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.