‘Andy used to play football with his kids in the evening before it got dark. They loved that leg of his. It made him one of them.’

‘They were buggers, all of them. Kicked me to death most of the time. But they were good, they had the knack, natural ball players, really gifted, little black ghosts, darting around. Most of the Brazilian teams have Angolan blood. If you know about football, that probably explains everything.’

Little black ghosts. It’s a lovely image, totally out of keeping with what little I know of this dour retiree. Maybe I’m missing something, I think. Maybe he’s softer than he seems. When I glance up, he’s still staring down at the photo.

‘And?’ I know there’s more to come.

‘He died,’ Christianne says quickly.

‘In the minefields?’

‘Yes.’ She wants to change the subject. ‘But Andy’s still in touch with Celestina. The kids have grown up, of course. One of them’s a teacher in Luanda. Another emigrated to Portugal. We saw him in Lisbon a couple of times when we were living out in the Alentejo. He was working for a bank.’

‘And Celestina?’

‘Still in Luena.’ This from McFaul. ‘She’s never remarried, and I doubt she ever will. That generation were giants. Listen to people like that, be around them, and you learn so much.’

I’m not quite sure what McFaul is getting at here, and I badly want to find out more, but he’s spooning out the dhal and our little interlude with the photos is over. Christianne struggles to her feet, collects the photos and puts the album on top of the fridge. McFaul has found the bread and the smell of burning announces the first slices of toast.

‘Co-op white, I’m afraid.’ Christianne sits down with a fist full of cutlery. ‘I thought there might be a croissant left but I’m wrong.’

It doesn’t matter. The dhal is brilliant, warm and earthy with layer after layer of careful spicing. On closer inspection, I find tiny florets of cauliflower, curls of Brussels sprout, shavings of carrot, and tiny dark green fingers of bird’s eye chilli, sliced open to free the seeds. I cooked this way after my marriage collapsed, alone in Holland Park after my husband had departed, taking my son with him. My career was also in trouble, and money was suddenly tight, and peasant food like this became a lifeline. Not simply because it was cheap to make but because it was so comforting. Convalescence in a bowl, I remember thinking. And if you fed the saucepan with more veggies, day after day, that kind of solace could last forever.

‘Lovely.’ I lick my spoon. ‘And I mean it.’