Page 43 of Vianne

The lentil van was easy to find, and was painted with big orange flowers.

Inside, a young man of about eighteen served out scoops of yellow dal in colourful plastic dishes, while a woman – his mother – made chapatis on a hot plate.

A line of thirty people or so waited more or less patiently along the kerb, some carrying their possessions in heavy-duty shopping bags, some huddled in thick overcoats.

Most were men, but I saw two women, both of them older than me, one in a wheelchair, one pushing her, along with a mountain of baggage.

Stéphane and I took our place in the queue, while Pomponette, who had followed us, went to explore the back of the van.

‘A man was drowning some kittens,’ said Stéphane, who had followed my gaze, ‘She was the only one who survived. She once bit my hand so hard that I nearly lost a finger. But now we’re good friends, because she feels safe. ’

‘Won’t she get lost?’

He shook his head. ‘She always comes back. She likes lentils.’

We waited our turn in the queue, and I watched the people as they took their food. Some were homeless – I know the look. Some were merely in transit. Some knew Stéphane, and greeted him with nods and muttered exchanges. Some of them watched me suspiciously. Most did not make eye contact.

‘Bring the dishes back, please,’ said the young man in the van, handing me my portion, along with a chapati wrapped in a piece of paper.

I saw him looking at my hands, and realized they were deeply stained with the spilt contents of Guy’s xocolatl jar.

The scent of the spices still lingered; nostalgic in the cool, damp air.

I smiled at the young man. ‘Thank you. I’m Vianne. What’s your name?’

He looked surprised. Maybe he wasn’t used to being seen as anything but a provider of food. ‘I’m Bal,’ he said at last. ‘And this is my mother, Abani.’

The dal was comforting; warm and good. I scooped it up with the chapati.

I saw that Stéphane ate his own with a spoon he pulled out of his pocket, leaving a share for Pomponette, who finished the portion, purring.

The others took their food elsewhere; an alleyway; a bus shelter; the little park I’d already seen at the back of the railway station.

‘They never bring the dishes back,’ said Bal, as I brought him my bowl. ‘They’re always leaving them around. Sometimes, they complain there’s no meat. As if we didn’t do enough.’

Abani gave him a sharp look and said something in Hindi.

Bal looked mutinous, but said nothing and returned to his pot of dal, which by now was almost empty.

I thought how tired both of them looked; the young man in T-shirt and faded jeans, the woman with the dark-red scarf slipping from her greying hair.

They do this every day, I thought. Every day, in a different place.

‘I’ll have a look,’ I told them. ‘See how many I can find.’

I went to look for discarded bowls, and with Stéphane’s help, returned them all. Pomponette followed us eagerly, in hope of finding uneaten food. Abani fed her a piece of rolled-up chapati, which she took under the van to eat.

Bal gave me his cautious smile. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘You’ve saved me a job.’

‘How long have you been doing this?’

Bal watched as the last of the crowd dispersed into the rainy streets. ‘My father started it, years ago. This was his van. He painted it. He used to tell us that prayer is about putting good into the world. Not sitting in your best clothes, listening to someone talk about the afterlife.’

‘Your father was a good man.’ I found myself suddenly on the brink of tears.

That’s nonsense, of course. I never cry.

But little Anouk has ideas of her own, and sometimes clamours to be heard.

And the scent, the scent from the spice jar, lingers like a memory, and it is warm and sweet and good as kindness from a stranger.

Putting good into the world . Not thoughts and prayers, not preaching.

I thought of my mother, who taught me, almost aggressively, to look after Number One – because no one else will , she used to say, with a laugh that sounded brittle and harsh, like a flock of seagulls.

But putting good into the world – that sounds so right, so simple.

Making the world a better place, with nothing but lentils, and flour, and love.

‘Do you have somewhere to go?’ he said.

It was a pertinent question. With money – even a small amount – there are still options for someone like me.

But with no money at all, we find our options greatly reduced.

Without money, everything costs. Water, the chance to wash your hands, permission to sit in a public place without attracting attention.

All of these things are permitted to those who belong, which means money.

Without it, the things that we think of as free – free restrooms, free seating, free bread rolls with soup, free water, free movement to all kinds of places where only the moneyed are welcome – all of these things that ordinary people take for granted suddenly need to be paid for.

‘There’s a women’s shelter I know. If you need it, here’s the address.’ He passed me a little yellow card. ‘Tell them I sent you.’

I thanked him. My face was suddenly hot.

I know how hard it is to find a shelter in a city this size.

And today I was feeling especially raw. The doctor, saying my child was a boy; the looting of my travel bag; the theft of my cash and the pink bootees – all this had left me with the unsettling feeling that somehow my future was slipping away, stolen, by the sly north wind.

I turned again, with the scent of those spilled spices fretting the chilly air, and set out into the city streets, as red as powdered chocolate.