‘You didn’t tell me Jeremiah was buried right next door,’ I objected shamelessly, feeling the warmth of her pillowy, pearly-nailed hands.

‘Ah, so you already know! You don’t need anyone to tell you a thing. I didn’t think I’d be seeing you again so soon!’ She put her hands on her hips, as if she were about to dance a ‘jumpin’ polka’ in that long purple skirt of hers. She thought she’d see me, but not so soon, she’d said, and I couldn’t stop shaking my head and smiling at her.

‘So now what, Maa?’ I said. ‘Now you’re my Maa Josephine.’

‘Ah,’ she said, smiling too. ‘You’re not the only one who calls me that around here…’

‘Maaaa!’ I heard a howl from the yard and Josephine turned around to look. A boy emerged, a short little thing with a perfect afro, tottering slightly as he ran, pursued by another boy who looked exactly like him.

‘Those are my great-grandsons, they’re twins, see? Ay, mi lard, what, pappa?! Bihiev, buais, a gwain!’ We heard the shouts of a lively chase. ‘An weah yo gwain now?’ she asked me.

‘Wow! Twin great-grandsons for Maa Josephine – dem lucky buais! Between your voice and the sugar cakes from those pockets of yours, it must be an adventure to grow up in this yard,’ I gushed. Josephine just laughed. ‘I don’t know – where am I going now?’ I turned to ask Rudy.

‘We’re going to the Botanical Garden first, then Big Pond.’

‘Good, good!’ She applauded. ‘You do that, go on. And look’ – she waved her right hand in the air, nodding – ‘todo ese tereno era de Lynton también.’ All that land was Lynton land, too. Her sonorous t’s and d’s, her Anglo r’s, her thick silk voice. ‘The whole paña university.’ She laughed, looking at Rudy. Right behind me, Jaime was paying close attention.

‘Suave, suave con el paña,’ the cachaco reacted in Spanish, laughing, then switched to English: ‘Take it easy.’

‘Yessa, tieking it easy!’ Maa retorted, twisting her neck around, wide-eyed, flashing her gap. By day, her eyes were dark amber and twinkled just as bright. ‘No problem with young teacha’, young man!’ Jaime blushed a bit. ‘No problem with Nairo!’ she shouted, turning her head as if watching him pass by. She clapped her hands and cackled. Jaime was red as a lobster.

‘Nairo?’ I asked, watching him hunched and sheepish.

‘Nairo, like Nairo Quintana, the cyclist. Because he’s the guy who zooms up the hill on his bicycle, no true?’ She shook an arm before placing a hand on her hip again. It was like dancing when she spoke, dancing and singing.

‘It’s because I ride a bike,’ Jaime said, glancing at me. ‘I don’t think it’s that strange for someone to live on the hill and get around on a bike?’ Half-statement, half-question.