Like, for example, Stanley is deeply unhappy at school. Ben has known this for a while, but now he begins to open up more and tells me about an incident when Stanley locked himself in the toilets and refused to come out – ‘It was PE, and he got overwhelmed by all the different games and noises’ – and of a meeting with the head teacher to discuss his son’s disruptive behaviour, ‘which didn’t end well,’ Ben admitted. ‘I lost my temper and she ended up calling me disruptive and saying that now she knew where Stanley got it from.’

It all comes to a head a week later, when we’re in my newly configured and much smaller bathroom, having a discussion about walk-in showers. Ben’s armed with a spirit level and tape measure, while I’m looking through his A4 file filled with various brochures, trying to drum up some enthusiasm for one with a minimalist contemporary design. I’m pleased about creating a third bedroom in the attic and yet . . .

‘Are you sure we don’t have room for a bath? Not even a small one?’

‘Not unless it’s the size of a bucket.’

‘Ha-ha, very funny.’

I turn back to the folder, but I must look disappointed because a few moments later he adds, ‘Showers are more hygienic anyway. Who wants to sit in their own dirt?’

‘Speak for yourself. I’m not that dirty.’

A pamphlet falls out.

‘What’s this?’ Scooping it off the floor, I glance at the glossy photograph of smiling children on the front: Alderley Academy: A Bright Future.

‘Oh, it must have got mixed in by mistake.’

‘Are you thinking of sending Stanley to a new school?’

‘I’m just considering the alternatives.’

I unfold the brightly coloured pamphlet and quickly scan the prospectus about teaching and caring for children with autism. ‘This is an independent school offering specialist teaching.’

Ben puts down his spirit level and turns to me.

‘I thought you wanted him to stay in mainstream education?’

We’d talked about it previously. Despite Stanley’s difficulties, Ben was keen for his son to stay at the local primary.

‘I do, but I don’t know if that’s possible. Stanley’s been in trouble again.’

‘Trouble, why?’

‘Oh, the usual.’ Ben shrugs, his face resigned. ‘Thing is, his teacher seems to think I’m making excuses for Stanley’s behaviour, but he finds it hard in certain situations – like in groups and stuff. It’s difficult for him.’

‘I’m sorry.’

Ben flashes me a grateful look.

‘I’m not making excuses, but it can be difficult for teachers too,’ I admit sadly. ‘There’s so much pressure these days, what with inspectors and academic targets and a lack of resources. It’s hard to meet the needs of every child when you’ve got a class of thirty-one kids.’

‘I know it’s tough for everyone.’

I look back at the prospectus. It does look like a lovely school.

‘But Stan’s my little boy,’ Ben continues, ‘and he’s only seven, and he’s so smart and funny and sensitive. I feel like I’m letting him down.’