He wiped his eyes on his jacket sleeve and cleared his throat. ‘No, Judi-moo. I’m afraid you don’t know all of it.’

21

George

The boarding house had been recommended by Louis, one of the boys on the site. A four-storey, fifteen-bedroom terraced house, Ty Marshfield had in its day been home to a wealthy coal magnate; now patched up and badly maintained, it was a shadow of its former glory.

‘Cheap and cheerful, mate, and they do a cracking full English,’ said Louis.

It was certainly cheap – which was fine by him. The more he saved, the quicker he’d be on that flight back home. To Cleo. To his family. To daily sunshine and olive groves, souvlakia and backgammon, which all seemed now like a lifetime away.

The house was a stone’s throw from Newport’s east bank of the River Usk, with its thick swathes of black mud always threatening to swallow him up, and a sky that seemed permanently overcast. He had the smallest and cheapest room in the house (his choice), up on the top floor with a little window that didn’t shut properly. His single, utilitarian bed was made up with Bri-Nylon sheets. A chest of drawers and a chair were the only other furnishings, apart from a small electric fan heater that yielded little warmth. The bathroom was a cold walk down the linoleum-covered landing and was shared with three others. Downstairs at the back of the house was an optimistically described ‘residents’ lounge’ – a small living area comprising a tired three-seater sofa, a red Formica fold-up table for card games, two hard-backed chairs and an ancient black and white television, which was chained to the wall to prevent theft.

During the week several other contractors from the building site stayed there too, and George had formed a couple of lightweight acquaintances – had even been to the pub on a few occasions to play darts with Jim from Leicester and Mike from Lytham St Annes. But on Friday nights they all scuttled back to their various homes scattered around the country, leaving him alone at Ty Marshfield. So on Saturday and Sunday mornings, he’d often be the only resident taking breakfast in the gloomy basement dining room.

And that’s when they’d first started talking.

Her name was Patricia. He’d watched the other men flirt their way through their bacon and eggs, and he’d noticed the confidence with which she handled them – giving as good as she got, enjoying the attention and cutting it dead whenever it went too far. Louis said he ‘wouldn’t mind a bit of that’ if the opportunity came his way, but the wedding ring she wore on her left hand warded off even the most blatant attempts at seduction.

Although he never joined in with their lads’ humour, he wasn’t blind to what they saw in her: the brunette hair whisked up into a carefully constructed beehive, her plump crimson lips and feline brown eyes, the sexy gap between her teeth and her throaty laugh that always made anyone she spoke to feel like she was their closest friend. She was older than him – early thirties, maybe. And she knew she had a good figure, wearing impractical but elegant skirts and stiletto heels that showed off her slender ankles and tiny waist, and blouses that hugged her glorious bust. He’d only made polite conversation with her in the three weeks since he’d arrived, but on this particular Saturday morning he’d looked her in the eye for the first time.