Foxclere, East Sussex

A heavy thud from above woke her, followed by the faint sound of her daughter's voice reminding six-year-old Ben that Granny lived beneath them and his jumps and crash-landings endangered her light fittings.

Jill smiled to herself. It was barely a month since they'd moved in but already the house had settled comfortably into its new configuration. After Greg's death last year and with both offspring married, the family home had seemed too big for her. But she was loath to leave it, and for several months had wavered, deciding to sell then changing her mind. Until, miraculously, Georgia and Tim, who had for some time been wanting a larger garden, suggested that both problems could be solved by Jill choosing whichever floor she preferred to make her home while they took over the rest of the house and responsibility for the garden.

It was the perfect solution. She had opted for ground level, thus retaining her sitting room, music room and family-sized kitchen, while the dining room, seldom used, had been converted into a bedroom. And although at the heart of the family she maintained her independence, to which end a door had been erected in the hall, closing off her domain from the staircase by which the family entered their own quarters.

She slipped out of bed and drew back the curtains, letting sunshine flood into the room. Under her window the grass was still heavy with dew and a blackbird busily dug for worms, but beyond the shadow cast by the house, flowers and bushes were already gilded. It was going to be a perfect day. It would also, she remembered with a tug at her heart, have been her thirty-sixth wedding anniversary.

Sadly, her parents had never approved of Greg; they'd thought him unreliable and self-centred, always wanting his own way and usually, since he was handsome and charming, getting it – as was evidenced by Jill being pregnant on her wedding day.

And they'd had a point, she reflected wistfully. It hadn't been an easy marriage; for though on the surface Greg had retained all the traits she'd fallen in love with, he could also be moody if things didn't go his way and was quick to lose his temper. Then there was his gambling – something she'd thankfully managed to keep from her parents but which had given her many sleepless nights, though when she'd tried to broach the subject he'd simply laughed. 'Why are you worrying?' he'd ask. 'I always win!'

Which was undeniably true. He did win, eye-wateringly large amounts that were largely responsible for their affluent lifestyle. His great love was poker, though he would bet on anything – horses, dogs, two flies crawling up a window – and his combined winnings had provided the greater part of their income. A mixed blessing, since he'd never felt the need to stick at any job for long. Throughout their marriage his only unswerving commitment had been to the articles he wrote under a pseudonym he jokingly refused to disclose. And it was his final occupation – freelance photography – that had led to his death in a suicide bombing in Egypt.

She picked up his photograph from the dressing table, studying the dancing blue eyes, the dark hair, the smiling mouth. It had been taken soon after their wedding but he'd not changed much over the years, merely acquiring a few lines and a touch of silver at his temples.

She sighed, shaking off reminiscences both painful and pointless. She had made her bed, lain on it and survived, and, on the positive side, since he'd