Back at the barn the oranges were cut up and passed around. The kids weren’t quite so angry about being cheated out of half their breakfast after that.

When everyone had eaten, there was a big debate about what to do next.

Mahdi was all for going.

‘If that idiot shoots one of us – or calls the police we’re done.’

His wife was nodding her head, one kid sat on her knee, his head bobbed up and down as her knee shook, the kid didn’t seem to mind though. Bits of the orange were smeared around his mouth and he was licking at the peels.

But beside her, Grandma wasn’t so sure.

‘You look out there, you see the rain. Grandpa will never survive, the kids too. If they get cold there’ll be nowhere to recover. We need to leave yes. But we can’t leave in rain like this.’

In the end, Grandma won. We stayed another night – filling ourselves up with baked potatoes throughout the day.

By the next morning, the rain had eased. As it grew light, we began to pack. But just as we were pulling our bags onto our backs a steady clattering of metal interrupted us.

The Serbian man had returned. Only this time he carried four shovels instead of a gun. He carefully laid the shovels down outside the haybarn, then pulled a few Serbian banknotes from his pocket.

He laid the money – two notes with 500 written on them on the ground, then stared at us with an almost pleading look in his eyes.

‘How much do you think that is?’ I whispered to Ayamin.

‘Not much,’ she said, ‘He doesn’t’ look rich.’

‘Should we take it?’

She shrugged and looked at Grandma, as the rest of the family was doing. The old woman had a hand resting on her chin as she stared at the tools and money in front of her.

The Serbian seemed to realise that the ultimate power lay with her and he held up his hands, running back to his car.

Five minutes later he returned with three cartons of eggs and milk in a steel bucket. He opened each tray of eggs so they faced us, but I hardly noticed. I was too fixated on the frothy milk in the bucket. It felt like years since I’d tasted that creamy goodness.

Grandma raised her eyebrows but didn’t nod yes or no. With a grin, the man produced two tomatoes from his jacket and laid them down beside the eggs. He folded his arms and we all stared at Grandma.

‘Danny, Ayamin, how do you feel about working?’ she asked without turning her head.

I shrugged, ‘My ribs are stuffed, but my stomach has the final say.’

Grandma nodded to me, then turned and nodded to the Serbian. A smile filled his face.

We sat in a circle and passed around the stainless-steel bucket with milk in it while the Serbian farmer watched. The taste was unreal – almost like honey, but cooler and softer. A thick layer of cream had settled on top and I swallowed three gulps before passing it on to Mahdi.

The Serbian took us to the edge of a field and showed us how to dig holes for fence posts. We worked most of the day and then when we’d finished the Serbian came back and sat down to eat with us.

While the kids gave him a few strange looks, Grandma acted as if nothing was different. She gave him the first serving, and we watched with pained eyes as he wolfed it down. When he reached for more Grandma shook her head and replaced the lid.

‘No.’

The farmer shifted his hand away and watched as she served the kids, Grandpa, and finally herself. The pan was empty and his face had gone a bright red. He put down his bowl and stormed out of the barn.

‘Mister Farmer is coming back with his rifle,’ Mahdi said.

His wife shook her head, ‘Mister Farmer’s coming back with the police.’

Their youngest kid sat between them, clutching his mum and shivering with wide eyes, ‘He’s going to bring the train conductors.’

It was almost dark when the farmer returned. He lugged a big brown sack on his back that almost made him sink into the mud.

Mahdi and I stood as the man approached the barn. He stood like a silhouette in the doorway – half Boogieman and half Santa Claus.

He walked inside and upended the sack onto the hay in front of Grandma.

Bread, apples, carrots, flour, oranges, spaghetti, tinned apricots, potatoes, biscuits, and lollies spilled in front of us. The kids’ mouths fell open. Little piles of drool landed on the hay.

But that wasn’t our biggest surprise – the farmer said a word – not in his language, or even English. He spoke in Arabic… and he said ‘Eat.’

‘Eat, eat, eat, eat, eat.’