‘Oh, thank you, but no.’ I smile, touched. ‘I’m sure he’ll be fine now.’

‘That’s why I wear them, because I get scared by noises too.’

Standing a few feet away from the gate, he studies Harry, his brow furrowed in concentration.

‘Noises can be a bit scary,’ I nod in agreement, ‘but they’re only noises.’

He doesn’t answer. I’m not sure he’s really listening to me. He seems completely enthralled by Harry, his expression a mixture of fear and fascination.

‘Do you want to stroke him?’

‘I’m scared of dogs.’

‘Harry used to be scared of people.’

He eyes Harry curiously.

‘Why isn’t he scared now?’

‘He still is sometimes, but he’s trying to be brave.’

‘Daddy tells me I need to be brave sometimes.’

I nod sympathetically. ‘Me too.’

He hesitates, then reaches through the gate and tentatively touches Harry’s head with his fingertips. As good as gold, Harry allows himself to be touched without shying away. It’s as if instinctively he knows the little boy is scared.

‘He’s all soft.’

I notice how small his hand is against Harry’s big bear of a head. The boy must be only about seven or eight. Harry tries to lick him, and he suddenly lets out a squeal and quickly retracts his hand, jumping back behind the garden gate.

‘He licked me!’ He seems unable to decide whether to be delighted or scared.

‘That’s because he really likes you.’

I give Harry a reassuring rub around his ears as a reward for being so good. I’m fast learning that’s one of his favourite things.

‘Stanley!’ A woman’s voice calls from inside the house. ‘Tea’s ready!’

The little boy looks at me, then pulls a small laminated card from deep inside his pockets and squints at it. ‘I have to go. Look, it’s number seven.’

He thrusts the card at me, and I can see it’s some kind of list:

1. Get home from school

2. Wash hands

3. Empty backpack/lunchbox

4. Have snack

5. Do homework

6. Play outside

7. Teatime

‘Stanley!’ yells the voice, louder this time.

And before I can finish reading it, he snatches the card away, runs deftly up the garden path on his tiptoes, making sure to miss all the cracks, then disappears into the house, slamming the door behind him.

The Teenager

Nursing a cappuccino, I try to eke out the last remaining bits of froth. It’s long since gone cold. I look at my watch for the umpteenth time.

They’re almost twenty minutes late.

It’s Friday afternoon and I’m sitting in the small cafe in the village where I’ve arranged to meet my first student, after getting a reply to my tutoring ad. Outside it’s grizzly, but inside is warm and welcoming, with old-fashioned flowery wallpaper and shelves filled with a collection of old teapots. A fire burns in the grate, while wedged into the corner is a pine dresser laden with home-made cakes displayed under glass domes. Filled with butter and cream, the slices are the size of doorsteps. No gluten-free brownies here. It’s a world away from the trendy cafes in London with their chalkboards, vintage lighting and hipster baristas. And I love it.