One day during their Christmas visit Judith had asked him if this was the case, but he’d just smiled and shaken his head.

‘I love her more than ever,’ he’d said, ‘and she loves me, the silly woman!’

Judith decided to believe him and to ignore any further tensions.

‘Probably just the New Year blues,’ Gareth had said.

But when they went out there in July, George was looking a lot frailer.

They’d been there less than an hour when he asked her if Patricia had sent something for him. She handed him the sealed envelope that she’d held on to for almost a week, having been desperate to know what was inside. George slowly opened it, unfolded the two-page document and began to read, whilst Judith watched him, hawk-like, the whole time.

‘Anything interesting?’ she asked, in a poor attempt to hide her burning curiosity.

He drew breath before diving in. ‘It’s a copy of your mother’s will,’ he said. ‘I asked her to write one.’

‘OK,’ she said, confused. ‘Because …?’

‘I want to ensure Patricia leaves the house to you when she dies. I don’t want any of her nonsense.’

‘Fair enough,’ she laughed. ‘Though I don’t think she’s going anywhere fast, is she, Gar? When we saw her last week, she was a bit worse for wear, but in general she’s in very good health.’

‘Yes, perhaps,’ said George, looking down. ‘But I’m afraid … I’m not.’

And then he’d reached out and taken her hand, before clearing his throat. ‘Oh my Judi-moo,’ he’d whispered. And the rest was a blur.

She’d heard the words cancer and inoperable and felt Gareth’s arm around her shoulders. And she watched Cleo raise her hands as if in slow motion, to cover her face.

It wasn’t till later that night, when she was on her own with Gareth, that the news began to sink in. Her father had lung cancer. There were secondaries in his lymph nodes and he was likely to live only a matter of weeks. He’d known for some time, but had kept it from Cleo until he finally had to break the news. She’d wanted to tell the rest of the family, but he’d insisted they keep it a secret for as long as possible. He wanted to put his house in order, literally, and his biggest concern had been that his second wife and his stepdaughter would be cared for, after his days.

‘So that’s why he got Patricia to make a will. To ensure that she leaves you the house,’ Gareth said gently, stroking her hair and kissing her head, ‘even if she re-marries or something. He wanted to see it in black and white. Poor sod.’

She’d cried herself to sleep that night. And the next night. And the next. Saying goodbye to them all a week later was impossible and Gareth had to virtually drag her away from her father.

She should’ve stayed out there really. In the weeks that followed she was useless at work. Catrin came up to see her and was her usual kind self, even though she had her own problems to contend with, and she’d brought with her a card from Lana. Not much in it: