There was a hiatus before a rush of small talk filled the void. Betty placed the dessert on the table and sank into her chair. Thank God, the dinner was almost over. She felt limp with exhaustion, as though she had been through an endurance test, or run a marathon. At least the food had arrived on the table piping hot and truly commendable. Now she was grateful for the distraction as her guests offered compliments on a vanilla mousse that was covered in crisp threads of spun toffee. Perhaps she could relax at last, and the conversation would settle at a manageable level. There would be coffee in the sitting room in a few moments, and the men would go to Raphael’s study for brandy and cigars. What in the world had they always talked about before this political upheaval, she wondered. And would things ever be the same again? As Raphael rose to pour dessert wine into their glasses, Camilla suddenly spoke out. Her eyes were hard and bright. Just like her mother’s, Betty thought.

‘You said you’d look into the question of Langani Farm, though, Daddy. You promised you’d see what could be done to help Jan and Lottie to stay on there.’

‘I can’t arrange special favours, Camilla.’

‘But you promised,’ she persisted, ignoring George’s discomfort. ‘So what have you managed to do, Daddy darling?’

Dr Hayford was leaning forward with a smile on the corner of his wide lips, intrigued by the predicament of the British diplomat.

‘I think I’ll discuss that with Jan and Lottie at some later date, if you don’t mind, my dear.’ George turned to address Jan directly. ‘I gather you’ll be down here for a few more days?’

‘We will, yes. And if you have the time, I’d be glad to have a talk.’

Jan was more than willing to shelve the matter for the present. The atmosphere had become tense. He wondered where the Ghanaian doctor fitted into all this. It was difficult to understand why Raphael had invited a kaffir to dinner – even a well-educated one. The man was charming, but they were all the same, no matter where they’d been to school or what they were wearing. He could not envisage ever having a black man at his own dinner table.

They rose after the meal and the women made their way to Betty’s dressing room beside the main bedroom. She could hear the men in the study, their voices cheerful and companionable.

‘I think we’ve had enough talk about our uncharted future for one evening.’ Betty stood at the open window and took several deep breaths to compose herself, but the air seemed heavy and dull and she felt no better when she turned back into the room. ‘It seems that the old rule of no politics, sex, or religion at the dinner table is good advice.’