Shaking out the umbrella, I backed through the door, bumping up against the antique bureau as I went.

It reminded me that Alf would arrive soon to collect it, and I felt a small stab of regret. As a child, I’d been fascinated by its many drawers and cubbyholes, imagining all sorts of hidden treasures – love letters tied with ribbon, locks of a sweetheart’s hair.

The reality was an assortment of bulldog clips and bits of old string, but it was nice to dream. Giving the bureau an affectionate pat, I headed for the kitchen.

Floss hauled herself out of her basket, wagging a weary tail. I pressed a kiss to her grey muzzle and she responded with a lick.

‘Hello, sweetheart, kept all those intruders at bay? Good girl. Out you go.’

As I helped her down the steps, the security light came on, illuminating the rain-slicked pathway. Floss made her way down to her favourite spot beneath the apple tree, then set about a thorough investigation of the flower beds.

I switched the oven on to heat through the lasagne I’d made that morning, then opened a tin of dog food for Floss. As if by magic, she appeared by the steps, looking up at me expectantly.

‘You may not be a pedigree, but you’ve got the nose of a bloodhound,’ I chuckled.

The doorbell rang and she gave a dutiful bark, then turned her attention to her bowl of food.

‘That’ll be Alf to collect Gran’s bureau,’