It took his breath away. He felt ill. But desperately he wanted to help, and somehow he knew that the only way to do that was to keep on going. Keep digging-and keep on talking.

‘So…Toby?’

‘Toby was my fiancé.’

‘But he wasn’t killed?’

‘What do you think?’ She laughed, mirthlessly, and buried her face in her dog’s soft fur. Her laugh sounded close to hysteria.

He let her be for a moment, pushing the spade deeper into the tree roots. The grave was deep enough, but he knew instinctively that if he stopped, then so would she. She’d get back to the business of living-but maybe talking about the dying would help?

He’d done a bit of psychology in medical school but he’d never practised it. Now, however, what to do seemed to be instinctive. A human skill rather than a professional one? Whatever, it seemed to be working.

‘Sorry,’ she said at last, sniffing and giving Rusty a bit of slack. ‘That…that sounds dumb. Of course you’d think he’d be killed. But Toby…well, Toby was a charmer, and he was also a survivor. He was a lovely, vibrant guy, a photographer who came up here last autumn and took pictures of the mountains, took pictures of my vet clinic-and finally stayed.’

She paused again but then went on, more in control now. ‘I need to tell you… Dad started the vet practice up here when Micki and I were kids. Mum died early but Dad looked after us really well. We had a great childhood. Micki married and moved interstate-I did veterinary science. Then Dad was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. The past couple of years have been hard. But then along came Toby and he made us both laugh. He brought the house to life, and when he asked me to marry him I don’t know who was happier, me or Dad. Toby didn’t have any money, but what could be more natural than he stay here? His photography would take off, I’d do the vet work I love and we’d live happily ever after.’