“Actually, I’m going to head home, try to get a couple of hours’ kip before the alarm goes off. But good to meet you, Maggie,” I say, not wanting to risk being recognized by one of the others.

“Good on you, Jon.” Maggie pats me on the back before rejoining the huddle of volunteers.

As I walk back across the field I think about what Maggie said. I understand how any parent, but especially the parent of a disabled child, would be nervous about them going away for the first time. From what I’ve heard, Meg always put Grace first, no matter what. What stopped her this time? Could Simon have had something to do with it? Was Meg worried about Grace going abroad, or was she frightened that a passport would make it easier for someone to take Grace far away, against her will? I remember what Maggie said about Grace’s birth certificate and an idea starts to form. As Ashford comes into view ahead of me the first rays start to lighten the sky and I quicken my step.

As soon as I’m back in the flat I make a big pot of coffee and open up my computer. The supposedly free genealogy sites won’t give me the detailed information I need without my credit card details. I know I still haven’t paid the minimum payment and I’m almost at my overdraft limit, so I dial the only number I know by heart. I let the phone ring and ring until she finally picks up.

“Mum?”

“What is it, Jon? Is it Jakey?” Her fear crackles down the phone line.

“No, Mum, no—he’s fine.” Idiot. I forgot. The last time I woke her so early was when Jakey was readmitted with an infection and I just needed to hear her voice. “Sorry for calling so early. I have to ask you something.”

“Jon, it’s half past five in the morning!”

I picture her in her tiled Victorian hallway in Islington. She’ll be wearing her burgundy bathrobe, Agnes her rescue Scottie dog at her slippered feet. I love how Mum’s world remains the same while the rest of London changes around her, as quick as the weather.

“Sorry, Mum, I sort of forgot what time it was . . .”

“Rubbish,” she scoffs down the phone. “You just had an idea you thought couldn’t possibly wait until a decent time. So come on then. I’m awake now, you’d better tell me.”

Suddenly I wish I was there with her, in my warm childhood home.

“I wanted to ask about that family tree stuff you got into a while ago.”

“It’s called genealogy, darling.”

“Right, well, how did you do it? Do you have an account to look up birth certificates and stuff?”

In spite of the time, I hear Mum smiling down the phone. It’s rare anyone asks her how something works now—she still uses a pocket diary and would never trust GPS. Like her home, Mum stopped changing somewhere in the mid-eighties.