Michael considers the different scenarios: open hostility; a guarded response initially; and, the least likely of all, a warm, spontaneous welcome. He thinks about the issues they will have to confront, tries to place himself in Uncle Amin's position. He overcomes his last-minute doubts, alights from the taxi (the route more carefully researched, the time of the last taxi back to the city firmly established by sweet-talking a morose taxi driver) and resolutely follows the directions he was given over the phone.

He has an address, he has an excuse: I want to find out more about my beginnings.

He finds 27 Griffith Street, a large house for this area, with the appropriate high wall and locked gate. He notes that the mosque is not far away. He rings the bell, brimming with his usual brash confidence.

Uncle Amin, shorter and stockier than Silas, and darker too, sits in an old armchair. Hashim, the eldest son, sits next to him on a straight-backed chair, while Haroon, the younger one, leans up against the mantelpiece of an ornate fireplace. Purely for show, Michael thinks. Not the kind of home where a cosy fire burns on cold winter nights. Electric heaters in separate, private spaces. Silas's family all right!

A young girl comes in with a tray, smiles shyly as if she is expected to do so, but does not flee the room in the sort of clichéd, theatrical way Michael anticipates. She is introduced as Safiya. She is wearing jeans, and has her hair pinned back, giving her a high-cheeked beauty that marriage and childbearing will find it difficult to wear away. She exits haughtily, her disdain and bemusement at Michael's startled expression are obvious. They drink tea, talk politely.

‘How is your father?’

‘He is well, very busy, though.’

‘Yes, we see him on TV all the time!’

A silence descends. They shift about like actors who have lost their cues. Finally, Michael speaks. ‘I am not sure how to address you. So, should I call you “Mr Ali”, or “Uncle Amin”, or…?’

They are saved from the awkwardness of this rather hasty attempt to break the ice, by a commotion in the adjoining kitchen. A young man wearing a traditional kurta and keffiyeh bursts in through the door, followed by an older woman, chastizing him: ‘Sadrodien, you dare embarrass us!’

Amin introduces the older woman as ‘Auntie Hanifa, my wife, and their mother’. He turns to the young man. ‘This is Sadrodien, my youngest.’

‘Papa, look at her …’ Sadrodien says.

‘Later!’ Amin says sternly.