Kiama rests his head on his palm and watches Zipporah as she waves her hand over the pan to check the temperature before dropping in a packet of lard.

‘When I turned eighteen, I got a lot of cards and letters. From people Mum worked with, went to uni with, all these random people who would’ve never given me a second thought if my mum hadn’t died. Even the drunk guy who lived downstairs from us in Stratford got in touch.’

But Yvonne never got in touch, not in ten years of birthdays. Maybe she forgot. Or maybe it was too painful. He wants to ask her why she disappeared on him. But even the idea of saying it out loud makes him feel kind of down.

‘I’m sorry I never sent you anything,’ she says.

He looks away and picks at the remnants of dough drying between his fingers. ‘It’s not a big deal. I’m not that into birthdays. Plus, no one wants to celebrate anything in January anyway.’

‘I’m still sorry.’

He doesn’t want to have this conversation now, maybe it’s one that’s not worth having at all. ‘Anyway, what do we do next?’ The table is covered in puffy little triangles of dough. ‘Do we drop them in the pan?’ he calls across to Zipporah. She giggles back wordlessly. ‘Why have we been put in charge of this? Simeon? What am I meant to be doing?’

Simeon returns from outside and through the thickening haze of smoke he instructs, ‘Drop them, drop them in the pan.’

Kiama throws a doughy triangle in and a small splatter of fat splashes up over his arm. ‘Sh—’ he starts before catching himself. It stings but he feels it would be wasteful to stand at the cold tap and let the water run; there’s no clean cloth either.

Yvonne frowns at the pink welt. ‘At least it’s an improvement on that tattoo.’

He kisses his teeth.

After, they help to clean the plates and play a few more games with the smaller children in the yard. But aware of the time and warned by Simeon about the irregularity of the buses they soon say their goodbyes. Yvonne makes it quick, a simple whip round of all the kids in which she tells them to take care and try hard in school. But Kiama’s not as hard as her. He takes his time with each child, getting hugs and chatting. He can feel Yvonne shoot him a look as she waits by the gate, making small talk with Simeon.

Finally, he walks over, his favourite little one, Jenga, around his waist.

‘I was just telling Simeon how much we enjoyed visiting today,’ Yvonne says.

‘Yeah. It’s been amazing.’ Kiama looks at Jenga who gives him a huge crusty-faced smile.

‘So tell me,’ Simeon says, ‘when did your friend work here?’