There was a tsetse fly scare, but none of our cows have been affected. Apparently we’re in an ‘unclean’ area, meaning there’s fever in the land itself, and we have to dip them – Massiti, the foreman, showed me how. I’ve learned so much from him already. The best thing about the farm is all the extra jobs it’s created for the locals. The other day I was invited to a spear throwing contest – the men all stand in line, with their spears in hand, and a barrel hoop is rolled in front of them and they have to throw to send their spear through the hoop as it rolls past. They take it very seriously. When are you coming home next? Scotty has arthritis.

Towards the end of August, I received a letter from Lucy, telling me that she’d got engaged to someone called Bill.

I thought I should let you know, she wrote. We’re thinking of a summer wedding, maybe December. Nothing big. I hope you’re well.

The next time I went back to Kiboko Maud tried to talk about Lucy to me, but I cut her off.

‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘We were never a good match anyway.’

‘Of course not,’ Maud said. She hugged me for a long time before I went to bed.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Every Friday my father and I took lunch at the club to discuss progress on the legacy project. The third Friday in November I arrived first and took our usual table in the corner. I was going through my list of stations by priority when he appeared beside me, put a copy of the East African Standard on the table and took the seat opposite.

‘I’ve ordered the wine,’ I said.

‘Good. Your friend’s making the news.’

I looked down at the headline. Freddie had left the BUF and was standing for the Kiambu constituency in the general election.

‘I thought he might.’

‘No harm in having friends in high places.’ He ran his fingers through his beard. ‘How often do you see him?’

‘Fairly often.’

‘Good. Let’s try to get him on board, hey?’ He opened his briefcase. ‘What if we go through the budget today?’

‘Fine by me.’

A waiter brought over the wine and uncorked it while my father perused the menu. After he’d decanted it he lingered, eyes downcast, until my father looked up.

‘Bwana Miller?’

‘Yes?’

‘You have someone here for you.’

‘Show him over,’ my father said. He took a sip of wine and smacked his lips appreciatively. ‘And then I’ll have the steak.’

‘For me too,’ I said.

He bowed and left. A policeman was shown to our table, wearing the standard khaki shirt and shorts and carrying his helmet. The noise level in the room dropped for a moment, then got louder. The policeman clicked his heels.