She was interviewed by a nice lady in the Economic and Statistical Services Division of the Welsh Office and was appointed as a temporary administrative assistant. The job itself was a lot less glamorous than the title suggested – the very lowest rung of a very tall ladder. She answered phones, photocopied, filed, and spent long hours in the mail room, but the fact that she was working somewhere that contained the word ‘Economic’ in its name made her feel somehow that she hadn’t completely sold out, that she was still holding on by a thread to the notion of a career. And when she finally returned to LSE next term or even next year, at least she would feel that she hadn’t totally wasted her time away.

There were three other ‘casuals’ signed up at the same time as her, and she was relieved that their backgrounds were all very different. There was Lyndon the Welsh-speaking trombonist, Glenys, who was in between teaching jobs, and Rachel, a biology graduate. She didn’t tell any of them her story. As far as they were concerned, Judith wanted a career in the Civil Service, and relentless photocopying or sorting out mail was a foot in the door. So they knew nothing of her short-lived university life, her strange mother or her runaway Cypriot dad.

She fought the temptation to get angry with George for leaving, because deep down she championed him for finally finding the courage to escape. But on a practical day-to-day level, she was pissed off that all this mess had been left to her to sort out. At nineteen years of age. Cheers, Dad.

One thing that reassured her was knowing there was no mortgage to pay on their little house. A small but not insubstantial win on the football pools for George when Judith was ten had ensured this. Patricia had been furious at the time – thinking the windfall would mean fur coats and diamonds and flash holidays abroad. But in a rare show of mettle, George, without discussion, had gone to the bank and paid off the mortgage. It meant security for them all, he’d said. So at least that was something. But she still had to eat, didn’t she? And pay all the other bills. So getting a job was her only option. Which is why every morning and afternoon she’d find herself sitting on the Number 67 bus from Coed Celyn, which took her to Cardiff and back again, five days a week.

The first time she had visited Patricia at St Luke’s she’d been met with ‘I want no help from you!’

‘Well, you’ve got no choice,’ said Judith quietly. ‘’Cos I’m all you’ve got.’

The hospital was in Cardiff itself and Judith could walk there after finishing work at four p.m. On a couple of occasions the gang from the Welsh Office had tried persuading her to go out for a few drinks or to see a film – and she wasn’t blind to the fact that Lyndon was actually a bit sweet on her. And yes – she was tempted. He seemed like a lovely guy. But Judith always said no, solid in her loyalty to Patricia and committed to those daily hospital visits. She hated herself for it, but she knew she’d hate herself more if she abandoned her narcissist of a mother.