We had recently acquired a beautiful two-year-old border collie, Jobie, shortly after Jack started his new post. Jack had always been desperate to have a dog, but our flat wasn’t the ideal environment. One of the other vets was emigrating to New Zealand, and although heartbroken at having to part with him, thought it unfair to drag the animal halfway round the world. Jobie was as mad as a box of frogs but a complete delight, and took to us like a duck to water – as we did to him.

Our whole existence had been turned delightfully on its head: a peaceful rural location, a dream job for Jack, a new baby on the way. It had all happened so quickly, but I was adjusting well to this change in lifestyle. It was everything I’d ever dreamed of, and I was riding high on the euphoria of it all. It felt almost too good to be true.

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Rose Cottage, the building adjoining our new home, was beautifully maintained, which only accentuated the fact that our rusting front gate was hanging on by the skin of its teeth and the peeling window frames crying out for a lick of fresh paint.

Our neighbour, an elderly widow named Mrs Barley, lived alone, with only two caged lovebirds for company. We had met her briefly when she came out to introduce herself the day we moved in and she seemed pleasant enough. She was a small, frail-looking creature, with short, wispy white hair. There was a quiet sadness about her, which I attributed to the premature loss of her husband some years earlier, something alluded to in hushed tones by the estate agent who had first shown us round.

The rear gardens of our respective cottages nestled side by side, separated by a low picket fence. The outer edge of each garden was enclosed by a tall privet hedge, ours embarrassingly unkempt and interwoven with brambles; Mrs Barley’s, in contrast, neatly clipped and bevelled. Our back gates opened onto an entry that in turn opened out onto a lane populated by a handful of quaint detached cottages, beyond which were verdant views of open, rolling fields, stretching for miles. How I coveted the little summer house at the bottom of Mrs Barley’s lawn. Hexagonal in shape and painted pale mint green, it was a robust structure, with a proper slate roof, its varnished wooden fascia creating a sort of portico, windows to the sides and double doors at the front. It finished the garden off perfectly.