame was stained deep inside her wounded heart: shame that she had ever had to be sent to Park Royal in the first place. How would Netta ever brave company with that lead overcoat weighing her down?

The rain turned to sleet, lashing down in gusts; the wind tearing at her coat buttons. She stopped to pull out a muffler and beret, pulling the hat down over her ears against the squall. The inside of the hospital was always so warm. Now she felt the full blast of the westerly on her cheeks, the sting of sleet in her eyes, the icy welcome of a solitary homecoming.

She wondered now if she should have written to them and waited, but no! Netta had been determined to leave at the first opportunity. She legged it down the hill along the country road, hoping against hope that Father was just late and racing to meet her along the twisting lanes. Eventually it was the postie van on its collection round that stopped for her and the familiar schooldays face of Donnie Gillespie who told her to hop in the front seat and rest the suitcase in her lap. He quizzed her gently and Netta fenced her answers carefully. Donnie eventually dropped off his grateful passenger at the foot of the farm track.

As she lifted the case out, thoughts of Wee Alec the draper and his bag-dance up the track to the farm buoyed up Netta’s courage as she trundled onwards and upwards: each step bringing her nearer and nearer to Ray. It was no afternoon for a pram to be outside in the yard but she searched for it just the same.

Dusk was falling when she walked through the kitchen door, the lamplight burning. The heat of the range wafted on to Netta’s face as she scanned the room. Ray was sitting strapped into an old high chair, his mouth coated with egg yolk, his chubby fingers gripping a wedge of toast. She stood for a second, transfixed by the sight of his dark curly hair. He looked up at the stranger with his piercing blue eyes and quickly turned to the woman by the sink who spun round.

‘Netta! What in the name of goodness are you doing here?’ Peg wiped her hands on her apron as Ray lifted up his hands to her, looking at the figure in the doorway with suspicion.