‘I’m sorry, Theo.’ He shook his head, then burst out laughing.

‘What’s so funny?’

‘I can’t say – you’d just get angry with me again.’

For the first time, I wanted to hit him.

My father had taken a room at The Nairobi Club for nights when he was working late, which seemed to be often. Whenever he did appear we were always impressed by his beard, which had become quite luxuriant, and his nose, which was becoming a very cheerful shade of red. Our mother was busy too, but it seemed to suit her; even the totos seemed more at ease around her. The next time my father came home, she suggested we take a family holiday.

‘Somewhere up the line?’ he asked hopefully. ‘The branch line to Kitale should be finished next week.’

‘I was thinking of the coast,’ she said.

‘Ah, well. That sounds nice,’ he said, and buried his nose in the paper.

In the end our mother took us to Mombasa by herself at the end of November. We hired a house overlooking the beach at Shanzu, a quiet curve of the coastline to the north of the city, with dazzlingly clear waters and sand so fine it felt like talcum powder.

The house was basic: plain white bedrooms with cast-iron beds and crosses on the walls, a sitting room with a few hard-backed chairs, coffee table and bookcase, and a small room, empty apart from a tub – in the middle of the floor – big enough to squat in while the servants poured jugs of water over us; this was the bathroom. The veranda was wide and cool, with three large sofas shaded by palm trees.

There was an outside toilet in a small, dark hut that buzzed with flies. The roof was made of grass and, instead of toilet paper, a tall spike running through a stack of cloth strips was placed within reach. My mother’s cheeks turned pale when she saw it and I felt for her. Not everyone had adapted as quickly as I had.

We ate at my father’s club in Kilindini – fresh fish, quail eggs, watermelon, mangos, white wine and dark coffee – on a hill looking down onto Kilindini harbour, a calming palette of colours. During the day there was the brilliant blue of the Indian Ocean, the shimmering, emerald trails of the fish darting about underwater, the pale blue of the sky and the lush green of the palm leaves. Then, at night, the ghostly phosphorescence following the boats as they slipped quietly out to sea.

I took Scotty for a run every morning along the shoreline and to the harbour. There were boats everywhere, mostly yachts manned by ‘boat boys’ – totos wearing navy-blue trousers and tee shirts. Scotty terrorised them all, chasing them back onto their decks until I called him off.