Like a puppy sensing negative energy, Judith got up quietly and left the room to lie on her bed. George, in turn, realized that his presence was only going to annoy Patricia even more, so he got up too.

‘Where d’you think you’re going?’ she said.

‘I’m sorry,’ he stammered. ‘Thank you for lovely day.’

He felt helpless leaving Judith behind when Patricia was in this mood, but it was the lesser of two evils. As he headed out of the front door, a barrage of insults followed in his wake.

Nothing was open. Not even a pub. And it was getting dark. He had no option other than to head back to Newport by foot along the deathly quiet streets. There were no buses and barely a passing car to offer him a lift. Any that did go past didn’t stop.

Three hours later, he arrived back at Ty Marshfield, let himself into his tiny room, lay on his bed and wept. By the time dawn broke on Boxing Day morning, George had made the decision. He was going home.

He expected there to be tears when he broke the news. But he didn’t expect so many.

And then she told him.

She was eight weeks gone. There was no doubt.

As he stood in front of the registrar, listening to him spout forth a stream of words he didn’t really understand, all George could think about was Cleoniki. And what their wedding would have been like – exchanging the stefana, dancing, flowers, delicious Greek food, sunshine and love. Love. There was no love in this room. And it was his fault entirely. He was a weak man. A weak, weak man.

He turned and looked at Patricia. She knew nothing of Cleo or his life in Cyprus. He’d wanted to keep it secret, keep it sacred and unsullied. But now it didn’t matter anyway. Because he would never be going back there. He’d made his choice and sealed his fate the day he gave in to his sordid desires. Once the letter to his sister Sofia was written and posted to Cyprus, he erased the past from his mind and accepted that this life was his new life.

‘I do,’ Patricia said and gave him the most winning of smiles. She was blooming. The blushing bride, in a fur-trimmed velvet suit she’d hired from a shop in Cardiff, with little Judith standing next to her, a confused but willing bridesmaid who had no idea of what was really going on. Maisie from upstairs was a witness, along with Len from the boarding house, and afterwards they all went to a Berni Inn for lunch. George paid.

There was no honeymoon. Patricia wanted to spend their money (his money, his savings for Cyprus) on a deposit for a small house she’d seen in Victoria Road. She’d already found herself a new job in a nearby hotel, as well as a job for George on an assembly line in the local factory. She seemed to have it all worked out.