The low, rhythmic croaking of bullfrogs halted abruptly at the sound of Sarah’s footfall, starting up again when she stood still to breathe in the cold, highland air. The African sun had begun its slide down the horizon and she leaned against the verandah post to watch its majestic, red-gold retreat into the earth. There was a chugging sound from the generator, a slow crescendo that brought with it the glow of lamps inside the house. Darkness always came so swiftly, with its sprinkling of early stars. Night jasmine and the scent of woodsmoke masked the daytime smell of dust and gum trees. Beyond the protection of Lottie’s garden, she heard the high bark of a zebra. Voices and laughter drifted out into the beginnings of the night to blend with the whirr and rasp of crickets and tree frogs. From the servants’ quarters came the faint, tinny sound of a radio playing African music. She turned back into the bedroom, realising that she would be the last one to appear for dinner.

She had come in from the ride charged with excitement. They had all started out in the early afternoon, ambling through a grove of jacaranda trees where the lavender-blue flowers had fallen to cover the ground in a drifting carpet that shifted and swirled beneath the horses’ hooves. Beyond the trees, the brittle grass trembled in a white heat haze. They sat for a while on the edge of the plain, waiting for their eyes to become accustomed to the glare. Then Piet beckoned and they rode out into the blazing afternoon, skirting the boundaries of the tribal reservation.

Dotted across the hillside were the shambas of the farm workers. Their allotments were terraced and planted with maize, the heads of the corn cobs ungainly on their disjointed stalks, broad leaves falling, spiky and bleached, away from feathery tops. Every boma had a flock of goats and a clutch of scrawny chickens chucking and scratching in the dry, packed-earth clearing around the huts. Women sat on the ground outside, wrapped in bright kanga cloth, pounding the corn to make posho, the staple diet. Naked toddlers played and rolled in the dust. Dogs with curled tails opened an eye to the afternoon glare and growled half-heartedly. The sing-song of women’s voices carried on the heat-laden air.

‘You hardly ever hear the babies crying,’ Sarah said. ‘Unless they’re sick or something.’