“Sorry, Madam Ruth,” she said, but I got the distinct impression that the apology was an empty one.

Mandla’s been unstoppable ever since, and Dee talked me into taking him out so that he could walk freely without ricocheting off a wall or entering an area of the garden that’s likely to be snake infested.

A woman comes up to our table now and reaches out to touch Mandla’s face. I tense, ready to snatch him away if necessary.

“What a gorgeous child. Just look at those eyes.” She appears to be about thirty years old and could be a fashion model. Definitely not a local then. I relax and smile back. “What’s your name, cutie?” she asks him.

“Mandla,” I answer because he obviously can’t speak for himself.

“I have a friend who’s also looking into adoption. Are you his grandmother?”

I bristle. “No, I’m his foster mother.”

“Oh,” she squeaks. “Cool.” She clearly thinks I’m too old to be a baby’s mother, foster or otherwise, but has the good sense to keep her opinion to herself. “It’s my son’s second birthday and we’re having a little party over there. Bring Mandla over if you like. I’m Michelle, by the way.”

“I’m Ruth. And thank you! That’s so nice of you.” I’m not normally this effusive, but I’m so relieved by her kindness that I’d happily hug her just then if she wasn’t already walking away.

An all-too-familiar smell suddenly wafts up and I groan. The combination of Mandla’s immune booster and the weight-gain supplement he’s on makes his shit stink to high heaven.

“Come on, big guy.” I pick him up and take him to the bathroom, where there’s a changing table.

I’m ready to apologize to anyone unlucky enough to join us in there—seriously, the stench of it is enough to strip paint off the walls—but luck is on our side. It’s only once I’ve thrown the nappy away in a sealed bag that a woman walks in and disappears into one of the stalls. She flushes the toilet a few minutes later and comes out again, joining us at the basins just as I’m pulling up Mandla’s pants.

She looks to be in her early twenties and is a whippet of a thing with long blond hair that’s about ten shades too white to be natural. Despite the gloom of the bathroom, she’s wearing big sunglasses. They mostly cover up her bruised eye, but not when you look at her from the side. She has a nervous energy that I recognize. I used to have it once too when I was around her age and getting the shit kicked out of me regularly. Ma had it too, now that I think about it.