‘We’ve been riding together since we were totos on the farm. His father was Pa’s first stable hand. He used to ride and train horses for Lord Delamere, but he was always getting drunk after the races. When he was finally sacked, he came home to sit round and watch his wives work on his shamba. Now he rules the stables like the despot he is, but it’s mostly Kipchoge, as his oldest son, who takes care of the horses.’

‘And does he think he’s going to have a stable of his own horses right after Independence?’ Sarah asked. ‘Apparently the new politicians are telling people they can have everything the white people own, as soon as the British leave.’

‘I don’t think Kipchoge has a very high opinion of politicians. Most of them are Kikuyu and he’s a Nandi, so there’s already ingrained tribal suspicion there. In my opinion there are going to be more problems among the tribes here than between the different races. But the transfer of power and ownership from white to black will be slow. Kipchoge and I grew up together and he’s more like my brother. Our generation will work together, black and white, to make a new country.’

‘What does your father think about that idea?’ Sarah’s comment was sly.

‘Pa has old-fashioned ideas, but his heart is good,’ Piet said, smiling. ‘He’s always known Africans who had no education, no interest in farming as we would define it. I think he’s secretly optimistic though, for all his gloomy predictions.’ He turned in the saddle and waved an arm. ‘Here’s the rest of our little posse. We can ride tomorrow if you like. Just the two of us, early in the morning before my sister and Lady Camilla get up. Let’s head down to the river and water the horses.’

Piet led the way through thorn trees hung with the round, swinging nests of weaver birds. Sarah rode beside him in a trance of happiness, taking in the golden, sun-curled hairs on his forearm, listening to the broad cadences of his Afrikaans voice, finding each sentence quite beautiful in its mingling with the low whinnying of the horses, the creak of saddle leather and the saw of grasshoppers. They dismounted beneath a canopy of thorn trees, and Piet took a package from his saddlebag and a knife from a sheath attached to his belt.

‘We can drink from the river. It comes straight down from Mount Kenya, as clear and clean as you can get. And I brought some biltong that Pa and I dried and cut.’