They drove through a grove of coconut and cashew trees on to the road leading to the ferry. It was little more than a dirt track along the cliffs, emerging close to the boat ramp. Sarah could see the ferry, making its lumbering way across the shipping channel that separated the island of Mombasa from the mainland and the blinding glare of the wide, south coast beaches. She eyed her brother as he inspected himself in the driving mirror, smoothing his wiry hair. The ferry pulled in, clanking and swaying on the tide, slowly disgorging cars, bicycles and foot passengers. Poor Tim. He hadn’t a chance with Camilla.

In the airport building they sat on benches under the dusty blades of a wooden ceiling fan. When the aircraft finally landed, Sarah watched her brother take in every detail of Camilla’s cool appearance as she stepped down on to the tarmac – her crisp khaki slacks, the woven leather belt around her narrow waist, the soft cream shirt. Her feet looked delicate in leather sandals and her toenails were painted scarlet. Sarah was aware of her own creased blouse, and her canvas shoes frayed from walking on the reef. Her hair was frizzy from drying in the wind, and her sunburnt nose was peeling.

Tim hovered over Camilla, taking her bag, opening the car door, asking whether she was comfortable, his hand resting for a second on her bare arm. Just like Piet. Sarah buried the thought, avoiding regrets that might derail this last, shared holiday before they were dispatched to far-flung places of learning. She climbed into the car, taking her usual back seat to Camilla. The sun was sinking behind the coconut palms as they drove across the island, and the pink dusk was spiced with the scents of cooking fires and tropical vegetation. Shopkeepers were lighting up their dukas with kerosene lamps or dangling, naked bulbs, and music came from tinny radios, sending a pulse of drumbeats into the warm evening. Camilla leaned back in her seat, welcoming the heat, the smell of seaweed, and the sound of rushing waves.