But two years ago, Patricia had suffered a fall and her health had begun to decline. She rarely left the house due to her failing mobility, and house-calls to the terraced home in Victoria Road became a regular occurrence. Social Services set up twice-daily visits and arranged to have her little breakfast room converted into a bedroom-cum-living room. Patricia proceeded to spend ninety per cent of her time in there, railing against the world with the curtains shut.

Catrin knew that at the heart of it all, Patricia was just a lonely old lady. She had no friends to speak of, having alienated so many people over the years, and her only family – Judith, Gareth and Jack – lived a hundred and fifty miles away in Surrey. There was one friend, Edwina, who Patricia also paid to clean the house once a week. She was kind, but even that relationship was put under strain by Patricia’s demanding ways.

The situation was obviously awkward for Judith, but she certainly had no desire to have her mother move in with them, and she relied on Catrin and Sol to ‘keep an eye on the ungrateful old goat’.

Every time someone from the practice visited Patricia, she seemed to have declined even more, and there had been talk of her perhaps going into residential care. But then a year ago this had all changed with the arrival on her doorstep of Adrian Oliver.

He was selling Betterware products. Patricia, although lonely, was still flirtatious, and invited him in, insisting he join her for a whisky and a fish-paste sandwich. His visits became more frequent and within a month Adrian had begun to call daily.

Catrin found out about his existence when Social Services mentioned him in one of their update phone calls.

‘He’s ever so helpful,’ said the care worker. ‘Puts up shelves for her, changes lightbulbs, paints doors …’

When Catrin told Judith this, she was intrigued. ‘So is he a pensioner then? Like my mother? Sort of retired …?’

‘Er no, actually, Adrian’s about thirty-five, thirty-six, apparently.’

‘Oh. I see. But why would any self-respecting fella in his thirties want to hang around with my mother?’

‘Well, it takes all sorts, I suppose,’ said Catrin.

‘Jack called her a bloody cougar!’ Judith had laughed.

‘He’s certainly doing her some good,’ said Catrin. ‘She hasn’t requested a house-call in three months now.’

On a whim one afternoon, her curiosity getting the better of her, Catrin decided to ‘pop by’ to see how Patricia was faring.

The octogenarian opened the door, beaming, and although she was a bit slow on her feet, the improvement in her demeanour was astonishing.

‘Come on in, love!’

The house was bright and airy, the curtains open, and there was a freshness about the place that Catrin had never seen before. Patricia even made her a cup of tea, which was unheard of.

Feeling brave, Catrin broached the subject of Adrian Oliver, only to be told, ‘Oh, he’s just this kid who comes round now and again. Feel a bit sorry for him, to be honest.’