Hot, tired, and grateful to reach home, Nat caught a glimpse of his grandmother smiling expectantly as she came down the path to greet them. By the time she had taken a proper look at the enormous creature, her smile had flattened into a grim line. Nat sensed she was not impressed.

“Look at the size of it!” she shrieked. “I thought Alec Tate said it was a puppy.”

“Ar,” said Mick, hurrying out of the shed at the sound of his wife’s voice. “He was a puppy, about three year ago.”

Nat’s grandmother, who was called Apple on account of being round and rosy, was very wise, and had wobbly arms and a fearful temper. She tutted impatiently at the sight of the enormous animal and swatted her husband away like an irritating insect when he tried to hug her.

“Trust you to buy a dog the size of a pony,” she scolded. “I should have known better than to let you do a deal with that man Tate.”

As Nat and his mum hid their grins behind their hands, Apple eyed Woody with deep suspicion. She asked Nat to hold him still while she walked around the dog’s vast bulk. “Funny-looking,” she murmured to herself.

She turned to Mick. “Doesn’t look much like a German shepherd to me. Did you ask to see its parents?”

“Should I have?” asked Mick, knowing he should have.

Apple shook her head in disbelief. Her small, chubby hands delved into Woody’s smelly coat while he sat patiently. She inspected his enormous teeth and examined his ears. Her final verdict was no surprise.

“I have never smelled anything as bad as this creature in my entire life,” she declared, fanning her face with a plump hand. “Give him a bath, Nat; he’s not coming anywhere near my kitchen like that. And what’s going on with his fur? It looks as if it’s been cut with a knife and fork!”

Apple watched as Woody eagerly followed his new master into the garden. The expression on her face suggested she was trying very hard to add up a difficult sum, or remember something important, but couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was.

Leaving Woody to inspect the garden, Nat climbed the stairs to his attic bedroom. Despite the unwanted upheaval from London, he was happy with his room at the top of his grandparents’ house. When he looked out of the windows, which were slanted and fixed into the roof, he could see the woods, and if he strained his neck really hard to the left, he could see the sea. Mick had put up shelves for his books, and there was a smell of fresh paint and new wood.