that,’ I start to say, but Dan isn’t listening any more.

He’s miles away, his face startled, shocked, angry. I can hear Kazia, still singing ‘Jingle Bells’ and getting most of the words muddled up, but Ben and Nate are silent, staring, mouths open.

I follow their gaze.

A tall, dark-skinned man in a smart suit is coming out of the bar just along from the bus stop, a fair-haired woman in a skimpy red party dress draped around his neck and whispering into his hair. The man is laughing, but the grin dies on his lips as his gaze slides over Ben, Nate and Dan.

‘Hello, Dad,’ Dan says.

Ben and Nate just blink, shocked and silent, and Dan turns and walks away. It’s left to me to grab Ben and Nate by the hand and run along after Dan, with Kazia in tow and Dan’s dad chasing us along the street.

‘Dan! Ben! Nate!’ he shouts. ‘Hold on! I can explain! It’s not the way it looks!’

Dan stops and turns to face his dad, who is standing a few feet away, raking a hand through fuzzy black hair in a gesture I’ve seen Dan use a million times.

I gather the kids in behind Dan.

‘You’re a liar,’ he spits out. ‘A rotten, lousy liar!’

‘Dan, son, you don’t understand –’ the man says.

‘We understand, all right,’ Dan says, his voice shaking a little as he speaks. ‘We’ve heard the rows, seen Mum crying. We’ve known for months that something was going on, so please don’t pretend you can explain. It’s pretty clear already, from where I’m standing.’

‘But, son –’

‘Don’t call me that!’ Dan bites out. ‘Because you know what? You sure don’t act like a dad!’

I don’t know what to do, but Ben is clinging to me, tears welling in his big brown eyes, while Nate and Kazia just look shell-shocked. I don’t know how to help, but I know I need to get the kids out of here, get Dan away too. A number 80 bus slides to a halt beside us with a squeal of brakes, and I herd the kids on board. ‘Come on, Dan,’ I tell him. ‘Please?’

Dan jumps on, looking back over his shoulder. ‘You know what?’ he yells. ‘I hate you, even if you are my dad. I hate you, and I’ll never, ever forgive you for this! So why don’t you just get lost, leave us alone? We don’t need you! We don’t want you!’

The doors slide shut and the bus lurches away from the kerb.

Mum is making honey cakes, and the flat is filled with the rich, sweet smell of them baking. For the first time in weeks, she isn’t working weekend shifts at the hotel. ‘We’ll have a proper Sunday,’ she says. ‘I can’t keep going at this pace, and nor can Jozef. So today we’ll have some family time, a good, Polish dinner and then Mass at the cathedral with our Polish friends.’

‘Where is Dad?’ Kazia frowns. My little sister looks tired too – her cheeks are pink and her eyes are huge and shadowed. I think Mum’s right. We all need some family time, some chill-out time.

‘Jozef will be back soon,’ Mum says. ‘With a special surprise…’

After Friday night, when Dan, Ben and Nate saw their dad with another woman, it seems especially important that my family, at least, are together today. I don’t think I ever realized before how fragile a family can be.

I don’t know what happened on Friday after Dan, Nate and Ben got home, but I don’t think it was good. I held Dan’s hand tightly all the way home on the bus. I could feel him hurting, and Ben and Nate too.

Kazia and I went along to the cafe first thing on Saturday, but the sign said closed, and Ringo was on the doorstep, wondering aloud what might have happened. I wondered too.

‘Girls, don’t look so sad,’ Mum says now, lifting the honey cakes out of the oven and setting them down to cool. ‘No use worrying. Come, both of you, and see what arrived in yesterday’s post…’

She brings out a large parcel, layered with brown paper and decorated with Polish stamps and postmarks.

‘It’s Gran’s writing!’ I say. ‘For us!’

‘Christmas presents!’ Kazia squeals.

We tear off the brown paper to reveal a cardboard box filled with scrunched-up newspaper, packed in tight, as if to protect something. Mum fishes two small presents out from the packing, wrapped in red crêpe paper and tied with ribbons, one labelled for me, one for Kazia.

‘We