My parents came back. How lucky I was! How very grateful I am – when I remember to be – that I was not one of those whose father or mother, or both, were killed in the war.

I believe it was not all that long – a matter of months perhaps – before the children who had been evacuated to Pumsaint were returned to Swansea, including of course myself and my older brother John. I never thought to record it or enquire during my parents’ lifetime. John thought it might have been about six months. But any time is an eternity to a small child.

I think I carry a fair measure of ‘survivor’s guilt’ within me. Along with 300 years of nonconformist ancestors and schooling that emphasised service to others, I suppose I was always likely to choose a caring profession. I do think that one source of my naturally optimistic state – glass half full, not half empty – was this Restoration. I remember the moment Mummy and Daddy first came back to Dolaucothi Hall to visit us, though they left again.

I am in the great big hall where we have our meals, sitting with lots of other children at a long table. I become aware that all the children at the table are whispering and giggling. It’s about me, but it’s nice. Some great happy secret. I am very puzzled, but then look up and find that my parents have arrived and they appear in the doorway.

The emotion is so great that I have no picture at all of them in my memory! Burnt into my mind by joy instead is the picture of what is in front of me on the table: a white bowl with deep red plums and yellow custard. Never have plums been more plum-coloured, custard more golden or china more white. I can see them still.

During my art degree, many years later after I retired and was over 60 years old, I tried to paint the scene. My drawing skills are still negligible, but it was therapeutic to paint those plums and custard pudding. I spent a lot of time on it.

Almost in a trance, I then outlined two figures against yellow light in the doorway and painted them black. Intriguingly, the angular shapes of the figures have a real feel of drawings of the 40s, no doubt seen in advertisements, dredged from unknown memories.

When I studied my picture after finishing it, I began to cry. It showed me two truths: one artistic, one psychological. If you paint in black against a light colour, you are painting a hole, not a substance. Even after so many years, what I painted there was the absence of my parents – a parent-shaped hole in my life.

So. What were my parents really like? How were the early years with them? It’s time to set a little of it down. A happy childhood, in spite of the separation and the war.