Joyce

Joyce is 80-something and lives alone, next door to our old house in Cheshire. She has a sprinkling of grandchildren who appear occasionally, one flaky son, and two devoted daughters who come round and mow the lawn. She was a good neighbour, and always liked to chat over the fence and ask about our lives.

When we went up at the weekend, the children insisted we go straight round to say hello. We walked up her square garden that bursts into bloom every summer. After 4 or 5 knocks, Joyce finally made it to the heavy wooden door and slowly pulled it open. Daylight pushed its way in to help the single low watt lightbulb hidden under the mustard lampshade. The brown hall carpet is worn thin after decades of slippered feet padding to and fro. Velvet wallpaper is covered with fading paintings of roses and photos of long-gone relatives whose memories are fading now, too.

Joyce appeared in her knitted cardigan with her grey hair standing up on end, blinked from the daylight, and smiled from ear to ear. She put one arm round each child, hugged them close and didn't let go. "I miss you kicking your balls over my fence!" she laughed, and showed off her latest missing tooth.