The words on the cover say ‘Josie’s Book of Protest’. It’s written in her arty swirly handwriting. I wasn’t expecting to feel so nervous about opening this. It’s like I’m meeting my nana for the first time. I take the chime out of the silk purse in my pocket, hold it in my hand and turn to the first page. There’s a black-and-white photo of Nana in a straw hat. Her hair is wound into long thick plaits. She must be about twenty years old. She’s smiling at me.

I turn the next page. There’s a card, it says Josie Levenson – it’s an Anti-Apartheid membership card. In a little envelope stuck on underneath there are some small black-and-white photos and newspaper clipping of people on marches holding banners. There’s one of Nana Josie in America on a Civil Rights march. It’s hard to believe that not very long ago there was segregation in American schools. It’s scary to think about. I peer at one picture. I think the tall woman with the floaty long dress might be Hope. It’s so weird to see old people when they were young. I pick out Simon in a crowd, pushing along his bike. It actually looks like the same one . . . Simon hasn’t even changed that much, except in the picture his beard and hair are thick and sun-streaked, hugging his face like a mane. He’s got the same playful expression in his eyes. I wonder if he’s ever cut his hair.

I flick forward. The book is crammed full of articles and leaflets about marches, campaigns, protests and vigils . . . I’ve seen some of those on the news, people standing on pavements of flowers and lit candles. I love the way that Nana’s arranged tickets and articles on each page, like she knew they were important. She’s written a list of all the marches she’s been on, and on one page there are lots of slogans. At the head of another she’s written the lyrics for protest songs. I think Krish would like to read that page. Why did she record all these things so carefully? I suppose it’s just that she wanted to keep a record, like people post things on Facebook . . . but actually not, because it feels like she always knew someone in our family would hold it in their hand eventually and maybe treasure it . . .

There’s an article about rabbits that they test make-up on. Who could think up doing something like that? The rabbits’ eyes are all swollen and it says here that some of them go blind – just so people can use make-up. Maybe if Kez knew this she wouldn’t be so into her eyeliner and mascara. I’ll have to tell her to check if they’ve tested it on animals. Maybe people don’t think about this stuff. I never have before. There’s all these pictures of how animals are slaughtered. I can’t even look at them.

I turn another page and wish I hadn’t, because there’s a photo of Simon on his bike with flowers threaded through the wheel spokes and garlands around his neck, and apart from the flowers he’s not wearing anything else. He’s riding alongside a girl with curly red hair streaming down her back; wild and long like a cloak, covering her milky-white skin. She reminds me a bit of Kez. Apart from the hair and flowers, she’s naked too. Behind them someone is holding a placard that says ‘Naked Bike Ride – Campaign against Climate Change’. I suppose if you’re wearing no clothes and you’re riding a bike, you’re definitely going to get your message across!

I quickly turn over the page as Simon makes his way step by steady step back towards the table. I feel like I should help him, but I know that when Kez wants help she prefers it if you wait till she asks for it and I suppose it might be the same with Simon.

‘There you have it . . . Job done! One Protest Book handed over!’

Simon finally manoeuvres himself into his seat and turns the book towards him.

‘I haven’t looked at this for a long time. It doesn’t help, poring over the past when you’re trying to let go, but I don’t suppose one last peek will do any harm!’

He balances a pair of glasses on the top of his nose and slowly turns the pages.

‘The last time I looked through this was after your nana died. She didn’t throw much away, did she? There’s more than half a century of campaigning in this book.’

Simon pulls a drawer open on the table and takes out an envelope.

‘Here – you can stick these in too if you want . . . a few things I’ve got involved in since she died . . . It all belongs together really.’

I take the envelope from him.

‘You interested in all this?’ Simon asks me.

I nod.

‘Then take your time, look it all up . . . or the things that stoke you anyway!’ He leafs to the end of the book. ‘Ah yes! This was the very last march Josie came on with me. Against the Iraq War . . . and now, well, don’t get me started.’ Simon’s voice wobbles. ‘See, I shouldn’t have looked!’

‘I have a friend, Pari. She’s from Iraq,’ I say.

Simon nods. It’s like he’s waiting for me to say more.

‘I don’t know her very well yet. I only met her this term. I think her parents might have come here because of that war. I’m not sure though.’

‘We were at the march against that war,’ Hope says, and shakes her head. ‘Not that it stopped them.’

Simon nods his head to his chest and closes his eyes.

I stand up because I think maybe he’s getting tired and wants me to go. Hope walks over to Simon, places her hand on his shoulders and leaves them there.

Tears appear in the corners of Simon’s eyes. ‘I don’t know where these are coming from!’ he says, wiping them away with his hand.

I open the packet of tissues I got from the girl on the tube and hand one to Simon. He tilts his head to one side and smiles at me with his lips closed; his mouth’s a small upward curve, part lost in his beard.

‘Are you a crier then, Laila Levenson?’

I shake my head. ‘Hardly ever.’

‘I never have been either, but just recently I’ve been finding the tears flowing. It’s a new one on me!’ He looks up at Hope like she might have an answer. ‘Maybe it’s seeing all these apartheids now, all harder to fight against in their own way than the ones we fought, eh, Hope?’

She nods and now she looks like she’s about to cry too.

Simon tries to pick up the Protest Book, but doesn’t manage it. Instead he places it back down on the table.

‘Too heavy for me to carry around now.’

Someone has painted a snake with orange-and-black markings on the back cover. Simon reaches out and runs his hands over the painting.

‘Why’s there a snake on the back?’ I ask.

Simon shrugs. ‘Not sure! Josie was into Eastern symbolism, Karma and all that . . .’

‘We had a snake in our kitchen!’

Simon’s tears turn to laughter. ‘Just passing through, was it? Should we have a little meditation for Josie? Got a light, Hope?’ He grins at her, like it’s their joke. She nods, feels around in her pocket, takes out some matches and lights the candle again in the middle of the table.

Then Simon and Hope do nothing. They just sit and stare at the flame. I do the same but I feel like such a fake. This reminds me a bit of a vigil – well, it could be if I knew what I was supposed to be thinking about. After what seems like ages, the person who comes into my mind as I watch the flame tilting, shrinking and growing is . . . Pari.

I wish I’d said goodbye to Simon and Hope before they started this, because the two of them are just sitting there with their eyes closed and breathing softly. It would be rude to just leave, but how do I know how long they’ll stay like this for? I’m starting to get worried about what’ll happen if Mum and Dad find out I’ve actually not been at Kez’s. I’m thinking about coughing or making a noise getting up, when a bird sets off, making a bit of a racket. Simon opens his eyes and looks up through the glass roof to the almost-bare branches of the tree.

‘Strong voice for something so tiny! Proper little protester, isn’t it! I wonder if it feels a change in the weather.’

I remember Nana Josie’s chime and think maybe Simon would like to see it. I take it out of my dungaree pocket, slip it out of the silk purse and place it in Simon’s hands.

‘Nana Josie gave me this when I was a baby,’ I tell him. ‘It was given to her when she was a baby too.’

Simon’s examining it closely as the light falls in shafts through the glass roof and it glints in the sunlight.

‘Ah! And there we have it. The orb of sunshine I saw in my meditation!’ He shakes Nana’s chime and then hands it back to me. ‘It’s like a little meditation bell. Give Laila the Banner Bag too, Hope.’

‘Are you sure, Simon?’

‘I am sure . . . Yes! And take her painted banner off my wall. Give her that too.’

Hope hesitates for a minute, like she’s checking again that this is really what Simon wants.

He nods and she goes out into the corridor.

Simon grins at me, wide enough to see his missing tooth.

‘Bye, Laila,’ he says, and closes his eyes again.

I walk past Nana’s yellow poppy painting and wait for Hope.

She’s gone off into a room. She’s taking ages. I’m about to call out and ask her if she wants some help, but just then she reappears with an old green canvas bag that’s about the size of Krish’s cricket kitbag. She’s really out of breath.

‘Sorry, Laila, the old catches are stiff and I had to unhook your nana’s banner. It’s been on Simon’s wall for a while!’

The Banner Bag has worn leather straps dangling over the sides and it’s got two closing locks in a brass colour. It looks a bit like an antique.

‘You keep this safe, Laila.’ Hope takes the Protest Book from me, places it inside the bag and attempts to close it. ‘These fastenings are a bit rusty, but the straps will keep it safe,’ she explains as she ties the leather bits up again. ‘Will you be all right carrying all of this? It’s quite heavy, what with your nana’s banner and all our paraphernalia inside! If I had known, I would have cleaned out some of the old paint . . . placards too. Shall I help you home?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘I think you’ve inherited your nana’s independent nature!’ Hope says, opening the door to the rain. ‘Well then, at least take my umbrella.’ She picks an orange umbrella from the stand by the door and hands it to me.

I thank Hope, press the button so that the umbrella opens wide, and I walk out into the rain carrying Nana Josie’s Protest Book in the Banner Bag.