Twenty-three small pots of acrylic paints sit before me, and three brushes, fine, medium and thick. I select the medium one, and red, the brightest colour. I have a canvas at arm’s length. I can just about reach. Leaning forward, I mustn’t topple from my chair. It wobbles. The nurse comes, calms and repositions me. Through the fog, I remember easels and diffuse light from high windows. A studio. But then there’s dust, and all is covered in cobwebbed sheets.

I can reach, now that all is arranged for me. As I use the brush, it feels like meditation. Slow and sure, delicately I apply paint to canvas. How long for I cannot fathom, gradually it is emerging. Gondoliers as I imagine them, bright skies and still canal waters, ancient residences and warehouses, pedestrians and oarsmen. I was there, many years ago, and it’s all so vivid it’s becoming my masterpiece. My hands are steadier than they have been for years, and deep inside I feel a warm glow envelop me. I’m so happy. I didn’t realise I could still do this, feel like this! Hour on hour, day on day, the vision emerges by degrees, until almost finished. I view it in awe. It smiles back at me. There are just a few untouched places, then it will be complete.

“Mrs James, your daughter, Becky, is here to see you. Isn’t that lovely?”

“Hi Mum.”

I will not be drawn.

“Mum…”

How dare she come now, to disturb me. I haven’t the time for this. She has always pulled me away from what is precious to me. My creativity, my own expression. From baby to adult, and even now she demands my attention greedily. She has done and achieved things in her life I could never have dreamed of, but it was I who could have been the artist. She took everything away, including the final year of my fine arts degree. Money to survive became king. Now, can’t she see how absorbed I am, how this time should be for me.

“Nurse, how is she? Has she been able to speak at all?”

“Hardly a word, but she seems a lot better than she was. She’s settled in. That was a brilliant idea,” she says, gesturing towards my painting.

“It hasn’t been any problem to you then, no spills or anything?”

“Oh no, she’s been ever so careful.”

“It felt an odd gift. I hoped she’d like it.”

“Well, she certainly does.”

What is this gift they are talking about? It has nothing to do with me.

“You know, she’s been working on it for a long time, slowly, methodically. It’s great for her coordination, and seems to calm her.”

She, she, she? Working! What do they mean? I’ve had enough of this.

I look up and see the two women smile. I detect a conspiracy. I’m disgusted.

“Go away,” I snarl.

“Now, Agnes…”

I have nothing more to say, so I turn back to the painting, focus, and look at it more carefully. I have important decisions to make. Yes, one more colour to go. Black, number twenty-three.

But, oh no. No! What do I see? Good God, is this what I’ve been doing?

My heart is pounding. I rise as well as I can, pushing up on the chair’s shallow arms. In my rage I have unexpected strength. I grab the picture, heave it up, turn around and crash it down against the chair back. It crumples into wreckage, my hours of wasted time and effort. I’m shaking uncontrollably, now crying. I realise this pursuit was not what it seemed. It had no choices. I’ve followed rules devised and set by others.

“Mum. Mum!” She reaches out to me. “What is it? Tell me.”

I want to, but can’t. My lips won’t move. In my head I speak.

Oh, Becky, can’t you see. Can’t you see what you and the world has done to me. Nothing was my design. Now and throughout my entire life, all I’ve ever done is paint by numbers.

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