I earned myself a Saturday morning detention. Amit stopped following me around, for a while at least. And I’d unwittingly given the entire school a taunt with which they could crush me at will.

Nerves

Later last autumn

It was the last day of school before half term when Miss Morgan handed me a sealed envelope at the end of my piano lesson.

‘Would you mind delivering that to your grandpa?’ she said after an hour of me limping through a Gershwin score. ‘It’s not a bill – don’t worry. Perhaps let him open it in person, though,’ she told me.

The envelope was small and pale blue – the sort of stationery on which I imagine love letters were once written before text messages stole the market. I glanced at the flowing script in fountain pen addressing it to Ray Morcombe Esq. before scrunching the corners in order to wedge it into my back pocket.

Forgetting stuff had become everyday for me now: the right books for school, homework, brushing my teeth, that sort of thing. So when I reached home that evening and, through the drizzle, saw the primary-coloured Congratulations! banner across the front door, my instinct was to trawl my memory for whatever event it was I’d forgotten about. I stepped inside to the smell of chilli from the kitchen and the sound of Elvis from the stereo. Gramps shook my hand in the hallway and led me to the dining room, where he poured two glasses of Prosecco in the crystal flutes that normally resided in a glass-fronted cabinet.

‘It’s been a rough couple of months,’ Gramps said. ‘But at last some good news.’ He pointed to a letter that lay like a centrepiece on the red check tablecloth. ‘I haven’t opened it, but they called this morning to confirm receipt. I know what it’s about. Congratulations, lad.’

My glass was still on the table, but Gramps chinked it nonetheless and took a swig from his own as I studied the envelope. There was an ink stamp next to the franking mark, which read Fosker & Berrisford Solicitors. Gramps’s celebratory mood made me uneasy – what could possibly be contained within that would warrant such excitement? My instinct was to leave opening it until later, perhaps in the privacy of my room, but Gramps was expecting a reaction, so I had no choice.

Had it not been for the fanfare over the day’s post, I would have forgotten Miss Morgan’s letter. It would most likely have sweated and disintegrated in my back pocket before being finished off by lapping the washing machine. But as I picked the solicitor’s letter open I remembered it and passed it to Gramps.