Freddie and Martha returned in late August. Freddie sent a note to the office proposing a squash match and I left for the Muthaiga straight away. There’d been no break in the weather and even there the grass was beginning to brown at the edges. The bar was blessedly cool but packed. I saw Freddie immediately. He seemed taller and more dazzling than ever in his squash whites. Beside him, Martha looked shrunken and pale.

‘I’m glad you can take him off my hands for a few hours,’ she said as I kissed her cheek. ‘I’m not feeling too well – probably a bug.’

‘Sounds awful,’ I said.

‘You rest yourself,’ Freddie said, patting her head. ‘Poor girl.’

The doors to the patio were open, and even more drinkers were outside, starting on their sundowners and buzzing fretfully in the sticky heat. The light was golden, with purple notes on the horizon that reminded me of Sylvie, still away somewhere with Edie.

A constant flow of people greeted Freddie as we walked to the squash courts, shoes squeaking on the polished floors.

‘Have they been as enthusiastic about British Fascism as you thought?’ I asked.

‘I haven’t done any campaigning yet,’ he said, swinging his racquet. ‘I’ve spoken to a few sympathisers here in Nairobi, to form a base. I’ll wait until my speech at the Sports Club in November before I declare my position.’

‘You think it’ll go down well?’

‘I know it will.’

‘Even if they don’t like the idea I’m sure you’ll manage to talk them round,’ I said. ‘Edie’s started calling you The Golden Touch.’

‘Good.’ He grinned. ‘Now, let’s see how rusty we both are.’

I played better than I had in months and the score was almost even by the end of the match.

‘You must have been down here every day,’ Freddie said, as we shook hands afterwards. I was pleased to see his hair was plastered to his head with sweat and his clothes looked darker and more crumpled than before.

‘Maybe you’re losing it,’ I said. ‘Your golden touch, I mean.’

‘I’ve had other things on my mind.’

He turned away abruptly and started walking towards the changing rooms; I hurried to catch him up, kicking myself – Martha must be worrying him.

‘Sorry to hear she’s sick again,’ I said when we were in step.

‘It’s not a bug.’

‘What is it?’

‘It’s a degenerative disease. She’s not going to get better.’

My mouth fell open and I shut it hurriedly. ‘Sorry,’ I said again, wishing I could think of something more comforting.