Because he was the only resident that day, she’d cooked for him herself – giving Len the owner and breakfast chef a much-wanted day off. It was certainly a bigger feast than the usual weekday fare, with double egg and bacon and a hefty slice of black pudding.

But he wasn’t alone in the breakfast room.

A small girl – aged about five or six – was sitting quietly at a corner table with a colouring book and crayons. She didn’t look at him when he came in, engrossed in finishing her picture of an elephant, a small frown on her forehead all the while.

When Patricia breezed in with a pot of tea and milk jug, the little girl looked up.

‘Don’t be bothering Mr Harris now, you. Let him eat his breakfast in peace.’

She put down the tea. ‘She’s mine,’ she said. ‘Name’s Judith. Had to bring her with me today.’

George smiled at the little girl, who didn’t smile back.

That afternoon, the three of them were sat on the Eastern Promenade at Porthcawl, eating ice-creams and staring out across the Bristol Channel. She’s just a friend, he thought. A friend with a small child. He wouldn’t have agreed to go on this outing had she not explained that she was widowed. Her husband had died when she was expecting little Judith, she said, but she kept the wedding ring on ‘to ward off unwelcome attention’.

‘Am I unwelcome attention?’ he asked, the words tumbling out before he’d had a chance to think. Was he actually flirting?

‘I’m not sure yet,’ she replied. And winked at him.

After that their days out became a regular occurrence. Judith always tagged along, and quickly began to warm to George with his ‘funny voice’. He took them to St Fagans folk museum in Cardiff, where Judith played in the gypsy caravan and marvelled with him at the little row of terraced miners’ cottages ‘through the ages’. Patricia was happy for him to entertain her young charge whilst she took the weight off her feet and enjoyed a ciggy break. Butlin’s at Barry Island was another special treat, as were Penscynor Bird Gardens and Dan-yr-Ogof Caves. And these trips were mutually beneficial: George had company at weekends, and Patricia enjoyed free childcare, along with the companionship of a handsome Greek Cypriot.

One Sunday morning, as she served him his porridge, she said, ‘Would you like to come for afternoon tea today? Me and Judi’ll bake some scones.’

He thought a baked stone might be hard to digest but he said yes anyway – he’d not seen the inside of anyone’s actual home since arriving in the country that summer, and being November it was getting too cold for excursions.

Patricia and Judith lived a twenty-minute bus ride away in a strangely named town called Coed Celyn. ‘It’s Welsh for Holly Wood!’ she’d told him with a throaty laugh as he’d written down her instructions for getting there.

When she opened the front door, he noticed she was dressed up more than usual, wearing fishnet stockings under a knee-length crepe dress. Her lipstick looked darker, her hair seemed fuller, and instead of her usual stilettos, she wore fluffy kitten-heel slippers.