Eve remembers her cooking and turns to the oven with a gasp. The papery cases of filo pastry are dark brown at the edges; she throws them away and starts again. They scorch again. On the third try they are perfect. She fills them with lemon cream, fresh dill and tiny shrimp. Martin likes fish. She’s made the bouillabaisse, marinated the salmon and baked crab patties, all with him in mind. Ash climbs on the table. He runs his fingers through a glistening heap of broad beans in oil, pushes his hands in her mouth, makes a face. She laughs and lifts him down, holding him to her for a moment, the small heart beating against her hands as he wriggles. She breathes in the warm smell of his hair as she sets him on the floor. Released, he tumbles into the cushions on top of the dog. She takes the cream from the fridge, then purees the raspberries. She is folding them together, absorbed by the red bleeding into the white, when Eric comes in from the garden, his face dripping with sweat. Noah runs to him limping slightly, wagging his tail. Eric glances at him as he crosses to the fridge, the bottles jangling as he yanks open the door. He drains half a litre of orange juice from the carton then puts it down.

‘Dog’s hurt,’ he says, wiping his mouth with his arm.

‘Ash fell on him just now. He’ll recover.’ She goes near, touching his hand; the skin is wet. ‘Do you remember it was hot like this, the day he was born?’ Labour had been long and sweaty; Eric had been by her side throughout, attentive and tender, overwhelmed when his son arrived. She smiles. ‘It’s hard to believe that little baby is already three!’

‘He’s not a baby any more.’ He walks to the door, turns back, grins briefly. ‘He said Dad by the way.’ He disappears and she stares after him, stunned. Ash’s first word.

Through the window, Ash is now sitting on a pile of beech chips trickling them through his fingers. He must have escaped from the kitchen unnoticed. She hurries out of the door after Eric and bends down to Ash in the new playground. ‘What did the birthday boy say?’

He picks up a handful of bark chips and shows them to her.

‘What’s Daddy called, poppet?’

Ash rolls on his back, squeezing his eyes shut against the sun.

Sorrel slips off the swing and squats near. ‘I heard him say Dad,’ she whispers.

Eve puts an arm round Sorrel and they watch Ash as he rolls from side to side. ‘Lucky girl,’ she whispers back. ‘Wish I’d heard too.’

‘The house is s’posed to be a surprise.’ Poppy’s angry voice comes from the top of the slide. ‘You’re s’posed to be keeping him inside.’