‘Poor Billy-boy, what’s going on, then?’ I bend down and stroke his head, tears of frustration hovering.  He’s an ugly little mutt, a black, wiry-haired crossbreed found dirty and starving, probably kicked out of a car on the motorway, the vet surmised. It was serendipity, I decided, that the day I finally went to have my moth-eaten old tomcat put down, the dog was there, staring out of a cage with hope in his eyes.

He and I have become good companions over the last couple of years, and he’s never been ill before. He retches up bile, now, and can’t be persuaded to lap at the bowl of fresh water I give him. He drags himself to his bed, and later I discover him lying in a puddle of diarrhoea. I clean everything up, worried. Should I call the vet? How long do I wait and see? I assume he’s eaten something unsavoury.

I worry about poison, but if it’s that, there’s nothing the vet can do. I worry, selfishly, about loneliness. Once the shock and trauma of my husband’s death became less raw, I discovered widowhood a comfortable place in which to spend my twilight years. No job, no worries about the future, at no-one’s beck and call; my time is my own.  My children visit several times a year with grandchildren who grow in distant bounds, focussed on their own nuclear lives, but my age carries with it a diminishing circle of friends.

After two days of getting no worse Billy gradually improves. On the third day he picks at his food with interest if not enthusiasm. Relief floods me as he recovers. The dog isn’t so old, but I am. I know Billy will be my last dog. It would be supremely unfair if he died young.

The doorbell rings. It’s Sandra, coming to drive me to the art group. A tall woman, with translucent skin and fine bones, she could have passed for a model, once.

‘How’s Billy?’ she asks.

‘Recovering, mercifully.’

‘Thank goodness. I was expecting to drive you both down the vet’s. Do you think he caught a bug?’

‘I’ve never seen one of my dogs sick like this. It’s more likely he ate rat poison or something.’

We collect Connie, who laughs uproariously as her walking aid gets tangled between her legs. Pretty much crippled by arthritis, she is God’s gift to positive thinking. ‘Tally-Ho!’ she screeches as Sandra hurtles swiftly out into the traffic.

Lights flash, a horn blares.

‘What’s his problem?’ Sandra says, putting her foot down. She’s been driving for years, and is still lost in a time when cars were fewer, life slower. Traffic is dense these days, the drivers short tempered with the need to be places. Ten minutes later we swing into the village hall car park with a squeal of tyres. I let out a silent sigh of relief.

There’s a man by the door, waving as if he knows us.

I peer short-sightedly.  ‘Who’s that?’

‘Simon,’ Connie informs us. ‘He moved into the village a couple of weeks ago. Was born here, apparently, and has come home to retire. I met him at the village shop.  He seems very nice.’

‘He was quite friendly when I met him at the Bridge Club,’ Sandra agreed. ‘Used to be in the police, or something.’

I peruse him with interest. A lot of friends and neighbours have fallen off the merry-go-round, but there’s always someone waiting to slide into the vacuum. There’s no end to the human tide.  Simon is fairly well padded, which probably puts him ten years younger than me. I’ve reached the age where the fat shrinks and the bones dissolve. He has an open, smiley face, and is gallantly holding the door open for us.

‘Good day, ladies. And how are we, this fine day?’

My hackles rise, instantly.

‘Do we answer individually or would a single response suffice?’

His smile falters just a little. My friends are embarrassed. I wouldn’t answer old fashioned gallantry with belligerence, but I don’t tolerate being patronised. In rushing to escape controlling parents I had married in haste. Oh, it was a long time ago, I know, but bitterness seeps out through the cracks when I’m off guard.  My husband’s promises had evaporated on that special day: he wanted a wife, and got one. Unfortunately it was me.  I was loyal, firstly because I was naïve, and secondly because I’d promised I would be.  I often wonder why I didn’t leave him, but it was only after he died that I realised just how manipulative and devious he had been.  And after discovering how much he had abused my trust and my finances all those years, I invested in my true self, the intelligent, independent and artistic one that had been buried for too long. I value that self with a passion. No one will ever put me down again.

Simon opens a brand-new sketch pad and sets brand-new watercolours and brushes on the table. He beams like a schoolboy. ‘How does this work?’ he asks the room ingenuously.

I wince.

‘This isn’t a class exactly,’ Sandra informs him. ‘We’re an informal group of independent artists working on our own projects. You just have to get on, and if you need criticism or advice, well, we help each other.’

As we make our way back to the car a couple of hours later, Sandra comments, with faint derision, ‘Who invited him, anyway? He hasn’t a clue. I wasted an hour trying to get him started.’

‘I told him about it when he came round to fix my gate,’ Connie says guiltily. ‘I forgot to mention it’s a private arrangement. I had no idea he’d turn up.’

 ‘I wonder why he came when he’s obviously never painted anything in his life.’

‘He said now he’s retired he’s going to explore all the things he’d wanted to try but had never had the time.’

We could all understand that, even Connie, who had never worked.

‘And he’s so obliging,’ she added. ‘When I mentioned I was thinking of having my kitchen refurbished for the first time in twenty years he said he’d be happy to do the painting for nothing.’

‘Perhaps he has skill with a paintbrush after all,’ I murmur.

But perhaps I’m being harsh. We don’t have able-bodied men queuing up to help. There are four bungalows in the close, once occupied by elderly couples, now by widows. The only men who call on us are doctors, or salesmen who try to sell us PV cells with a thirty year guarantee.

At home I let Billy out the front. He sniffs happily at some flowers then pees on them.

‘You have no respect,’ I tell him.

He wags his tail, back to his normal chirpy self.

Jill is the fourth widow in the close, born without an artistic bone, she says. Our bungalows are joined by garages filled with a lifetime of detritus. Her daughter drops her off outside and guns away.

‘How was art group today?’ she asks, bending to pet Billy, who has the run of both front gardens.

‘Great thanks. Have you been somewhere nice?’

‘Round to the manor for a walk and a cream tea. Making the most of the sunshine.’

As one does. Our future isn’t infinite, so each day is treasured. I notice her flower beds have been thoroughly dug.

‘Has your son been over, doing the garden?’

‘No, that was the new man, Simon, who rents Ivy cottage. Have you met him? He says he loves gardening and would give me a hand from time to time. He got a lot of weeds out.’

‘So I see.’

There’s no trace of the perennials I’d planted in Jill’s colourless borders.

Ivy Cottage had been run down but the garden cherished when Mr Michaels had been alive. Now it’s rented out it’s the opposite. I somehow doubt Simon is the one to restore it.

I point at a small pile of sand on Jill’s lawn. ‘That’s strange. Have you got ants?’

‘Oh, no, that’s just poison to kill the dandelions. Simon hates to see dandelions in a lawn.’

‘Does he know I have a dog?’

‘Oh, yes, he says it won’t harm Billy. He doesn’t like dogs, though. He says they’re dirty.’

‘I see,’ I said pensively. ‘Well I think I’m going to cut the grass.  It might be raining tomorrow. Speak to you later.’

I drag the lawn mower out of the garage. Nothing is easy these days, but the small electric lawnmower at least makes cutting the lawn doable.

A large car drives into the close. Simon climbs out, wiping a hand over a sweating brow. Billy snarls at him then barks furiously. Dogs have better radars than most people.

‘Simon, how nice to see you.’

‘My friends call me Smiler,’ he advises, flashing his teeth. ‘I’ve just come to cut Jill’s grass for her. I did it last week but it’s going mental.’ He glances around the close. ‘I could do all you ladies at the same time, come to think of it.’

‘I don’t need doing, thank you.’

‘No problem.’

He heaves the mower out the car. With a flash of cord and an explosion of noise, he begins to work his monstrous beast with military precision across Jill’s postage-stamp lawn. Talk about putting in nails with a sledgehammer. I decide to cut the lawn when Simon isn’t there to watch. It usually takes a while, and involves much puffing and blowing, but there’s satisfaction in completing the task myself.

I sit in the back garden with a cup of tea, enjoying the sun, watching the birds squabbling on the hanging feeders. I have divided the tiny garden into three areas separated by archways draped respectively in Wisteria and Clematis. The paved area in which I sit is surrounded by a riot of colourful summer bulbs. The central area is filled with ornamental gravel, a birdbath and vibrant green and red acers. The side area is scented with sweet herbs and nectar for bees and butterflies.

Eventually a vast silence falls. The air hums gently with insects.

Assuming Simon has gone on his way I head back through the house. My front garden, in contrast to the formality of the back, is an artist’s dream of serpentine lawn and rustic cottage-garden. In the spring there are clouds of snowdrops, followed by seas of daffodils, bluebells and lily of the valley. Summer brings lazy rifts of wild flowers, Forget-Me-Nots, Foxgloves, Irises and scented azaleas, and autumn –

I stare in amazement at my freshly cut lawn.

Simon is heaving the mower back into the car.

‘My good deed for the day,’ he says, tipping me a wink. ‘Don’t worry, it’s no bother.’ He points to my meandering lawn. ‘You know, you want to straighten those wiggly edges. It would be much easier to mow.’

Words fail me.

Then Sandra breaks her leg.

‘I just turned around, and there it was,’ she grumbles. ‘I can’t even recall falling. Now I won’t be able to drive for months. That means getting to art group is going to be a pain for everyone. I’ll hire a taxi for next week. Leave it with me.’

But next week Simon drives into the close.

‘Colouring-in time, ladies,’ he announces, opening the doors with a flourish.

I frown at Sandra, who grimaces.

‘He offered,’ she whispers. ‘What was I supposed to do?’

Simon comes around a few days later and mutilates Jill’s garden for an hour. I go out as he’s packing away his tools.

‘I could do yours next time. It could do with clearing out a bit,’ he says, eyeing the rampant muddle of colour.

‘It’s designed to look natural.’

He catches the reprimand, and spreads his hands defensively. ‘No offence intended, of course; only trying to help.’

I look contrite.  ‘Simon, it was really nice of you to do my lawn like that. I was being ungrateful.’

‘It was no bother at all.’

I touch his arm apologetically. ‘We got off to a bad start. We should get to know each other a little better.’

He inches closer. ‘I’d like that.’

I see his mental gears clunk into place. He’s sizing up the garden, deciding where to straighten the lawn once he’s moved in – or where to bury my dog.

‘I was going to offer you tea and cake, but I’m expecting visitors. Why don’t you take the cake home with you? No really. I baked it especially for you. It’s my way of thanking you for everything you’re doing for all of us.’

His chest pumped out a little. ‘Anything you little ladies need, just ask.’

‘Bye, then,’ I gently prompt.

‘Bye, and see you soon!’

‘Enjoy.’

A taxi arrives to take us to art group next week.

‘Did you hear?’ Sandra asks. ‘Simon was rushed to hospital a couple of days ago. He had sickness and you-know-what. Someone found him passed out in his hallway. They rushed him to hospital just in time.’

‘What a shame,’ I say. ‘Do you know what happened?’

‘They thought it was a virus then wondered if he’d been poisoned.’

‘Why would anyone want to poison him?’ I muse.

‘Well, me, for one.’ Sandra’s indignation is ferocious. ‘Connie’s daughter overheard him talking about us in the village shop, his four little ladies, he called us.  What a cheek! I wondered why he was being quite so helpful, then I realised he’s looking for somewhere permanent to retire to and thought one of our bungalows would do very nicely. What a nasty piece of work. Anyway, the police found weed-killer in his kitchen and think he might have poisoned himself by accident.’

Simon calls round a few weeks later, pale, seeking sympathy. ‘Angela, someone tried to kill me, you know,’ he asserts. ‘I don’t know how the bitches did it…’

‘Bitches?’

He looks sheepish. ‘Oh, some people who weren’t very nice to me in my previous place.’

‘How dreadful for you. But it was definitely poison?’

‘The lab couldn’t prove anything, but I’m certain. And I’m not stupid enough to poison myself with my own weed killer.’

‘No, of course you’re not. Did you enjoy the cake?’

‘It was fantastic,’ he enthused.

‘Billy was poisoned, too,’ I say, almost inconsequentially. ‘He must have eaten something in the garden. But luckily he survived. I don’t know what I might have done if he’d died.’

There’s a long pause. The bonhomie slips from his lips. His shocked face tinges pink and green, like a daisy.

He backs away, gets in his car and tears off.

I consider the sweet Lily of the Valley, the Monkshood and the daffodil. Nature has such a wicked humour, hiding her venom behind those bright, sunny smiles.