SADIQ HAD LENT Grandad his water butt so that they could carry water to the pumpkin more easily. John Trinidad had started sprinkling some mysterious powder onto the roots of the pumpkin, and he’d stand there willing it to grow. The lady from allotment 7 read it poetry. She began with the Romantics, worked her way through Keats and Coleridge before deciding that actually, the pumpkin might like something a little bit more modern. Since then she’d been trying Dylan Thomas, Maya Angelou, and Benjamin Zephaniah but to no avail. Colin the milkman had scooped up bucketfuls of bird poo and had scattered it about, hoping it might make a little difference. A week had gone by, and the pumpkin still sat there stubbornly the same size.

Grandad, however, had tried to keep things cheerful as ever, and as it was the first proper day of summer, he had dragged the rickety table from the shed into the open and set about tinkering with the outboard engine until his fingers and clothes were covered in oil. It was as if by continuing to plan, he was keeping the dream alive. Marty had kept himself busy all day watering and feeding the pumpkin and doing odd jobs around the allotments. He’d watched over Grandad’s shoulder as he tweaked the engine, and laughed as Grandad fired it up so that it blew plumes of black smoke everywhere until they nearly choked them both.

It was getting darker now, and this was Marty’s favorite time at the allotments. The bees would hum lazily, and you could just feel everything and every plant breathe out for the night. Relax. The daisies would close up their petals for the evening, and the other flowers would release their scents. The light would soften too, the yellow light of day softening to peach and then blue and then a deep rich navy. Marty made his grandad some tea and lit the fire. He watched for a while as the sparks blew upward with the wind.

He’d done some schoolwork. As Mr. Garraway had suggested. He’d brought it to the allotment and done it while his grandad puttered. Colin the milkman had helped a little. He was good at math, and Sadiq was the guy to help with languages. Marty had done a lot in a very short period of time and hoped that it was enough to buy him some time. At least until the new term started. It all felt a little more important now. It was the way Mr. Garraway explained it. That he had a brain and it was his responsibility to see where it would go. He listened as the flames grew stronger, casting a soft amber light onto everything.