Abstraction was dominant in South African art during the 1960s and ’70s, you probably know this. Jocelyn had paintings by George Boys, Lionel Abrams, other abstract artists. Howard and I once bought a Lionel Abrams from her because I admired it so much. It was ochre-coloured, and large, it was in our dining room, it was made of planes of pure colour, planes and planes: sienna, burnt umber, across the canvas.

I thought that abstraction was . . . a path I could follow. I would never have made protest art — what is called protest art. Protest art was too direct for me, I think you understand that.

ONCE OR TWICE Eric invited me to the opening of an art show, he followed things like that, although I didn’t. I went with Howard, and I remember the first time they met, a winter’s night when we arrived, in jackets, at a small gallery, and I saw Eric at the end of the room, with a drink.

My husband, Howard, I said, as I introduced them. And this is Eric, I said, my champion! The man in my art shop. Ah, said Howard, gracious Howard. I know how important you are then, he said. Eric bowed in a mock-formal way. We all laughed. We looked at the work, they were charcoals, all black-and-white, a young Black artist, a man from Soweto. It was a joy to be there. I remember Eric and Howard’s faces, as they spoke about this work, this figure, this particular line, or that one. At moments like that, I felt myself blessed.

PERHAPS ERIC was the only one who knew I was struggling with my painting those early months of 1972. Jocelyn was old and became ill, I no longer had lessons with her. And I never told Howard about the struggle, I simply couldn’t. It was too close, too intimate, to talk about my painting — with him. So I didn’t.

Perhaps Howard thought I was going into my studio every day, as before. I don’t know. Probably Emily and Josias noticed I wasn’t in my studio any more, but what did this mean to them? Emily knew I painted pictures, but she’d never asked me anything about it, never even asked to see what I did. Which is strange, as I think about it now.

I didn’t tell Eric the whole of it, how could I? That would have meant telling him about Joseph in the garden room, and I wasn’t going to do that. I said I had a block, sometimes we laughed about it. You’re not a writer, you know, he’d say. Writers have blocks. I laughed. Well, it’s a block, I said, and that’s that. Every block becomes unblocked at some point, he said. I’d carry his words with me as I drove, wound my way through the quiet streets, home.

AND TINY. Tiny had been learning, following Emily around and doing her work. But one morning Emily came in, she came right to my bedroom again, as she did when something was wrong. Ma’am, she said. Ma’am. Tiny is sick. Tiny must go to the hospital. Please come, ma’am. I followed her out right away, I was still in my dressing gown. Tiny was sitting in a chair at the back of the kitchen, where the three of them ate. There were their plates of food, breakfast, large slabs of bread, tea steaming in mugs. Tiny’s face was swollen, her one eye was swollen. I could see a bruise starting on her neck. She was crying quietly. What happened, what happened, I said. Josias, standing nearby, clicked his tongue, and shook his head. Emily looked embarrassed. Tiny cried into her sleeve, then she covered her face with both hands, as if in shame. It took a few minutes to get it out of them, but Tiny had a boyfriend, and it was he who was responsible. I remembered, then, the afternoon when I had disturbed Tiny in her room, on her break. I felt furious. But furious with whom?