I unwrap our sandwiches from the clingfilm and pass one to Katie, wiping her hands as I do. Wish I’d brought a flask, I could murder a cup of tea.

The shelter is stuffed now, with people and prams, and their breath. Not everyone’s got a seat, so they’re just standing in the middle and the rain isn’t letting up. One of the standing women pulls out a train timetable and her friend gets her things together.

As Katie and I crunch cucumber slices, Jessica moves through the shelter murmuring rumours of cake. She wades through the bags and buggies and makes her way to Ayo’s family, who are sitting near me.

‘Shall we do the cake now?’ she says.

Ayo’s father takes the white box off his lap and sets it down on the flat of the suitcase in front of him, like a coffee table. Ayo’s mother holds him on her knees.

Jessica drags the coffee table out a little, to give it some room, then she stands on tiptoes and cups her mouth in her hands.

‘We’re doing cake now,’ she calls out to everyone, swaying from side to side. She taps the shoulders of the people around her and gestures to the box, making a space around it. We all do the same, signalling and shushing each other in a ripple outwards. She brings the people in from outside the shelter.

Ayo’s father opens the lid of the box and I gasp. Instead of doughnuts and pastries from the bakery, there is one huge square cake. I recognize the style – it’s from the shop on the lane that makes them to order, and I realize it’s not from Jessica and Mirosława but from Ayo’s parents. The edges are piped in blue and the decoration is a cartoon tiger striped in black and orange. The words say ‘Happy 2nd Birthday Ayomide’. The whole cake is banded with thick blue shiny ribbon in an enormous bow.

Jessica opens a carrier bag and passes out a knife, napkins and two candles in holders. Ayo’s father pushes the candles into the soft icing.

‘Let’s sing “Happy Birthday”,’ says Jessica.

‘Oh, let’s light the candles,’ I say. ‘Someone’ll have some matches…’ I trail off, realizing no one will admit to it.

‘The oxygen,’ says Ayo’s mum.

I blush and step back into the crowd.

We sing ‘Happy Birthday’ and then Ayo’s father picks up the cake with the candles that can’t be lit, and takes it round the shelter, picking his way over bags to show it to people who couldn’t see.