Meals became a series of short sentences and yawing silences, as they skirted around potential minefields in their conversation. Anthony would say something light and amusing, and there would be a moment of respite before a word or a gesture brought the cruel stab of remembrance. Then Hannah would become still, her eyes clouded over. Sarah looked inwards, tracing patterns with her fork on the tablecloth, concentrating fiercely on the position of her glass and plate on the table, asking whether they should have coffee at the table or in the sitting room, while Anthony cast about for a new subject. They were like a group of dancers in some elaborate but unfinished sequence, circling one another, moving forward, standing away, touching hands briefly, but unable to achieve lasting contact.

Lottie telephoned and made excuses when Hannah asked to speak to her father. Janni was not well, she said. She was trying to prevent him from drinking heavily, but it had become a near-impossible task. She pleaded with Hannah to come south, so that they could share the burden of their loss.

‘Meet me in Johannesburg, Hannah,’ Lottie begged. ‘You don’t need to come back here. You and I, and Pa, we could all stay with your uncle Sergio for a while. He wants us to go down there together.’

But Hannah would not leave Langani, even for a short time. Neighbours and friends called in to see if there was anything they could do for her. Hannah was polite, remote in her rejection of any offer of help, and after a while the visits dwindled to phone calls. No one could break through the barrier that she had erected. It would take time, they told themselves. Better to leave her to the privacy of mourning. When she was ready to accept their love and assistance she would call, and they would be there for her.