I catch the urgency in Mum’s voice as she makes the request. She hates it when Dad’s home late.

‘I’ll go,’ I say, relieved at the chance to get out of the flat. I don’t get any competition from Jasmina, who’s got her nose in a book, or Sabbir, who’s been quiet again ever since he got in from work. It’s the last week of the summer holidays and lots of my friends are dreading the new term, but I’ve been counting down the days until school starts.

Down the road, in Brick Lane, the shop door dings when I push it. Mrs Feldman is serving a customer, so I smile politely and wait until she’s finished.

‘Hello, dear,’ she says once the customer has left.

‘Is Dad here? Mum’s sent me to get him.’

‘They’re out the back. I don’t know what they’re doing, but you’re welcome to go through.’

In the garden at the back of the Feldmans’ shop, tunes from next-door’s radio jangle from a window ledge. The sun has bleached the grass to a creamy-white and it’s bald in places where it’s been trampled. Along the fence, and where trees cast shade, it’s long and a lush green, and a broken hose dribbles water. A couple of bushes are brimming with late summer blackberries. The four men are seated around a cardboard-box table. In shirt-sleeves and shorts, their backsides on upside-down bottle crates, they seem oblivious to the whine of flies. I’ve seen this sight before. Dad, Mr Feldman, Mr Atyeno and Mr Merrick. Their elbows on their knees in the blistering afternoon sun, playing cards and sipping beer from bottles. Dad always says it’s man’s business.

Dad sees me arrive and beams. ‘Ah, here she is. Won’t be long, darling. We’ll just finish this round. Come and sit with us.’ He pats his leg, and sits back to make room for me on his lap. ‘Say hello, Maya.’

I mumble a greeting and skip over. Wriggle onto Dad’s lap, and lean into him, aware of his warmth behind and around me, the welcome familiar smell of him.

‘What have you been up to today?’ he mutters into my hair. ‘Hmm?’

‘Nothing much. Mum’s not well again, so Jasmina and I made her some soup, and we went to the shops to get food.’ We all heard them arguing last night. And Mum sobbing afterwards, but I don’t want to say anything and especially not in front of Dad’s friends. ‘She asked if you can come home.’

‘In a minute, sweetie,’ he says dismissively and leans round me to lay a card on the make-shift table. ‘Did she eat today?’

‘Not really. She didn’t like the soup we made.’