So we’re standing outside Pye’s house, and still the rain’s not raining properly: just occasional drops.

Macca’s round the corner now, and Grandpa Byron shakes his head as he watches him go before bending down to lift up the box of masks. He sees me looking at them and straightens up.

“They’re for Diwali. We’re organising the first Northeast-coast Diwali celebration in the autumn. My friend Baru left them here when he did his milk round first thing. Here.” He picks out the mask that Macca had been using. “This is Kali. You know Kali?”

“She who is death,” I say, and Grandpa Byron grins.

“Very good! Your father tell you that?” I can’t help glancing over at Pye and nodding. He heads indoors.

“Did he also tell you she is the consort of Shiva, the most supreme, the most pure? You see, ‘Kal’ also means ‘time’, and the ‘i’ means ‘cause’ – so Kali is ‘the cause of time’ – the one who allows us to perceive everything, to experience time passing, whereas Shiva, her other half, is timeless. Do you get it?”

I follow Grandpa Byron back into the kitchen – I don’t know where Pye has gone – and he picks up the mask again, staring at it a little dreamily.

I’m not sure I do get it actually, not completely, but I nod anyway. It’s just good to hear him again. He smiles at me, his gold tooth glinting.

“You’re a canny kid you are, son. Too many like you know absolutely nowt about their heritage.” He’s sipping from a large mug and leaning back against the kitchen counter. “Lose sight of the past and you are blind to the future, that’s what I say to Pye.”

“Is that chai?” I ask. I have sort of moved across to where Grandpa Byron is standing and I pretend to sniff at the cup he’s holding. Really I’m trying to smell him, but it doesn’t work. All I get is the whiff of the sweet milky chai.

“Why, yes it is – do you want some?” He turns to get another mug and pours from the steaming jug. “That is so jolly splendid you like chai! I am hoping I’ll meet your parents soon – what is your father’s name?”

I don’t get to reply, because at that moment the answer comes back into the kitchen as a very welcome interruption.

“Can I show Al the fireworks, Daddy-ji?” Pye’s by the back door with his hand on the handle.

“Go on, then – take these masks with you and put them on the shelf.”

Most of the houses on Pye’s street have got a tiny shed in the back garden, just about big enough for a lawnmower to mow the tiny lawn. Pye’s shed, though, takes up half of the outside space. Inside, just like the kitchen, it’s full of stuff, yet tidy. Even the shed windows are clean, and not covered in cobwebs. It smells of fresh wood and old paint.

On the floor, pushed up against the wooden wall, is a huge silvery metal trunk, like a cupboard lying on its side. Straining, Pye lifts up the lid. “Check this out!”

Inside the trunk is packed to the brim with fireworks, but unlike any fireworks I have seen up close in my life. There are huge cake-shaped drums with countless blue fuses, multi-coloured canisters the size of a Pringles tube, and rockets that must have been nearly two metres long, dozens and dozens of them. I pick one up and hold it up to the light from the window, gasping at its weight.

“Wow! Diwali again?”

“Yep. It’s going to be the biggest firework display ever seen. You’ve got to come!”

My attention has wandered already, though. Because propped up in the corner of the shed is the reason I am here, and my stomach gives a little lurch as I remember why.