But nothing of the sort happened. Chair Person stood up and bowed. “Er, hn hm,” he said. “I am Chair Person. Good snuffle evening.” Mum’s eyes darted to the ink blot on Chair Person’s waving sleeve, then to the coffee stain, and then on to the damp smear on his front. She turned and dashed away into the garden. Chair Person’s arms waved like someone conducting an orchestra. “I am the one causing you all this trouble with your apples,” he said, in his most crawlingly humble way. “You are so kind to – hn hm – forgive me so quickly.” Dad could clearly not think what to say. After gulping a little, he said in a social sort of way, “Staying in the neighbourhood, are you?” Here Mum came dashing back indoors. “The old chair’s not in the shed any more,” she said. “Do you think he might be—?” Chair Person turned to her. His arms waved as if he was a conductor expecting Mum to start singing. “Your – hn hm – husband has just made me a very kind offer,”
