The street markets were in full throng along the Whitechapel Road. Market sellers hawked their wares – green apples, ladies’ scarves, breads and flowers and rack upon rack of new clothes. Afternoon was not yet paling to dusk, but the doors were wide open at the Blind Beggar and from inside came the sound of the Irish fiddle. It almost made Raymond want to stop and put on his dancing shoes – but this was not the right part of the world for him to start twirling about a stage, so instead he kept his head down. All of life was here. Irish voices mixed with Polish and Russian and more. The smells, so different from the smells of the Buckingham at night, were intoxicating. Somebody was frying fat sausages on a griddle.

Soon, Raymond left the markets and found himself standing outside one of the noble red terraces. At least, it had once been noble. Now its upper windows were boarded up and the chimney stack was fallen, and the yard out front was a briar patch where nettle and thistle grew wild. Raymond looked up at the sad facade, and felt suddenly conspicuous.

He steeled himself. It was the middle of September, the trees across London were turning to russets and reds, and he had known since Mrs Adelman’s visit at the height of summer that he would have to come back here soon. Her message had been stark and simple – your brother is coming home – and, after that, she said no more, no matter how much Raymond had asked. The only way you’ll find out anything is if you . . . go back, she’d said – and with that, Raymond had left.

Now, with a heavy heart, he knocked on the door and waited for it to open.

The woman who presented herself was plump and round, with a face that, though drawn in lines, still radiated kindness. Her fingers were encrusted with a dozen different rings – and her expression, when she considered the man standing on her doorstep, was one of elation mixed with surprise.

‘Hello, Ma,’ said Raymond.

‘Ray Cohen, you layabout! Get yourself through these doors. But give your mother a kiss first, boy!’

Raymond, who towered a foot and more over his mother, had to stoop to get into her arms. He rested his head on her shoulder and smelled the familiar scents of tobacco and carbolic soap.

‘May!’ his mother called as she dragged him bodily through the door. ‘Rebecca! Get yourself into the lounge this instant. Our Ray’s come back. Won’t somebody strangle one o’ them chickens?’

*

An hour later, the chicken – which had spent its day idly pecking at the grit in the scrubland that passed for a garden out back – was broiling in a pot with leeks and carrot from the market, and Alma Cohen was busy kneading dumplings while her son took the last of the evening light.