Chapter 1

I was a solitary person. At school, I was isolated by character and by my interests – hating sports does not endear one to other boys. When my parents found out they made me take some Judo classes. I wasn't much good at it, but combined with determination to face down the bullies, it worked well enough that they left me alone. Perhaps because I'm shy, or because I preferred to live in my imagination, I got to my early thirties without a partner. I lost my parents, effectively, long before when they took up globe-trotting full time. Still, I had the house, a fairly good job (in Human Resources) straight out of university ... and the cat. If asked, I'd probably have said I was content with my life. In retrospect, though, if I'd been honest with myself, I'd have admitted I was lonely.

I muddled along fairly well until the cat got ill; the vet said renal failure. She never would drink enough to compensate for her love of that dried cat food. Much to her disgust I changed her to the wet stuff, and kept her going for nearly a year before I was confronted with the need to have her put to sleep. I didn't hesitate. But I was shocked when I couldn't stop crying as I buried her in my back garden.

Some of the contentment had gone from my existence.

I hadn't fully adjusted to my loss when, one day on my way home from work, I was accosted by a stray dog. It came up to me, emaciated, a clear appeal in its brown eyes. It was, I suppose, a Labrador cross, short-haired and almost black. I stopped and, against all reason, held out my hand, which was delicately sniffed and gently licked.

"Well, who's a good boy, then?" I stroked its head and fondled a soft, floppy ear. It sat, then slowly flopped over onto its back. "Ah ... I beg your pardon. Who's a soppy girl, then?" I rubbed her tummy. She had on a collar, but no tag. "Where's your owner, then, girl? You look hungry." You can argue all you like about how much dogs understand of human language, but she was on her feet in a flash, looking up at me, her tail lashing. "Well, I guess that answers one question, anyway. Come along, then. It'll have to be cat food for a day or so, though."

We weren't far from home. What happened when we got there ensured the capture of my heart. I found a tin of cat food, tipped it into a bowl and placed it on the floor. The dog sat and looked at it, then at me. "Well, eat it then."

She dived in and swallowed a couple of mouthfuls probably without chewing, but then left about half what I'd put down and came to me, sat, and held up a paw. I took it, and she licked the back of my hand.

"Well ... good girl. I'm duly thanked. Now go and eat it up." Another lick of the back of my hand and she did as she was told.

Can you wonder I was charmed? If I hadn't been, the way she came and leant against my leg that evening, and rested her chin on my knee, would have done it. I sat and listened to Fauré and stroked her silky head.

I reported her the next morning. The police asked if I wanted her to be collected for the pound, but how could I do that to her? I said I'd keep her unless someone claimed her. On the way home, I bought a lead, doggy bowls, dog food and chews. Her quiet, affectionate nature more than filled the gap left by Smoky, and her need for daily walks got me out of the house early each morning. At the weekend, she ensured I got two good walks. I called her 'Daffy' in view of her soppy tendency to roll on her back to invite a tummy rub.

Life was good for the better part of a month, then I got a phone call.

"Mister Fletcher? James Fletcher?" A woman's voice; she sounded young.

"Speaking."

"Betty Hardcastle. I believe you have a stray dog? Black, cross-breed bitch?"

"I do. Had her a few weeks now."

"I think she may be ours. Biddy."

"Oh." There was a hollow feeling in my gut.

"Some clot let off a load of bangers while we were walking in the park and she ran off. She hates fireworks."

"You'd better come and visit, see if she's yours."

It was a couple of days before there was a ring of the door bell. When I answered it, I saw a petite, dark-haired young woman in jeans and a hoodie, holding the hand of a little girl of maybe six years. Daffy had come to investigate and immediately went to the little girl, who flung her arms round the dog's neck. Daffy was busily washing the lass's face comprehensively with her tongue. I couldn't really make out what the little girl was saying.

"I don't think there's much doubt there," I said as cheerfully as I could manage.

"You must let us pay for anything you've spent on her."

"No need. I've enjoyed her company."

It was hard to watch Daffy ... Biddy ... on a lead following the little girl, Sally, out of the gate. Especially when she turned her head to look back at me and Sally had to stop and tug on the lead. But then Daffy ... Biddy ... followed, and I watched them out of sight.

The house was very empty.

After a day or two I started surfing the web for animal rescue centres, but a pair of brown, soulful eyes in a black smooth-haired face kept interposing. Besides, as I was out of the house nine hours or more a day, an unfamiliar dog would be a risk; I'd been very lucky with Daffy ... damn ... Biddy.

Friday evening, the phone rang. The voice was familiar.

"Mister Fletcher? I wonder if Sally and I could bring Biddy to see you? Tomorrow?"

"Sure! What time?"

"I'm working nights and I'll need an hour or two's sleep, so afternoon? Two-ish?"

"Suits me."

In the morning, as it was a nice day, I put a notice on the front door; 'In the back garden. Come through the side gate.'

As a result, I was sitting out back under a tree with a book when I heard the gate shut with a bang. Having a spring-loaded gate made sure it wasn't left open, but it could be annoying having it bang. Anyway, there I was when after a short hiatus, there was a streak of black lightning across the grass and Daffy ... I mean Biddy ... was scrabbling up into my lap. Her claws hurt, and really she was far too big to be a lap-dog, but there she was, licking my face while I half petted and half tried to fend her off.

"She really loves 'im, don't she, Mummy?"

"Doesn't, Sally, not don't. Yes, it seems like it."

I held the dog's head in order to look round her. Betty Hardcastle was standing there, holding her daughter's hand. There was a half-smile on her face. The little girl looked sad.

"Mister Fletcher," that was the little girl, in a very little girl voice.

"Yes, Sally?"

"Do you love Biddy?"

"Why, yes. I believe I do."

She looked at her mother, then at me. "'cos I think she loves you. More than..." sniff, "us."

"I'm sure she loves you too."

The other two were looking at each other and I thought Betty gave her daughter a little nod.

"Biddy's been really sad since we left here before."

I didn't know what to say about that. Betty then said, "The reason we came back was to see if she was miserable because she was missing you. Now, she's alone a lot at home, with Sally at school and me asleep, and Sally sleeping at Mum's while I'm at work. We ... I ... was thinking ... perhaps we should give her to you. If you wanted her, of course. I mean, it's obvious she wants you."

"I don't like to take your dog..." I prevaricated, wanting very much to say, 'Yes, please!' "Won't Sally be sad?"

"Mister Fletcher..." the little girl was stroking the dog's back. "Biddy's all alone, and it's not fair to her." Sniff.

"Tell you what," I said thoughtfully, "I'd love to have Daffy ... Biddy ... stay with me. But you both must come to visit often. Perhaps if you have a holiday she could visit you? Would you like that?"

Both mother and daughter thought about that. When Sally looked hopefully up at her mother, the deal was done. In fact, after a few weeks, the two of them brought supplies and stayed in my spare bedroom over the weekend. At least, Sally slept there Friday night and I entertained her by taking her to the park or the museum while her mother slept a few hours Saturday morning. Everyone was happy.

At least ... fairly happy. At weekends, I couldn't miss her petite, shapely figure and I was becoming aware of bright, pale blue, eyes in her sweet face. When she wasn't there, images of her kept popping into my consciousness. Her long, dark brown hair was usually gathered up somehow on her head. She did that for hygiene reasons; as a nurse, of course, she couldn't have long hair floating around, but it emphasised her slim neck and was glossy with health.

We got on well. Very well, in fact. Quite early on they came in as I was listening to Thomas Tallis' 'Spem in Alium' played by an early English consort – I left it playing as I answered the door – and Betty's eyes lit up with enthusiasm.

"I love that piece! That sounds like the Tallis Scholars?"

"And it is."

While Sally didn't mind her mother's selection of classical music, she preferred something more upbeat, so it was later, after she was asleep, that we explored our respective musical preferences. For the most part, they overlapped, though she liked some music that I didn't – some of Benjamin Britten's, for example – and she didn't like the one or two heavy metal recordings I kept. But we both liked jazz, some opera (I dare say some would turn their noses up at Gilbert and Sullivan, of course, but we both lapped them up) and over the following weeks we explored our respective collections.

She soon poked through my book selection and, again, we mostly agreed, though I was adamant in my dislike of Dickens and Emily Brontë. She surprised me by her appreciation of my science-fiction collection, then by her disdain of the lighter romances. I did, gradually, talk her into trying one or two and reluctantly admitted they were quite good for passing on an hour, "Though not for serious entertainment."