Jim and his wife Amy were the most devoted couple you could ever have hoped to meet. I met them in the 1970s, when, with my then husband and two young children, I left London for the Lincolnshire village of Firsby. It was a small, tight-knit community and Jim and Amy were among its most popular figures. A retired couple, both were keen gardeners and walkers, but their greatest passion in life was each other.
You never saw Jim without Amy, or vice versa. They went everywhere together, did everything together. They were also the most polite, kind-hearted people – salt-of-the-earth sorts who’d do anything to help. Everyone thought the world of them.
Occasionally, I would drop in to see them and have a cup of tea. I remember once the conversation got around to marriage – and the secret of their success. ‘We didn’t try and change each other, did we, love?’ Jim said, matter-of-factly. Amy just smiled at him and said, ‘No, we didn’t, did we?’
When the village heard the terrible news that Amy had been diagnosed with cancer at the relatively young age of sixty, a real sense of shock passed through us. We were even more shaken when, within a few short weeks, she died.
The village rallied round Jim, doing the best it could to help him. But, in truth, there was little we could do. In the weeks and months following Amy’s death, it was as if he had disappeared.
While Amy was alive, he had been a familiar face walking up and down the road, always ready for a chat. Now he suddenly became invisible. He was no longer seen in the shop, the church or the pub. I walked past Jim’s house on an almost daily basis, taking my children, Tony and Ellie, to and from the stop where the school taxi collected and dropped them off. The curtains were always drawn. There was never a sound, even of a radio or television. The only sign that Jim was still living there was the garden. Nobody ever saw him out in the garden, yet its lawns were perfectly manicured, its blooms fit for the Chelsea Flower Show. He must be gardening at night or at crack of dawn, we concluded.
One afternoon, during the summer holidays, a couple of years after Amy’s death, Ellie arrived home full of beans.
‘I’ve been talking to Mr Moss,’ she said.
I knew that a child can sometimes be a healing influence on people who are nursing a terrible loss. Their innocence is an antidote to the despair. I was quietly pleased that Ellie had made contact with Jim so left her to it.
A few days later the subject came up again.
‘Mr Moss is such a nice man,’ Ellie announced. ‘I told him that he needed a dog.’
‘Why did you do that?’ I wondered.
‘He’s sad living on his own, isn’t he? Nobody should be alone.’
A few days later, Ellie came in to announce that Mr Moss had come round to her idea.
‘He’d like a dog and wants to talk to you about it,’ she said.
The next day I popped round to see him.
He came to the door and ushered me in. It only took a second to see how terribly he was missing Amy. The house was immaculate, everything sparkled as if it was new. A large photograph of Amy had taken pride of place in the living room. Standing next to it was a vase of fresh flowers from the garden.
‘Is my daughter badgering you to get a dog?’ I asked him.
‘No, no,’ he said. ‘In fact, I think she might be right, I do need a dog.’ At that time, I had a half dozen dogs, mainly English springer spaniels. ‘I’ve seen you with your lovely springers and they seem such good dogs.’
We talked about the pros and cons of owning a dog. He understood that it was a big responsibility. I knew he was a cautious man and wasn’t going to take any rash decisions. I invited him round to my house, to spend some time with my dogs and see if he got on with them.
‘That would be nice,’ he said. ‘I’ll pop round later in the week.’
As it happened, my pack had recently expanded. I’d sold one of my springer spaniels, Ben, to a couple from Sheffield a year earlier. They’d been delighted with him, but then they’d had some bad luck. The husband had a terrible fall and broke his back. They rang me to tell me they could no longer provide him with the active life he needed.
‘Would you have him back?’ they asked.
I agreed immediately, but I knew I couldn’t keep him long term and would have to find a good, new home for him.
Two days after I’d been round to see Jim, he appeared at my front door. I asked him in for a cup of tea, and we sat there talking about dogs. My pack were playing in the garden and I asked them into the kitchen.
It was then that something uncanny happened.
As soon as he arrived in the house, Ben went straight over to Jim and sat down on the floor next to him. Within seconds, Jim was almost instinctively stroking Ben’s neck and head.
‘What’s his name?’ he asked.
‘That’s Ben,’ I said, deliberately avoiding going into any detail.
As we chatted, Jim kept stroking Ben. And the more he stroked him, the closer Ben snuggled up to him. It was a joy to behold.
Jim left after an hour or so, seeming to have enjoyed himself.
‘See you soon, Jan,’ he said as he headed off.
A couple of days later, Ellie, Tony and I were walking back from the school taxi drop-off. As we went past Jim’s house, he was in the window looking out and beckoned to me to wait.
‘Glad I caught you, Jan,’ he said, emerging from the front door. ‘I’ve given it a lot of thought and I think I’d like a dog.’
‘Oh, good for you,’ I said. ‘Have you decided on what breed you’d like?’
‘Well, if I could find a dog like your Ben, I’dbe delighted.’
Ellie shot me a look immediately, but she didn’t need to say anything.
‘Would you like Ben?’ I asked.
Jim was taken aback for a moment or two. ‘Well, I, er,’ he spluttered, not sure what to say.
Finally, I thought it was the right time to tell him Ben’s story. As I explained the situation, Jim’s face lit up.
‘Jan, I’d love to have him,’ he beamed.
Even then, I didn’t want to foist on Jim a dog that wasn’t right for him. So the moment I got home, I put Ben on a lead and walked him round to Jim’s house.
‘I’ll leave you two together for a couple of hours, to see how you get along here,’ I said. ‘I’ll be back to take Ben home later.’
I returned after I’d put the children to bed. I found Ben, snuggled up next to Jim’s armchair, looking every inch as if he was another piece of furniture.
‘So, Jan, could Ben stay?’ he asked simply, stroking Ben once more.
I thought he meant overnight, and so I explained that I didn’t think it would be good for Ben, especially as he’d just got over the upheaval of moving back from Sheffield.
‘Oh, not just for tonight. Can he stay for good?’ Jim said.
Ben was sitting at Jim’s feet now. The pair of them looked as if they were made for each other. I couldn’t help myself as the tears started rolling down my face.
‘Of course he can, Jim,’ I said, when I