Anthony had piled the brushwood very high. Piet’s body, wrapped in its linen shroud, had been placed in the centre of the pyre, with further layers of wood above him. The sticks were bound in bundles and laid, crosswise, with a precision that was beautiful. The bush had been cleared back for some distance, to prevent the fire from jumping into the surrounding trees once it had been lit. A series of large drums filled with water had been placed around the edge of the clearing, in case the platform threatened to burn out of control. Four of Hardy’s most trusted askaris stood to attention as a guard of honour around the edifice, rifles loaded. Juma, Kamau and Mwangi walked into the cleared space, followed by the remainder of the farm labourers, and everyone stood together before Piet’s tower, heads bowed. The morning sun beat down on the quiet scene, turning brassy as it rose in a cloudless sky. Anthony and Sarah held fast to Hannah and Lottie, and each of them reached out to touch the wood. Lottie pressed a bouquet of flowers from her garden into the lattice work. Her voice was low and trembling, but she reached into her own deep resources of love and bravery to say her words.

‘Sleep now, my darling son. I will always hold you in my heart, my Piet, as I held you to my breast when you were born. You never wanted to leave this place and now you will rest here for ever. Be at one with this land that you loved, my only son, my first-born, beloved boy . . .’