Mrs Ashford-Wells,
Gregory is seven years old. He’s in Year Two. He is a lovely and sweet little boy who is developing well and enjoys school. He is working securely within the expected range for his age, and there are no advanced programmes suitable for Gregory at this stage.
I do not recommend enrolling Gregory in a Maths Challenge programme or enrolling him in the year above. Regarding enrolling Gregory into a chess programme, that would be best left to you and Mr Ashford-Wells, since we have no chess programme at the school.
Regards,
Mrs Kate Price.
I will deal with this letter later. I’m about to put my key in the door when I hear some kind of grunt to my left, loud enough to make me jump.
I stand on my tiptoes and peer over the overgrown hedge at the house next door.
When we first inspected what would later become our house, Max almost didn’t buy it because of the house next door. You wouldn’t have called it derelict, but it was certainly rundown – the front of it covered in old dirt and cobwebs, paint peeling off and a drainpipe coming loose. But the estate agent assured Max that the older gentleman who was living there – and had done so for forty-five years – was about to move into a retirement home and the house – ‘a golden opportunity for the right person. You don’t find a fixer-upper like this in these neighbourhoods anymore’ – was already on the market.
I rang the doorbell once to introduce myself, but the older gentleman didn’t open the door. As I walked away, I was sure I saw a shadow move behind one of the dusty windows.
It’s been empty for three weeks, but now there’s a tower of cardboard boxes on the front step, and a dark green armchair rocking back and forth, seemingly on its own, just outside the front door, like it’s trying to squeeze itself into the house. It’s not succeeding, despite the grunts and huffs and puffs of whoever is pulling and tugging at it from the inside.
‘Shit!’ the chair yelps before toppling down the front step. A woman steps out after it, slim and fit, her slick brown hair in a ponytail, her face shiny with sweat.
‘Are you all right?’ I ask.
She looks around like she can’t figure out where my voice has come from. I raise a hand above the hedge.
‘Oh, hi!’ She waves, smiling broadly and standing on her tiptoes.
‘Hi!’ I say, waving back. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Yes! No!’ She laughs, hands planted on her waist. ‘Don’t mind me. I’ve been fighting with my furniture all morning. My removal men left this one outside, can you believe it? And all that, too.’ She points at the boxes, flapping her T-shirt to let in some air. ‘Is it just me? Or is it hot in these parts?’
I look up at the grey sky and tighten my coat against the wind. ‘I think it might be you.’
She sweeps her hair back with one hand. ‘I’m going to need ten showers after this. Anyway, I’d better get a move on. Here goes!’
She goes down a step and grabs the armchair again. This time it gets stuck in the door.
‘Can I help?’
She pokes her head out. ‘Oh, God. Would you?’
‘Hang on.’ I leave my bags on the mat and walk around the hedge.
I position myself behind the chair.
‘If you could push…’ she says on an outbreath.
I brace against the chair and push. It doesn’t budge an inch. ‘I don’t think it’s going to work,’ I say.
‘Really?’
‘It’s too wide.’
She lets it go. ‘Are you telling me it’s not going to fit through the door?’
‘Maybe that’s why your removal men left it outside.’
She makes a face. ‘Great. Now I have to figure out what to do with it.’
