‘Ach, you’re always ready to make excuses for her,’ Hannah said. ‘She’s not capable of connecting with anyone. It’s a shame, and she probably can’t help it, growing up with that terrible woman. But it’s time to be realistic about her, Sarah.’

On Christmas Eve, Sarah drove with Lottie to the nearest mission school where there was a midnight Mass. Kneeling in the pews of the small church she knew that she was the most fortunate and happy human being in the world. Around her voices swelled in the starlit chill of the night, rising with the incense, giving old Christmas hymns the high, keening tone and rhythm peculiar to African songs. The congregation was largely made up farm labourers, dressed for the occasion in unaccustomed, ill-fitting jackets and shoes without laces. The women wore thick, hand-knitted sweaters, and the babies were tucked into blankets tied across their backs, their round heads and wondering faces topped by bright woollen hats. Sarah lit candles for her family in Ireland, knowing they would have loved to be here with her. But they had promised to fly out for the wedding. Lottie took her hand as they joined the songs of praise and celebration, mingling with the jubilant chanting of Kikuyu voices. Sarah felt that for the remainder of her life she would sing like this, in harmony with all the races that surrounded her, sharing and contributing with Piet to the brave hopes of their new nation. Later in the service Lottie knelt beside her, bowed in prayer, her face composed but sad. Jan had not come for Christmas, but he had promised to be there in time for the new year. The midnight air was cold and their headlights pierced a band of mist as they drove home to Langani.