The hammer rang once. A spark jumped off the anvil and did not go out. It waited. They followed.

It rolled across the Green, through the kitchen door, and tapped the steel pass.

The old pot on the stove had a new handle riveted on. A tiny hammer was scratched beside the rivets.

Bà Tư was reading a note from the bus depot. "The night drivers want lemon cake," she said. "Something warm at two in the morning."

She gave out the jobs at once. "Pie reads the recipe. Halver bakes. Lan and Beto measure. Hands washed first."

Lan opened the cupboard for the measuring cups. It was empty.

"The dishwasher broke at lunch," said Bà Tư. She nodded at the sink. It was piled high with dirty cups and bowls. "Everything is waiting for a wash. Nothing goes in the bin, but nothing is clean either."

Beto dug through the drawer. Right at the back he found one small metal scoop, still shining.

"One clean scoop," he said. He turned it over. "It says one quarter cup."

Pie unpinned the recipe card and read it aloud. "Flour: three quarters of a cup. Sugar: half a cup. Milk: one third of a cup."

"We only have a quarter," said Lan.

"Then we count in quarters," said Pie. "Three quarters of a cup is three scoops. One, two, three."

"And sugar?" asked Beto.

"Two quarters make a half," said Pie. "So half a cup is two scoops. Name the piece before you serve it."

Lan filled the scoop with flour and levelled it with a knife. One. Two. Three. Then two scoops of sugar. It was easy.

"Milk," said Beto. "One third of a cup." He filled the scoop and tipped it into the bowl. "One quarter. Near enough."

A tall grey heron was standing by the back door, where a chalk line ran across the floor from 0 to 1. Her name was Liner. She had a satchel of little flags.

"Step exactly where you mean to," said Liner. "Is a quarter the same spot as a third?"

She planted a flag for a quarter. Then she planted one for a half. Then she planted one for a third, between them.

"A third is further along," said Lan. "A quarter is short."

"So try two scoops," said Beto.

Liner walked along the line. "Two quarters is a half. That is past the third." She planted the flags again. "One scoop is short. Two scoops is too much. No number of quarter scoops lands on a third."

Beto stared at the scoop. "So the recipe is impossible."

"The scoop is fine," said Liner. "The recipe is fine. They just don't meet."

Halver came over, drying her hands on a towel. She looked at the flags for a moment.

"The part won't fit," she said. "So change the whole."

"What does that mean?" asked Lan.

"How many cakes do the drivers want?"

Bà Tư checked the note. "There are three crews. One cake each would be lovely."

"Then we bake three cakes," said Halver. "Three thirds of a cup make one whole cup. And a whole cup is four quarter scoops."

Beto worked it out on the back of the recipe card. One cake needs a third of milk. Three cakes need three thirds. That is one cup. Four scoops.

"Now the flour," said Halver. "Three quarters, three times."

"Nine scoops," said Lan. "And the sugar is two scoops, three times. Six."

Pie wrote the new numbers in pencil beside the old ones. "Nine, six, four," she said. "Every one of them a whole number of scoops."

"I used to be terrible at sharing," said Halver. "Now I'm terrible at small recipes."

Lan took the scoop. She counted every scoop out loud, so that Beto could check her.

Nine scoops of flour. Six scoops of sugar. Four scoops of milk.

Halver poured the mix into three tins and slid them into the oven. Bà Tư stood by the oven door.

The kitchen smelled of lemon. At the end, the clean scoop went into the sink with everything else.

Bà Tư wrote the recipe on a card for Lan. It was the second of four recipe cards for the feast.

Back on the Green

The spark dimmed to a warm dot and settled back on the anvil. The Green was just the Green again.

At home, Lan's dad was making pancakes. "Half a cup of milk," he said, "but I can only find the big jug."

"How many pancakes do we want?" asked Lan.