‘Yes, but not today.’

‘I want to see Harry.’

When he’d learned that the house his dad was working on was where Harry lived, Stanley couldn’t believe it. He learned a new word: coincidence.

‘You’ll see him after school, I’m sure.’

It was true. Every day after school Harry walked past with his owner, and Stanley always made sure he was there, waiting for him. His owner probably thought it was also a coincidence, but Stanley knew it wasn’t that at all. In which case, Stanley wasn’t sure he believed in coincidences. He needed another word. Could you make up words? His teacher, Miss McCleary, would know, but that meant having to go to school to ask her.

‘Do you promise?’

His dad looked thoughtful. ‘If you promise to go to school, I’ll promise to have a word with Harry. I’ll lift up one of his big ears. Make him promise to pop round and see you after school.’

That made Stanley giggle. ‘Dogs can’t talk.’

‘Says who?’

‘I do.’

His dad was smiling now. ‘Happen not, but they can listen, and that’s more important.’

Stanley thought about that for a moment, twisting and turning it around in his mind, looking at it from different angles. He did that a lot with new ideas.

‘Like people in heaven?’

His dad breathed in then and didn’t exhale for five seconds. Stanley knew because he counted them. ‘Exactly,’ he nodded, then glanced down at Stanley’s shoes and let out a low whistle. ‘You did your laces! Well, aren’t you a clever lad?’

Stanley felt a burst of pride.

‘Now come on, let’s go show them off.’

‘OK,’ he said and stood up from the bed.

Peeling Back the Layers

In my spare bedroom the radio is playing golden oldies in a futile attempt to drown out the noise of the building work downstairs. Valentine is hard at work up a ladder, armed with a scraper; I’m on the ground with a steamer.

Welcome to Operation Woodchip.

It had been Valentine’s idea. Following my trip into town to buy a new bed, I went round to his bungalow to collect Harry, where I told him my plans to put my old bed in the spare bedroom.

‘Problem is, it needs redecorating.’

‘Well, why didn’t you say?’ he cried, his back straightening and his chest appearing to visibly inflate as he poured me a cup of Darjeeling. ‘I was a painter and decorator for over sixty years. Fully booked, I was, months in advance. Nobody could hold a paintbrush to Valentine Crowther. My skirting boards were legendary.’

So, like a rock star coming out of retirement, he turned up yesterday with his ladders, which he informed me were ‘aluminium and light as a feather’ as I fussed around him. Though he did finally allow me to help with his paint pots and toolbag, grumbling incessantly as we carried them together up my narrow staircase.

‘I’ve never needed any help before.’

‘That may be, but we all need help at some point.’