She had to blink to make sure she was seeing properly; the world had suddenly slowed down. Three As. What?

Looking up, she realized her two best friends were just as joyous. Lana was shouting, ‘I got a bloody B in English! Me!’

And Jude had burst into tears. ‘A and two Bs! I don’t believe it. I got an A in Economics!’

The three of them looked at each other’s results, threw their arms around each other in a three-way cwtch and jumped up and down, screaming, laughing, over the big bloody moon. They’d done it. They’d worked and searched and found the key that opened the door to the next instalment of their young lives.

After rushing home to tell her parents the good news, Catrin headed to Balkwill’s to collect the photos she’d put in earlier for one-hour developing. Coed Celyn being Coed Celyn, she knew pretty much every shopper she passed on the way – all of whom wanted to know her results, which meant patience (because people were just being kind) and repeating the same words over again. ‘I know! It was a real shock! … Yes, Cardiff. To do medicine … three As, yes! Cardiff … to do medicine.’

Eventually she was able to nip down the alley between Milza’s café and the ironmonger’s and into Bessemer Place, where she could furtively open the glossy folder containing her prints. As she scoured the matt-finish, seven-by-five photographs that charted their trip in thirty-six captured moments, panic set in: what if she’d put the wrong film in for developing? But then she found a shot of herself and Judith and Lana, stood at the entrance of the Samaria Gorge. So she knew that what she was looking for was just behind it …

And there it was, two prints later.

She and Sol, beaming between the walls of Lefka Ori and Mount Volakias, their arms around each other like they’d been friends for a lifetime. And her eyes weren’t shut, and they both looked so happy. She thought it was the most wonderful photograph she’d ever seen in her life.

Next, she headed to the phone box on Highfield Road. She took out a pen and her little address book. For nearly two weeks she’d imagined making a phone call from here. On this day.

But not to this number.

She’d imagined calling him directly, hearing his voice, hearing him shout, ‘Oh my God, Cat, that’s brilliant!’ But instead she was putting fifty pence into the slot and pressing just three digits.

‘Directory Enquiries, how may I help you?’

‘Hello, yes, the name is Blythe. And it’s a village in Northumbria called Bayfield.’ Her heart was beating so fast she had to force herself to take deep breaths.

‘How are you spelling that, please?’

‘B-L-Y-T-H-E.’ Her mouth had gone dry. She could hear the tapping and clicking of the keyboard as the number search got underway.

‘I have just one Blythe coming up in Bayfield – a Doctor E. Blythe?’