It had taken years of painstaking work. Like a diary, in squares the size of playing cards, Jay depicted daily events on the walls of her sitting room.

It started that day in August, 1965, when James sent a note around to her flat, saying, “Sorry, but I can’t go through with it. Please forgive me.”

Heartbroken, Jay had stood in that sitting-room, a room in which they would have shared a future full of love and laughter. Then, taking a slender brush from her collection, she painted a bride standing alone holding a bouquet of yellow roses; the bride’s face shielded by a veil.

From that day, Jay added more scenes, some insignificant, some momentous; the sudden death of her sister in a car accident painted in black with stick like mourners walking behind a black, plumed horse. Her retirement party depicted in grey. Forced happy faces.

Every banal happening, she painted day by day, year in year out. The sitting-room was empty of furniture, but the walls were full of crazy, miniature murals that would astonish any visitor, but Jay discouraged callers. Kept herself to herself.

Sometimes, her tiny murals were blurred with her tears. Often, at the end of the day, she tried resisting the urge to enter that room to add to her collection of memories, but her resistance always crumbled before bedtime.

Today, on her short walk to the Post Office, she’d side- stepped away from an elderly gentleman hanging onto a Zimmer frame.

He smiled. She smiled. He frowned. Then said, ‘Jay, is it really you?’

She studied his face. Remembered those brown eyes. ‘James?’

He’d nodded. ‘You haven’t changed much.’

‘Nor have you,’ she’d lied.

‘How have you been keeping?’ he asked.

‘Fine,’ she replied.

‘Do you still live around here?’ She nodded. He smiled a little sadly. ‘I’m a widower now. Moved back about six months ago. Maybe we can meet up sometime? Catch up on the good old days?’

A car horn tooted. ‘That’s my taxi,’ he said, and taking out a small card from his jacket pocket, handed it to her. It read, “James Fraser. The Manse. Dunely. Tel. No. 0098345.”

Watching her old love hobbling towards the taxi, Jay wanted to cry but she didn’t. Collecting her pension, she raced home anxious to add another painting to her forty four year collection.

Now, as the temperature rises, having no space left on her walls, Jay climbs up a ladder and through the open window, a welcome breeze cools the sweat that runs in tiny rivulets down her neck, back and arms.

In her hand, she holds a large brush and, with wide sweeping movements, paints lavish, swirling patterns in vibrant crimson.