‘Come, Camilla,’ Hannah said. ‘Sarah’s going with Piet to check on the mare that’s lame. You can help me with some filing in the office, and then we’ll go to the lodge with Simon. You can advise me about the furniture. The rest of them will join us later.’

Later, from the viewing platform, Camilla could see a herd of buffalo making their way across the open ground. She thought of Anthony and the way he could mimic the rumbling sound of an old bull. Tears threatened, and she squared her shoulders and went to see how she could be of help. Simon was constantly at Hannah’s side, writing with precise, neat letters and figures in his notebook, drawing chalk outlines of furniture on to the stone floors.

‘I have made a list of furniture for each room, Memsahib Hannah,’ he said, in his careful English. ‘While you were away I went to your office and prepared them on the typewriter.’

Hannah looked at him in surprise. She was annoyed that he should have gone into her office and used her machine without permission, but relieved that there was yet another routine task he could take off her hands.

‘I can type fast,’ Simon said, proudly. ‘They taught me at the mission and I have passed an exam.’ He hesitated, trying to gauge how best to obtain her approval. ‘You have seen that I have also taken my exam in elementary bookkeeping. I would like to be a proper accountant. But this takes many years and much money.’

‘Maybe when we get the lodge going, we can arrange for you to do a course. If you continue to do well, I’ll ask Bwana Piet about it.’

‘Thank you.’ His face lit up with pleasure as he savoured the idea, but then his expression became downcast. ‘But I do not know if I can do that.’

‘Just keep working hard, Simon, and you’ll be fine. In the meantime, let’s measure this window.’

Looking around her, Camilla realised what an immense labour of love the whole construction had been. Piet had created a haven of light and tranquillity up here on the rocks, above the glorious expanse of the land and the great mountain that presided over it. They deserved to be happy here, Piet and Hannah and Sarah. And perhaps one day Jan and Lottie would come home again, filled with pride at the way their children had carried on the work begun by their forefathers so long ago. She wondered where Lars would fit into the picture, and she looked up at Hannah who was fastening a lampshade on to a base made from a dried-out gourd.

‘I noticed last night that Lars really has a thing for you,’ she said, and laughed as Hannah’s face turned red. ‘Oh my, Han. You have a strong resemblance to Sarah when your skin turns that subtle shade of beetroot.’

‘Did she talk to you about that? About Lars?’