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

It rolled across the Green, past the long tables that were already set out, and tapped the steel pass.

The oldest of the long tables had a new leg, and a tiny hammer was scratched beside it.

It was the day of the feast. Two hundred people were coming to eat on the Green.

Bà Tư laid four recipe cards on the pass in a row. The plum pie was done. The lemon cakes were done. The summer rolls were done.

"One card left," she said. She tapped it. "Soup. Serves eight."

She called in the crew. Halver and Pie came in from the back. Behind them came a cheerful golden dog in a white chef's hat, carrying a sack of onions. Her name was Scale, and she had come from the bakery to help.

"Eight," said Lan. "And two hundred are coming."

A small traveller in a yellow and teal suit stood by the door with a round medal on a cord. Her name was Unit.

"How much for one?" asked Unit.

Lan read the card. "Two litres of stock for eight people."

"Then divide by the eight," said Unit. "Two litres shared by eight is a quarter of a litre each. Per person, then times the people."

Beto did it in his head. "Two hundred quarters. Fifty litres."

"Easy," he said. "Two hundred is a hundred and ninety-two more than eight. So we add a hundred and ninety-two to everything."

He wrote it on the card. Three onions plus 192. "A hundred and ninety-five onions."

Scale put down the sack. "Adding is not scaling," she said kindly. "A hundred and ninety-five onions for two hundred people is nearly one onion each. Would you eat a whole onion in your soup?"

Beto made a face.

"Find the factor first," said Scale. "How many eights are in two hundred?"

Beto worked it out. "Twenty-five."

"Then everything is twenty-five times," said Scale. "Twenty-five times, all the way down the card."

They went down the card together. Three onions times 25 is 75. Two litres times 25 is 50 litres. Unit nodded. It was the same fifty she had found.

Pie went to the store to fetch the big pot. She came back slowly.

"The biggest pot holds twenty litres," she said. "Fifty will not go in. The tin tells you the whole, and this tin is too small."

Everybody looked at the pot.

Halver looked out of the window at the long tables on the Green.

"Don't split the soup," she said. "Split the people. Four equal sittings. Fifty people each time."

"Four pots," said Lan. "How much in each?"

"Fifty litres shared by four," said Halver.

"Twelve and a half," said Beto. "That fits in a twenty-litre pot."

"Every piece the same size," said Halver.

Bà Tư went out onto the Green and came back with three pots borrowed from the neighbours. Four pots in a row. Twelve and a half litres in each.

The first fifty people sat down as the sun went low.

Lan stood on a low step with the ladle. Bà Tư stood beside her and held each bowl steady. The pots stayed on the table, and the children's hands stayed well away from the stove.

Lan ladled the first bowl of the first sitting.

Four sittings later, two hundred bowls had gone out. Four pots stood empty. The bin by the back door was empty too.

Bà Tư gave Lan the last card. Now she had all 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 school, the teacher said the class was making paper chains: two links for each child, and there were thirty children.

"That's not thirty-two links," said Beto. "That's sixty."