I passed him the open magazine. “That photo, of a party in New York. Look at the names underneath it.”

He gazed, blinking, at the page. “Well, would you believe it?” He whistled through his teeth. “She’s a beauty, isn’t she?”

We looked at the picture together. It was on the society gossip page and featured a smartly dressed couple posing at a charity event at the Waldorf Hotel. The woman, a beauty as Aidan had said, was hand in hand with the man, and both were smiling happily. The caption read: Among the distinguished guests were Mr Heinrich Stolz, the well-known art collector, and his constant companion, Miss Catherine Melrose, who has recently launched her latest collection of exquisite jewellery.

But she was not Miss Catherine Melrose. She was Mrs David Penn.

“Good grief, the man must be crackers,” said Aidan. “Who would divorce this gorgeous creature for Marjorie Cunningham?” Then, after a pause, “Though I suppose darling Marjorie is nearer his age.”

But I could not dismiss the photograph so glibly. It remained before my eyes all the way to Calais and was still there when we boarded the train to Paris. I tried to sleep; I tried to think of something else. I tried to engage Aidan in conversation. Everything failed to erase it. At Paris we took a taxi to another station, where the sleeper train which would take us through France and Switzerland and on to Italy was waiting. Aidan bought ham rolls, croissants and coffee through the window of the carriage from a little cart that trundled along the platform, and we ate ravenously. The coffee was the best I had ever tasted. When I mentioned this to Aidan, he grinned, raised his cup and said, “There is no such thing as coffee in England, really, you know.”

“Or Wales,” I added. What would Frank say if he knew what delicious bread, pastries and coffee existed? I resolved at that moment that nothing would stop me from bringing him, and even Mam and Da, to Europe some day. Whatever lay in my future, I could not let this privilege be mine alone.

The train set off; the day wore on. Much of northern France was flat, with lines of trees, and the land was still scarred here and there by the remnants of the war – bumpy fields where trenches had been, and ruined buildings. But as dusk fell, our journey took us towards the Alps, and I glimpsed the distant blue-grey mountains with their white caps. Sleepy as I was, I stared, thrilled by the sight. But even as I did, the scenery faded and Catherine Penhaligon, as her official name must be, once again appeared before me. Blonde, slender, dressed expensively in a shimmering gown, a fur hanging idly from her hand, her neck and ears decorated by diamond jewellery, perhaps of her own design. I could not erase her image.