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‘Ayesha.’ Horse takes the lead, walking into the room. ‘We’ve come to say hello.’

Ayesha looks up at him, then at Lara. There’s no recognition in her eyes.

‘Lovely to see you again, Ayesha,’ says Horse. ‘I used to live in your house. I was a lodger with you.’

‘I’m Gwen,’ I say, and Ayesha looks at me. ‘I hear you’ve got fish for lunch.’ It’s the first thing I can think of to make conversation. Once again, Willow makes his funny grimacing face.

‘This is Willow,’ says Lara. ‘He lived with you, too, when he was a little boy.’

‘Willow loved your cooking,’ says Horse. ‘Being in the kitchen with you and cooking together.’

‘I liked pakoras and samosas the best,’ Willow says. ‘Would you like me to make you some another day? I think they might be better than fish and mashed potatoes.’

As we watch Ayesha’s face, a small smile pulls at one corner of her mouth. She doesn’t say a word, but she leans forward and places a small, thin hand to Willow’s cheek, holding it there. For a moment I wonder if she is seeing Willow, or perhaps her own young son, Shams.

Then she lets her hand drop, and I can see that she’s tired. On the table in front of her are colouring books with crayons. But in that moment she seemed like a mum again, staring into a child’s eyes with love. She turns and points at something on her bedside table – a round silver tin.

Nadiya has been standing in the open doorway, watching, and now she steps forward. ‘Did you want your tin, Ayesha?’ She goes over to the bedside table, picks up the round silver tin and puts it in Ayesha’s lap.

‘It’s her favourite thing. Carries it everywhere, like a favourite teddy bear,’ she says.

‘What is it?’ asks Willow.

‘It’s her masala dabba, her spice tin,’ she tells him. ‘It has her family’s spice mixes inside. I suppose it’s what connects her to the past and who she is. I often talk to her about the recipes; things I’ve made for dinner with my own family spice tin. She likes to hear about them. The dishes I learnt from my mother and my grandmother.’ She smiles fondly. ‘They make us who we are, don’t they, food memories?’

‘They certainly do,’ says Horse.

I think back to my own chaotic upbringing. My food memories are of Findus pancakes and French bread pizzas from the freezer. My mother juggled two jobs while bringing up me and my brother after my father left; she didn’t cook much, but there was always food in the freezer. I always knew I was loved, even when she was struggling.

I look at Willow, who is looking at the tin, his eyes sparkling in the winter sunlight.

‘I remember it,’ he says. And then, slowly, he reaches out to place his little hand on the tin. He smiles, and so does Ayesha.

‘We should probably go,’ says Lara softly. ‘We don’t want to exhaust her.’

We nod in agreement.

‘Bye, Ayesha,’ says Willow. ‘It was lovely to see you again. I loved your cooking. I’ll bring you samosas.’

As he turns to go, she reaches out with both hands and holds the spice tin out towards him. We stare at it. Willow looks down at it, then up at me.

I give him a reassuring nod as he takes the tin and holds it.

‘By the looks of it, she’s passing her tin on to you,’ says Nadiya softly.

‘Oh, we can’t take that,’ I say, worried Ayesha will miss it. But she has already turned away and is looking out of the window.

‘I’d say,’ says Nadiya, ‘that in that moment, she was very happy to pass on her spices and flavours to the next generation.’

‘She wants me to have it?’ says Willow in awe.

‘Ah, I think she does, yes,’ I say. ‘She wants to pass it on.’

‘Wow; I am definitely making samosas now,’ he says, smiling widely and proudly. ‘Thank you, Ayesha,’ he says, and leans over to kiss her on the cheek. ‘I’ll take good care of it.’ Her face lights up, and her hand goes to her cheek and stays there as she looks out of the window again, her expression peaceful.

‘Won’t she miss it?’ Horse asks Nadiya, concerned.

She smiles.