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up towards my neighbour’s window. The curtains looked too big for the windows, hems in piles on the sill. Those hems scared me. The whole of my neighbour’s house scared me. I’d spent my entire life feeling frightened of the presence on the other side of the wall. I’d asked my father what was over there once. I’ll never ask again.
    â€œI really need to close the gap,” I said. “Will you help me? I have to do it before my father sees it.”
    His eyes rested on my mouth. “Course, you just need to bend this branch back like this.” He seemed a very young postman. I could not help but notice plimsolls and orange socks pop out from the bottom of his trousers as he knelt down to make final adjustments to the hedge. His uniform gave him the look of a little boy who had tried on his dad’s suit and his cap, hiding all trace of hair, added to his youthful air.
    â€œI must be getting back to my round. I’ve got at least ten minutes to catch up.” He stuffed a bunch of elastic bands back into his pocket. “I’m sorry to hold you up, but I have a letter for you,” I said.
    â€œCan’t you just put it in the post box?” He put his hand into his bag.
    â€œIt’s already been posted. It’s for next door, not us, and I couldn’t. . .”
    He stopped rummaging in his bag and gave me a short conspiratorial nod. “All right. I’ll take it.”
    I read the nametag pinned to his jacket. ‘ Jonathan Worth, ’ printed too close to a gold Post Office crown. “Thank you, Mr. Worth.”
    â€œYou’re welcome.”
    â€œI’ll go and fetch it. I won’t be a second.”
    My father was sitting at the table, blowing on a cup of tea when I entered the kitchen “Where’ve you been?” he said.
    â€œThe postman is here, shall I give him back that. . . letter?” I said.
    He didn’t reply at first. He just blew a well-brewed wave across the surface of his tea. Then he turned to towards me, “It’s in the sideboard, second drawer down.”
    I opened the drawer, picked the letter up by its corners, hurried back outside and placed it face down into the postman’s waiting hand.
    â€œIt’s not going to sting you.”
    â€œPlease, just take it.”
    â€œHey, it’s burnt on the edge!”
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œThere!”
    â€œNo, that’s just dirt,” I brushed the corner lightly with my fingers,
    â€œEdward Black,” he drawled, turning over the letter. “Does he know you. . . don’t you like him?”
    I adjusted my sleeve. “I don’t know. I’ve never met him.”

    I sat on the grass wearing gloves of orange dust. The garden was silent, mortar quietly dried, and I had a chance to think. I had told my private thoughts to a person I didn’t know. Would he tell other people? Would every postman in town stare as they passed me in the street, stroking their baby beards and nodding their heads in my direction as if they knew all the details of my life? He’d made a hole in the hedge, that postman, a body-shaped hole in our boundary while my father and I laboured in the back, repairing and smoothing imaginary cracks. I shuddered; our barrier had been breached and we didn’t know it.
    I was watching the trees beyond the back fence when I noticed a flash of brown at the far end of the garden. A fox, frozen into its characteristic pose — back straight, head turned at ninety degrees — stood beside the back fence. It turned its horrible eyes on me, paused, then fled, streaking through the long grass before leaping onto the top of the high wall. It paused again, stared accusingly down at me then disappeared over the other side.
    Footprints marked the brick dust when I walked over to inspect his launching pad. I touched one of the concentric circles, imagining I could still feel the warmth from the fox’s feet, and then