She points at my hoodie. It’s a faded school one, with the school’s crest printed on it. Mam bought it at a second-hand sale last year.

‘That’s a clue.’

She holds out her hand to shake, like she is a grown-up. ‘Susan,’ she says. ‘Susan Tenzin. I am in Mrs Farroukh’s class.’ Clahss. Her hand is still held out, so I shake it.

‘Hi. I mean, how do you do? Very pleased to meet you. Malcolm Bell.’

Perhaps the ‘how do you do’ is going a bit far, but she just says, ‘I hope the bleeding stops soon.’ She is about to shut the gate when from the other direction the old lady reappears, holding something in her hand and scuttling along on her little legs at a speed that would be impressive for someone half her age. Susan’s shoulders drop and she mutters, ‘Oh no,’ almost under her breath.

The old lady draws level with me and holds out a small package of brown paper.

I take it warily. She scrunches up her round face in a smile, showing yellow teeth, and then mimes rubbing something into her chest. I look at Susan, puzzled.

‘It is … a remedy. You should rub it on your chest, she says, for the wound.’ Susan sounds doubtful.

‘Oh, erm … thanks. What is it?’ I lift the packet to my nose and sniff, and immediately wish I hadn’t. I get a whiff of cheese and old trainers.

‘It is what we call dri. It is yak’s butter. Erm … rancid yak’s butter.’ Susan sounds a bit embarrassed.

Well, this is awkward. I look between the two of them. Remember, I’ve just dropped into their meditation session, I’m now hurrying away and I’ve been given a stinking packet of rotten butter, like the world’s worst party bag. The old lady is clearly thrilled and says the first words in English I’ve heard her speak.

‘You will be better soon. Dri is best!’

I nod, more enthusiastically than I feel, but it seems polite. As she goes to shut the gate, Susan leans in and says in a quiet voice, ‘To tell the truth, you may be better off with something else. Savlon, antiseptic spray, anything, really.’ Then she gives a little half-smile. ‘See you tomorrow, smart and shiny!’

She closes the gate and I’m back in the lane, as though I’ve just woken from a strange dream.

There’s something still bothering me, though, as I wipe the last of Dennis’s poo from my shoe on a patch of grass. ‘Smart and shiny!’ the girl had said. She means the school uniform, I guess, and it makes me swallow nervously. I’m wearing a maroon hoodie with MMS – the school’s initials – in big white letters on the back.

Which means the woman with the dog will have seen it.