Mrs Cray lived next door, a sprightly old lady when first I knew her but who began to stoop as the years went by. Her grey eyes twinkled behind brown-rimmed spectacles and silver wisps of hair framed her fire-flushed face. She wore a lavender cardigan and a tartan plaid skirt, and sat beside the fire, enveloped in a patchwork of brightly coloured cushions. Pulled near the hearth was a wooden stool covered with a flowery cushion; to one side stood a sagging armchair with broken springs.

She had been our neighbour ever since I was born. Apparently, she used to push me out in my pram but I don't remember. One of my first memories was of holding tight her hand and toddling with her to the field at the end of the lane, clutching a carrot for the big brown horse with the big brown eyes.

As I grew older, we'd ramble across the fields and make all sorts of discoveries. We'd look up at the clouds and she'd tell me whether or not it was going to rain. We'd sit beneath a spreading sycamore tree and make daisy chains, listen to birds singing and watch the mothers feeding their young. She pointed out bracken fronds uncurling like prehistoric monsters and showed me horse-chestnut buds gradually unfolding.

Her garden was a child's paradise. While she tended her roses and sweet peas I'd follow her along the brick paths that ran around the cottage. I'd hold the bowl as she harvested raspberries and black currants, and helped her pick up the windfalls from under the trees. I watched her bottle the fruit and, on baking days, helped her bake the pies. She'd let me put the blackbird funnel in the middle of the dish before she spooned in the fruit and, after making cakes, let me scrape out the mixing bowl. Many a day I went home with a big grin on my face carrying a golden crusted pie or a raspberry sponge.

I was just eight the day she gave me the little wooden box. She was as alert as ever but now using a stick. I'd got into the habit of calling on a Tuesday after school but this particular day was a Friday - the Friday I forgot my words.

My class had been in the school hall rehearsing for the end of term play. I was very excited having been given the main part. I stood up on the stage and, to my horror, my mind went blank. Everyone began to laugh and the teacher said that if! didn't try harder she would give my part to someone else. The thing was, I knew my lines perfectly but had panicked. The more everyone laughed the worse it became. In the end I was so upset I jumped off the stage and hid in the cloakroom.

After school, I found myself pouring out my heart to Mrs Cray. She listened without saying a word then gave me a lace-edged hanky to wipe my eyes. When I'd no more tears to shed she pulled herself up from her chair and, leaning on her stick, tapped her way across the room to her dark oak dresser. With difficulty, she pulled open one of the long, squeaky drawers and took out the little wooden box. As she passed me on the way back she dropped it into my lap.

It was then she told me that the box was special. She said that whenever in the future I was upset by something, I was to open the box and put what was troubling me inside. I was then to close the lid and put the box high up on a shelf in my bedroom out of the way and leave it there for a few days - or even for several weeks. She said that when I took the box down again I would find that my trouble was not nearly as bad as it had been, or possibly may have disappeared altogether.

I still used to visit Mrs Cray on Tuesdays after I had started secondary school. I'd call in at her cosy white-washed cottage, push open the latched door and breathe in the wonderful smells of fresh baking. On cold days I'd kick off my shoes and sit with my feet balanced on the fender, gazing at the flames flickering up the chimney.

We'd sit smiling at each other, enjoying the warmth of the fire and the peace of each other's company. After a while, she'd nod and say,

"I think it's time for a cuppa," and pushing on the arms of her chair and leaning on her stick, she'd shuffle across the stone flags into the kitchen. "It's ready now," she'd call and that would be my cue to go and carry in the tray. We sipped our tea from white china cups with saucers, decorated with gold rims and red roses. Her tea was always strong and dark and mine, weak and milky.

I'd tell her about my day at school, the history and biology lessons, about my friends and any problems I was having. If I spoke too quickly she'd say, "Wait a bit, wait a bit." I'd stop talking, and then she'd nod and smile and I'd continue my chattering. But sometimes we just sat in silence lost in our own thoughts, each painting our own pictures in the glow of the fire.

It was the same routine every week and that was what I looked forward to. Having never known my grandmothers as they had died before I was born, I always considered Mrs Cray to be my substitute granny. I found I could talk to her about anything. Nothing seemed to shock her. She just listened and nodded and smiled and listened...

When I left school I got a job working for an organisation involved in the preservation of coastal wild life. I wrote regularly to Granny Cray telling her about my work, and I sent her photos of the birds that visited the nature reserve. She used to prop them up on the mantelpiece over the fire, and always told my mother when a new one had arrived.

On my visits home I never failed to call in to see her. We'd sit as we had always done, sipping tea from china cups, with me sharing my closest thoughts and her nodding and smiling. I used to leave with that warm feeling inside knowing that I'd experienced something very good and had been in the company of someone very special.

The day I got the phone call I was out on the estuary. It was one of those peaceful balmy days without a cloud in the sky. A cormorant was sunning itself on a nearby rock, curlews were wading in the lapping water and gulls were resting quietly on the beach. And then, from out of the silence, my mobile rang. The birds cried out, rose and circled overhead. It was my mother . Granny Cray had died in the night.

In due course her cottage was put up for sale and so-called improvements were made. The old latch door was replaced with a modem glass one. The foxgloves and hollyhocks in her front garden were buried beneath black tarmac, and now a shiny red sports car stands in the drive.

But Granny Cray is not forgotten. She is part of me and her memory lives on in my heart. Her little wooden box now sits on a high shelf in the bedroom of the new house where I live with my husband and children. When I look up to the box I feel Granny Cray's warmth and remember her words of wisdom. Even now, I will sometimes climb on a chair, take down her special box and place a trouble inside. Climbing up again I put the box back, high on the shelf out of reach but always in a prominent position so I can see it, think of her and feel her love.