I nodded. ‘My editor wants something about the feel of the place, how the Brits see the war, that kind of thing. Perhaps I can interview you at some point?’

‘Certainly - just call my office. I was here for the Queen’s trip in ’56, so I’m quite used to the pomp and ceremony. Wilson’s rather small potatoes, isn’t he? Reminds me of a bank clerk in those silly raincoats he wears.’

‘He’ll have to ditch them in this heat,’ said Manning.

We all laughed politely.

‘Is Lagos as safe as everyone says it is?’ I asked Sandy. ‘It seems very quiet.’

‘Oh,’ he said, ‘we haven’t had any action here since one of the rebels’ planes attacked the Motor Boat Club two years ago. Didn’t do much harm, though everyone got frightfully excited, of course.’

‘“Rebels”? You don’t think secession was justified, then?’

‘Not really. Ojukwu’s a thug, and Gowon’s doing his best to control a very difficult situation.’

‘What about the accusations of genocide? I’ve heard there were seven thousand Biafran deaths a day due to starvation over the summer.’

He grimaced. ‘A lot of do-gooders with no idea of how this part of the world works are swallowing the genocide line whole. Propaganda, of course - people throw around these enormous figures, but nobody really has the slightest idea. I think the Federals have actually dealt with the situation very well, considering the paltry support they’ve received from our government - and I’ll be telling the PM that when I meet him at State House on Thursday. At the moment, we seem to be simply watching from the sidelines, as usual. Nigeria will carry on with or without us.’

‘Wawa,’ said Manning, nodding his chin.

‘Sorry?’

‘West Africa wins again. Another drink, old boy?’

‘It’s all right,’ I said, ‘I’ll get it.’

I pushed my chair back and headed for the bar.

A steward in a gleaming white uniform and scarlet cummerbund stood behind a makeshift table crammed with bottles and paper cups. With all the poise of a Sotheby’s auctioneer, he surveyed the small crowd gathered round him, eventually nodding to a man in khaki shorts and deck shoes.

‘Star,’ said the man, in the manner of someone who had been wandering through the desert for forty days and nights.

The steward leaned down, scooped a bottle of beer from an icebox, opened it deftly, and handed it to the man.

And that was when I saw her.

She was sitting by herself on a stack of breeze blocks just beyond the bar, in a black bathing suit, a cigarette dangling from one hand. Her face was turned away in contemplation of the water, but the line of her jaw was unmistakable. I made my way through the crowd, stepped over the steward’s icebox and tapped her on the shoulder.

‘Anna.’