Clarissa was never an easy person, you just didn’t warm to her, whatever were her good qualities. Writing all this, I can see her situation much more clearly than I did as a child and I can see how sorry my mother was for her and the feeling of obligation we had to look after her but, unspoken as it was, she must have had an awareness of that and it didn’t make her nicer. I’ll give one more example of that.

In December of 1969, we all had Hong Kong flu. We’d never been more ill in our lives. Clarissa didn’t come to stay, of course, we were too ill. I can’t think why we thought it was a good idea to cook Christmas dinner, but we did and then couldn’t eat it. I don’t know what we ate, but it went on for weeks. In the end, feeling we couldn’t put the food in the bin, I (being, by that time, the least ill member of the family) staggered the 150 yards or so down the garden to Oulton Broad and dumped it in the river, with the vague feeling that there was some sort of fish who’d eat anything.

We finally surfaced and, on the 23rd January, my father went off to an afternoon meeting, which he still wasn’t really well enough for and then he had a heart attack in the night. He’d had warning pains, which he’d put down to indigestion. Lowestoft hospital was a dreadful place at that time, the doctor in charge was a little tin god who ruled the place, badly. It was a mild heart attack, but he was given no treatment nor monitored and the second one, while Mummy was there at his bedside, was fatal.

I was at home for hours, waiting without news. I think a neighbour came in to be with me at some point, I don’t remember. Mummy came in, finally and said “he’s gone” and I didn’t understand. I wanted to ask if she meant he’d died but even 16-year-old peculiar Z wasn’t that tactless and I did do the right thing, I moved forward and hugged her and came to realise that Daddy had died.

Later in the morning, the neighbour went round to tell Miss Fitt. Mummy said she would need to be told. Miss Fitt immediately said that she wanted to be with her and was brought straight back. Mummy’s first thought of “how kind, she’s come to comfort me” was – well – she should have known better. “There!” said Clarissa. “Now you’ll know what it’s like to be lonely!”

Life went on and Clarissa kept coming to stay for Christmas and her birthday and she was in remarkably good health for her age. My mother thought of her as the Old Man of the Sea by that time, but we couldn’t neglect her and we did, in some ways, admire her for her sheer cussedness. She was thrilled when I had my babies.

But finally, time caught up. She fell in her hall one winter’s night and was found by her neighbour the next morning, barely alive and icy cold. She was taken to hospital and wrapped in foil-lined blankets and given all the care she needed to stay alive. She was 98 and a half by this time and I still wonder why they fought so hard for her life, when anything meaningful about it had been brought to an abrupt end. My mother sat for hours by her bedside every day and finally, after more than a week, she woke up. Jane wasn’t there at the time and, when she arrived in the afternoon, Clarissa accused her of never visiting. She was still the same misfit.

She couldn’t go back home, so went to a local nursing home on Lowestoft sea front. She walked in and it was the last time she walked. They really didn’t look after her very well, she had a shared room with a stranger and she just lived in that room. She came home to us for the day, when she was well enough and we visited her regularly. My mother wasn’t at all happy with her condition or care and made arrangements for her to be moved to another home. She mistrusted the people there and didn’t tell them, in case they tried to block it. She picked her up for the day, then returned her to the new place and only then told them she wasn’t coming back.

And so Clarissa moved to Estherene House in Kirkley Park Road, where she received great care for the rest of her life.

Clarissa was a very talented needlewoman. I still have some of the tablecloths that she made, beautiful linen, with embroidery, lacework, drawn thread work, very intricate and carefully executed. She explained that she’d made it all in her childhood and as a young woman, for her ‘bottom drawer’ – which all young girls used to have, back in Victorian times and later, to store the things they made for their home when they got married.

Writing about her, I’ve felt closer and more sympathetic than I ever did when she was alive. She had a happy childhood, but after that she drew the short straw. She never had the opportunity to marry because she was obliged to keep house for her parents and then for her widowed father, then she was, almost literally, thrown out of her home as soon as her father died. She had not been brought up to earn her living and had no training, but she was, at least, lucky to get a position with a family, where she had small children to love and care for. Then she looked after her brother, then her sister and was left, in her 80s, all alone.

She lived in a nice semi-detached house in Lowestoft. The road curved round in a crescent, so that both ends came out onto the same street. When they moved in, there wasn’t an indoor toilet and the coal shed was converted, so it was off the back hallway near the kitchen. I wonder if the bathroom was there too. I never visited her toilet, nor went upstairs. She came for lunch every Thursday. My mother always left late to pick her up, then got caught in the lunchtime traffic. There were big factories down Victoria Road, the Pye (later Sanyo) electrical factory and Brooke Marine, the shipbuilders. At half past twelve, the workers came streaming out, a few in cars or on foot, but most of them on bicycles and you just had to wait. As mummy was always late – it should have been a 10 minute journey, but it took a lot longer at lunchtime and she never allowed for it – she was always met by Miss Fitt saying “I’d given you up, I’ve taken my coat off.” There was no compromise at her end, she never acknowledged that she expected a late arrival. It didn’t get the day off to a good start and this went on for years. Eventually, she had a telephone – I think my father paid for it – but phones weren’t easy to come by at that time, there was a waiting list, even for a party line.

She could be witty and entertaining, it’s not that she was a bad guest on the whole, but there was never an easy atmosphere, however fond we all were of each other. She was always Miss Fitt, never called by her first name (she was about 40 years older than my mother) or Auntie to Wink and me. She had very good health on the whole, until her thumb became stiff with arthritis. She complained endlessly about that, even when my grandfather came to stay. He had very severe arthritis in his hips and limped badly. He had one shoe built up, but still limped (I wore a 1cm lift in my right shoe for a couple of years and still limped, but my condition was nowhere near as bad as granddad’s) and they wouldn’t operate because he had arteriosclerosis. He took her grumbling in good part and chuckled about it, but it made my mother cross because she felt no pain and his was constant.

She always dressed beautifully and took care about her appearance. She once told Mummy that, when a gentleman came into the room, she unobtrusively raised her right hand towards her face, so that the veins would not stand out when she shook hands with him. She had her hair permed and there were occasional expeditions to town to buy a new dress or blouse. She’d given up needlework as it was too intricate for her eyesight, but she was a skilled knitter. Once, she made me an Aran jumper and matching skirt – she said the skirt was incredibly difficult, because of the shaping round the hips, but she did it beautifully. I wore the jumper for years – I’m not sure that I wore the skirt much, unfortunately, as it was a bit matchy-matchy for my taste. I have, up in one of the bedrooms, a picture she made of wool, of a ship in full sail. I should get it down and take a picture of it.

She had a very kind couple who lived next door. The wife was called Norma and she did all sorts of little jobs for her and made sure she was all right. She owned her house outright and was quite comfortably off by then – even in her late 80s, she still had the house redecorated and kept everything nice, though she made sure she didn’t overspend as she was saving for her old age. I remember once, she’d asked me to buy a present for someone. I was grown up by then, it was in the 1970s post-decimalisation. It cost 70p, whatever it was. She carefully counted out the 10p pieces into my hand. “10, 20, 50, 60, 70,” she said. I was too amused to point out that she’d rooked me.

She didn’t get easier as she got older. One time, she was staying for a few days because we had a party and she came downstairs in the morning, saying that her gold brooch was missing. The only person who could have taken it was my mother’s daily help and she wanted her spoken to. Of course, mummy did no such thing, she was confident that the daily could be trusted and she wasn’t going to accuse her. They searched the bedroom without success. Next day, with no apology at all, Miss Fitt said that the brooch had been in a box of chocolates. She remembered now, she’d put it in there for safekeeping, but didn’t find it until she decided to have a chocolate before going to sleep.

And yet, she could be fun. I wish now that I’d asked her more about her life and taken more interest. I just took it for granted that she was always about. She loved a party and she loved good food. My abstemious mother-in-law was amused to hear her say, eying the cold buffet, “I’ll have just a little bit of absolutely everything.” When my friend Lynn met her, she was surprised. She told me afterwards that she’d expected a haughty lady who gave herself airs, but she was met with a little woman with a Norfolk accent. I’d never noticed the accent. It was just her voice.

After finishing yesterday’s post, I remembered more about Alice’s stay in the dreadful mental hospital in Ipswich, back in the early 1960s. When my mother Jane took Clarissa to visit, they didn’t want to let them in and did all they could to delay them. Jane didn’t trust them, they were being too obstructive and she swept past, up to the ward. There were two nurses, hastily changing Alice out of a filthy nightdress and washing her face. The conditions there were appalling. I suppose many of the unfortunate residents had no visitors. But, as I said, Alice was not even mentally ill, she had been given a combination of drugs that had temporarily made her confused. But, even if she had suffered from dementia, it was awful treatment and there was no reason for it. She was a gentle woman, not difficult to manage and she was understandably afraid and upset.

After that, Clarissa and Alice came to lunch every Thursday and they came to stay with us for their birthdays and Christmas. My parents being hospitable, with a strong sense of duty and kindness to others, invited several people for Christmas who’d otherwise have been alone. This was no fun at all for Wink and me, I’m sorry to say. We were talking about it last night, when I told her I was writing about Miss Fitt and we agreed that Christmas was always a disappointment. Like any children, we looked forward to it so much and much of my memory of the day is about glumly watching Disneytime on the television while several old ladies bickered about the respective quality and quantity of their Christmas presents. We couldn’t make any noise or do anything really, as mummy was busy in the kitchen and daddy vanished and we had to be on our best behaviour. I don’t think anyone really enjoyed it.

But I digress, not in a good way. In due course, Alice died and Clarissa kept coming. She was welcome to and yet no one actually liked her. She was an awkward old lady. I suppose she’d needed to be. Looking back, I wish I’d taken to her more and been the sweet little girl she’d have loved to pet. But I was an awkward little cuss too, very much in my own world.

Clarissa Maud Whall Fitt was the eldest daughter of George and Eliza of Norwich. There were three girls and an older boy – I don’t know much about the family, but they were quite well off and lived in a nice house in Thorpe, Norwich, with a kitchen garden on the other side of the road, I think. Miss Fitt pointed it out to us once when we were driving through Norwich, but I was a child and I’m sorry to say that all I remember was that it was painted white. George, I’ve just discovered from t’internets, was an auctioneer and I’m surprised that Clarissa never mentioned that, when I married Russell.

I was wrong when i said that she was exactly 102 and a half when she died. I got the year right but her birthday was 12th June 1882, not the 26th and she died on 25th November 1984. I realised I’d made a mistake because I knew she’d died in the autumn, not on Boxing Day, but now I’ve found her birth certificate. Her sisters were Alice and Dora, which I know because the photograph album was a gift from them to Clarissa on her 21st birthday and her brother was called George after his father. I’m looking them up now, just for interest.

Clarissa’s mother died in 1911, but I think she’d been in poor health for some time, as Clarissa was relied upon to look after the family. She had a sweetheart, David, but she felt obliged to turn him away as her duty was at home, even after her mother died. Poor Clarissa. She was already in her late 20s, so it was her last chance of marriage and a family. At some time, they moved to Lowestoft. The most dreadful thing happened to Clarissa. In 1926, her father had a stroke and was put to bed, but he was very agitated and kept asking for his spats, because he had to go to his office. He was unable to explain and he died there in his bed. George Junior was married by then and he and his wife threw Clarissa out. In her 40s, grieving for her father and the only life she’d known, she was ordered out of the house and had to sleep in the shed (I think it was actually the coal shed) until she could find a job and accommodation. In the office, it turned out, there was an unsigned will, where her father had made provision for her – knowing that (and probably knowing what his son and daughter-in-law were like) – he’d been desperate to sign it and he must have died in torments of guilt.

Clarissa got a job as a mother’s helper/nursemaid/nanny. She loved babies and children, so she was happy in her job. None of the four siblings had children – I don’t know if Dora married, but the other two did. When George Junior’s wife died, Clarissa looked after him for the rest of his life – she blamed the wife for her cruel treatment. In due course, George died and so did Alice’s husband, so the two sisters set up home together. They moved to 43, Waveney Crescent in 1954 and Clarissa lived there until she was 98.

My mother met them because she was involved with the local charity for blind people and Alice Dare was going blind by then. I remember them in the early 1960s. Alice was in her late 70s, but she seemed very old to me, being nearly blind, frail and almost bald. My mother, Jane, got involved when Alice became mentally ill, it seemed and was sent to a mental hospital in Ipswich. Jane drove Clarissa to visit Alice and they said she was raving and having hallucinations. My mother tracked down the problem. The poor woman said she could see birds – as her sight was so poor, they assumed she was ‘seeing things’ but she wasn’t. Her mania was caused by a combination of drugs that didn’t suit each other and, once in hospital, she wasn’t given them any more and she was absolutely sane again. Someone threw out food for the birds outside the window, which was what Alice saw. It was really awful, if Jane hadn’t fought her corner she’d never have got out.

So after that, we took them under our wings.

My sister has kept in touch with our stepfather’s family. He had several brothers and sisters, none of whom are still alive, but they had children – one niece, her husband and two of their sons called in last week, as they were Christmasing in the area. I’d met W and C before they had children, but not seen them for 40 years. Eldest son Ben, whose birthday it was, has made a photo album of as many family members as possible and has shared it with us, which was lovely. We all duly lined up and smiled for the camera. Today, looking up the back stairs to see if ECat had nipped up while the door was open, I noticed a photo album that I didn’t recognise. It was Miss Fitt’s. She’d been given it as a girl by her sister Alice and there were all her family photos in it – I can’t pretend I looked all through it. But my mother had tucked in some photos and newspaper cuttings and this one was among them.

If anyone in it sees this and wants to be removed, please let me know.

I bought far too many vegetables, of course. I can’t resist. Worse, I forgot what I’d ordered and bought extra potatoes and carrots. So, having dealt with leftover cooked food, I turned my attention to the contents of the veg drawers. I’ve made minestrone soup and onion, potato and courgette soup. I also did a tray of roasted vegetables for lunch – that is, half of it was eaten for lunch, with an egg.

That reminds me, a chicken has started laying again. Or rather, two have, but this morning’s egg was snaffled by a rat first. I can’t keep them out of anywhere reliably. I hope that Robbie’s promise of the new hen house and run by the end of January will be kept, because that will be ratproofed from below ground to the roof.

The chickens are very happy, now that the weather is milder. I’ve been taking them out a lot of green vegetable trimmings, as well as stale bread and broken biscuits, cheese rind (which I should have kept for the minestrone, of course) and any other likely odds and ends. When the weather was very cold, they were charming. I’d go in and they’d be in a corner, heads drooping and disconsolate. They perked up and came to me and, by the time I’d distributed the treats (mealworms if I didn’t have much else with me) they were crooning and chatting to each other, spirits revived.

Young Mathew, the grandson of Wink’s friend in Chennai, is interested in the chickens, so I looked out some photos for her to email to him. One of the photos was them coming in the door here, which doesn’t happen any more, sadly, as I can’t let them range completely free any more. I just can’t cope with clutches of chicks turning up with a proud mama, several times in the summer. Mathew is 6, a few weeks younger than Rufus and he’s very fond of Wink, his English auntie.

I’ll be a bit busy in the second half of the week, so the Christmas tree and decorations are coming down tomorrow. I’ll also have to fish out all the papers I hid, to tidy up in a hurry, and deal with them. I liked it better when Christmas lasted for twelve days after the event, frankly.

In an attempt to sort out my affairs, I have asked Weeza for help. Since it may take up work time, I want to pay her – she knows I mean that, but I’m not sure that she’ll let me. I really hope she will. For one thing, I desperately need a PA for a while and, for another, I want to get everything that is presently in my head and scattered about, down in writing. I have some things, but I want a full account of my complicated investments and so on, so that it won’t be sheer hell for my family when I die. I’m not expecting to die just yet, but nor was anyone else in my family when they did.

Some people are superstitious about that sort of thing, but I’m not. More of a worry to me if things aren’t orderly than if they are. Once it’s sorted, I will be fine. Anyway, I’ve got a fairly immediate issue that is right up her street and which she’ll enjoy tackling.

In addition, Al has offered help around the house – not in a general way, specifically in the kitchen, where the elderly kitchen units have wonky hinges. My family is being immensely kind to me, in a way that – while not being in the least patronising – has made me realise that they have clocked that I’m quite old and need to be looked after. I still think I’m here to look after them, if they need it, of course, but I also recognise that they’re right and I feel comforted.

This year, I’d like to feel that I’m not reacting in a panic to things – not on a frequent basis, anyway – and that I start to feel myself again. I’m anxious and unhappy much of the time and I’d like to feel better.