Was he scared of them? It’s something she’s never considered before, something Emma never alluded to in all those phone conversations they had after she moved back here.

‘But you got on well with your gran, didn’t you? She was always taking you to clubs and swimming.’

‘Yeah, she enrolled me in loads of stuff. But what else was she going to do with me?’

The area seems peaceful, serene, yet it’s hard to ignore the way each block is peppered with CCTV cameras and warnings of armed patrols.

Joe stops the car and double-checks his phone. ‘Yes. It’s this one. Phone me half an hour before you want me to collect you.’ He hops out to open the door for Yvonne. There’s a stain of milk, or perhaps baby vomit, over the right shoulder of his bulky suit.

‘You’ve got a little—’ she indicates the stain and Joe’s face falls. Inside her bag is a packet of face wipes, she hands one over and smiles. ‘See you later, Joe.’ She quickens her step after Kiama, who is already inside the block and speaking with the doorman.

In the lift he cracks his neck on each side and Yvonne winces. ‘You’re too young to creak like that.’

‘Huh?’ he looks at her blankly.

‘Don’t be nervous.’

‘I’m not. I’m fine.’ As the lift doors open she hears him take a deep breath before walking towards his grandfather, Neil, who is waiting. They shake hands formally and look each other over.

‘Welcome,’ Neil says. He’s older, of course, but also shorter than Yvonne remembers. ‘Please, come inside,’ he gestures grandly and they take the few steps required through to the small dim sitting room. Cynthia stands by a glass dining table. She is, as always, well put together, her slim body in a patterned dress, face made up and earrings glittering. Neil stands by her side and they take each other’s hands; a united front.

‘Hi, Grandma,’ Kiama says.

She leans forwards to kiss him on the cheek but he takes it as an invitation to hug her. She doesn’t quite reciprocate though her arms lightly touch his back before she pulls away and says, ‘Come through and sit.’

Despite the brightness of the day, the heavy, floral curtains are partially closed making the room dull. The flat is pokey and modern, the walls white and dominated by Patrick Kinuthia prints of Maasai women. But the furniture, the roll-top armchairs, heavy oak dining table and clunky grandfather clock is the same stuff they had in the big house. Hoary shit from England is how Emma used to describe her parents’ taste, it was one of the things that annoyed her about them, how outdated and traditional they were.

The clock chimes and everyone laughs nervously.

‘Exactly on time for lunch,’ Cynthia says. ‘Please, sit down. Excuse me, I’ll start bringing it through.’