I look in our party bag: a packet of biscuits, lollies, felt tips, holographic stickers, a balloon – I’ll save that one for later. I look around me for more balloons and the hut is filling up with them, in children’s hands and bobbing along on the floor. I pick one up for Katie, a yellow one. The rain’s eased to a spit, so we go outside and play on the concreted area in front of the shelter. The balloon gets whisked under a hedge, so I rescue it. Katie bats it and kicks it in front of her. An older boy, maybe two and a half, tries to join in. Katie picks up the balloon and stalks off with it, clutching it to her chest.

Jessica is finally cutting the cake, scoring it into equal rectangles, leaving a quarter of it intact for the family to take home. The unlit candles lie by its side in their holders. I’ve kept the wax stubs of Katie’s, white for the first one and yellow for the second, in separate pouches in the cutlery drawer.

Someone passes me a napkin-wrapped slice, and I taste it. Like wedding cake: that very thick icing, the firm, slightly stale sponge and the sweetened cream.

I see Ayo’s father standing next to me.

‘Thank you,’ I say.

‘It’s for him,’ he says.

I look at Ayo and he’s smiling, the surgical tape wrinkling round his cheek. I think of Katie’s presents at her first birthday party and I wish I had something to give him. We didn’t buy any toys for a year.

I remember the starfish. I haven’t shown it to Katie yet. She’s still occupied with her balloon. I pull out the bag and unzip it.

I kneel down in front of Ayo and hold it out to him. He grabs it in a chubby fist.

‘Dar,’ he says, making the sign for ‘Twinkle, Twinkle’. ‘Dar.’

‘I’m glad you like it, Ayo,’ I say, and squeeze his hand.

Around me, people are doing up their coats and opening umbrellas.

‘I think that’s it for the good weather,’ says Mirosława, turning down the corners of her mouth.

The woman next to me kicks the brake off her buggy and wheels it out of the shelter. I gather up our rubbish and put away our party bag and crowns. As people start to leave, Jessica darts through the shelter with a black bin liner, picking up napkins and bottles and squashed plastic cups.

Ayo’s father wraps up the remaining cake and packs it carefully into the suitcase. He tries to give away some of the leftover party bags.

Mirosława looks at her timetable. ‘Eight minutes to catch the next train,’ she says.