Chapter 1

"When I've gone... don't grieve too long... Remember... life is for living."

Richard Hoddinot was forty-seven when Rachel died. It was less than six months from diagnosis of ovarian cancer, which had already spread, to her death. Richard was devastated and went into his shell.

His partners in his head-hunting business were compassionate and understanding during his Rachel's illness, and subsequently. When he told them that he wanted to work part-time and from home they agreed with him and everything was sorted out amicably and without long-term financial loss to him. He would continue to earn commission at the same rate and the company pension scheme, which he had set up, would still provide comfortably for him when he retired.

Richard decided to move. The house he and Rachel had lived in for twenty years held too many memories. Furthermore, although he still wanted somewhere his sons could bring their families to stay he could manage with something smaller. On the other hand, he did not want to move out of the area which he liked. He had friends there who had proved themselves during Rachel's illness and afterwards. His younger son and his wife lived close by and he did not want to re-establish himself with his leisure pursuits.

He found just the house he was looking for about five miles away on the edge of a small village. The village had no shop but it did have a post office and an excellent pub with lots of character, a delightful landlord and staff, a cheerful and friendly clientele of all classes plus very good food. The village was also peaceful and quiet with little traffic.

The house had three bedrooms (two of them double), bathroom cum loo, a kitchen with a dining area separated by a counter with double-ended drawers, a sitting-room and a tiny but adequate study. The kitchen was well furnished with plenty of cupboard space and accepted his largish fridge-freezer and his dishwasher. Under the stairs was a cupboard for outdoor clothes and things like vacuum cleaners. There was also a small lobby by the back door where he installed his washing machine, broom cupboard and dog accessories.

Dogs. He had two. He had always been deeply attached to them but after Rachel's death they had become even more important to him. He had a wire-haired dachshund bitch who, he had to admit, was his favourite and a quite beautiful and highly bred black Labrador, also a bitch. Neither of them had been spayed. Rachel had hoped to breed from them and now Richard could not envisage denying them their sexual identity. He thought of castration and shuddered. So he persevered with their seasons and the visits of the umpteen village dogs and put up with the girls' hormone induced mood swings around the times of their seasons.