‘You could always stay the night,’ Charles had said as I unsteadily applied cycle clips to my trousers. ‘Did you know you can get fined a thousand pounds for being drunk and disorderly in control of a bicycle?’

‘I’m sure I’ll be okay.’ At least I hoped so.

‘I could open another bottle if you like. I have a particularly fine single malt from the Island of Jura.’

All those nights spent in ships’ wardrooms had clearly given Charles hollow legs.

‘I think I’ve had enough already, don’t you? And anyway, I have to get back to feed the dog.’

And the dog was waiting for me just inside the back door, hungry as always, and not just a little cross that it was well past her usual supper time.

‘Good girl, Rosie,’ I said, patting her red head. ‘Supper time now.’

I went into the kitchen and was suddenly struck by how empty and lonely the place felt. At this time on a normal Friday evening, all the lights would be on, music would play loudly from the built-in speaker system as Marina prepared dinner on the Aga hot plates, and Saskia would be sitting at the breakfast bar, either reading a book or playing games on her electronic tablet.

But not on this particular Friday.

Today it was all dark and quiet in the kitchen because Marina and Saskia were both in the Netherlands on their way to Fryslân, and who knew when, or even if, they would ever come back.

I turned on the lights, put my hands up over my eyes and leaned down, resting my elbows on the worktop.

What should I do?

Only when Rosie nudged my leg did I realise I still hadn’t fed her.

I measured out some dog biscuits from the tin under the stairs and added some of her usual wet food on top, mixing it all together in her bowl with a fork.

‘Here you are, Rosie,’ I said, putting the bowl on the floor.

Dogs are so unquestioning as long as they’re fed. There were no histrionics about where Marina had gone and why, or where was Saskia, although Rosie would normally follow her around the house wherever she went, even to bed.

I wondered if all dogs were as loyal to their owners. Maybe it was just a matter of loving the person that feeds them—except that Saskia never did feed Rosie. It had always somehow been a job for either Marina or me, mostly me.

And dogs, it seemed, were far more accepting of change than human beings. When I’d arrived home from hospital with a new hand, Rosie had given it a couple of quick sniffs and then embraced it without question—if it was attached to me, then that was fine by her, even if it did look a little strange and, no doubt, smelled a bit different too.