Myrtle Parker’s feather duster danced along the skirting boards of the sitting room. As she neared the front window, she stood up and pulled aside the sheer curtain. Her eyes scanned up and down the empty street, but there was nothing out of the ordinary. She glanced around at her beloved Newton, who these days sat pride of place in the centre of the mantel-piece. He hadn’t been allowed outside once since he’d returned from his year away. Myrtle clicked her tongue. ‘There’s something going on today,’ she said to him. ‘I can feel it.’

As always, the garden gnome declined to reply. Myrtle resumed her dusting. She was a proud housekeeper and, now that the sitting room was back to its best, minus the industrial-sized hospital bed where her husband had lain in a coma for over three years, she found the task immeasurably easier. Fortunately, Reginald Parker had woken up some months ago and proved to be in near-perfect health.

Somewhere in the distance, a clattering diesel engine grew louder. Myrtle scurried back to the window just as a convoy of removal vans roared past. They were followed by a silver four-wheel drive towing the longest dog trailer she had ever seen.

‘I knew it!’ Myrtle muttered, dropping her duster to the floor. ‘Reginald!’ she called. ‘Someone’s moving into the house at the end of the road. And they’ve got dogs!’

Her husband was, at that minute, sitting in the kitchen enjoying a quiet cup of tea. He paused as he raised the teacup to his mouth and wondered what he was supposed to say.

‘Did you hear me?’ Myrtle screeched. ‘Reginald!’

The old man sighed. He stood up and tipped the last of his tea into the sink, then ambled down the hallway. ‘Yes, dear,’ he answered. ‘What would you like me to do about it?’

The woman let go of the curtain and turned to face her husband. ‘We need to find out about them, of course. We can’t be too careful when it comes to who’s living in the village, and you know I’m not especially partial to dogs.’ Myrtle picked up her feather duster.

‘I think the feeling’s mutual,’ the man replied.

‘What was that?’ she demanded.

‘Nothing, dear.’ Reginald Parker took a deep breath. He thought he might as well tell her and get it over with, although he was surprised she hadn’t heard all about the newcomers on the village grapevine. ‘They’re breeders.’

Myrtle frowned. ‘I didn’t see any children in the car.’

Reginald chuckled. ‘Dog breeders, Myrtle.’

‘Oh, how do you know that?’ the woman asked.

‘I saw a sign for their kennel go up yesterday when I went for my walk.’

‘What sort of dogs do they have? Not those savage bull pits, I hope.’ The woman blanched at the thought. ‘Or rottweilers. We can’t have any dangerous dogs in the village. I won’t allow it.’

Reg ignored his wife’s histrionics. As far as he knew, he lived with the only rottweiler in the village. ‘No need to worry yourself, dear. They breed Afghan hounds.’

‘But they’re huge!’

‘They’re lovely dogs,’ Reg said. ‘At least they are to look at.’

Myrtle set aside the feather duster and picked up a can of furniture polish. ‘They’d better not be barkers,’ she blustered. She sprayed the sideboard and rubbed it vigorously with a cloth. ‘We can’t be woken at all hours by constant yapping.’

‘No, dear.’ Reg doubted the dogs could be any worse than his wife’s constant yapping. As for being woken in the middle of the night, Myrtle, who had been a stickler for her eight hours’ sleep prior to his accident – not a minute more or less – now woke every hour on the hour. These days they slept in separate beds in the same room. Her waking wouldn’t have worried Reg except that the woman had taken to prodding him with an old telescopic television aerial she kept by the side of her bed to make sure that he was still breathing. He supposed, after having been in a coma for the better part of three and a half years, he couldn’t really blame her, although there were some days he wondered if he mightn’t have had a more peaceful existence if he’d stayed asleep.

‘Here, you finish the polishing and I’ll get started on a cake,’ she said, handing her husband the cloth and can of spray.

‘Don’t you think you should give them a day or two to unpack and settle in?’ he asked.

Myrtle looked at him as if he were mad. ‘Absolutely not. I don’t want them to think they’ve moved into a snooty village,’ she replied. ‘Everyone is welcome in Winchesterfield, even if they do breed overly large dogs. Besides, I have to make sure they will be properly contained.’

Reg raised an eyebrow. ‘Everyone’s welcome, are they? I didn’t see you rushing off to welcome the Singhs when they arrived.’

‘Oh, that was years ago. You know I love a curry as much as the next person,’ Myrtle said. ‘Except vindaloo – there should be a law against that.’

The man stifled a grin as he recalled his wife’s petition to close down the new curry house in the village before it had even opened. Myrtle had argued that the smell of the curries would overpower the fresh air that their little pocket of countryside was renowned for, but Reg suspected it had as much to do with her fear of the unfamiliar as anything else. To everyone’s great surprise, Indira Singh and Myrtle Parker had bonded over a mutual love of organising. Indira went on to become head of the local garden club and often asked for Myrtle’s help with planning events. Myrtle had just invited her onto the Show Society Committee too.

‘Well, don’t just stand there,’ Myrtle said, eye balling her husband. ‘We’ve got work to do.’