I’d bought Riaan practical gifts that he could use at digs as well as books about paleontology and evolution. I’d also dug around in his garage until I found the saber-toothed cat’s tooth he’d found in the cave on his property all those years ago when we were children. I had it mounted in a glass box and attached a plaque that was engraved with: Riaan van Tonder, taking part in earth-shattering discoveries since 1944.

There had been a lot of excitement recently. The Wits University paleontologists believed they’d found the most complete ape-man skull ever excavated, a 1.5-million-to-2-million-year-old skull of a female cousin of early man. It was still very hush-hush, but Riaan had been a volunteer at the Drimolen site when it was found next to the lower jaw of a male. I was proud of him and wanted him to know that I saw the potential in him that had never been allowed to be realized. He was rendered speechless by the gift and so I knew he liked it.

For Ruth, I’d made a framed collage of all the articles that had been written about her over the years, interspersing them with photos of her from magazines as well as newspaper headlines that spoke of her shocking exploits. In the center of it, I’d had the Helen Keller quote on courage written large, in calligraphy: Never bend your head. Always hold it high. Look the world straight in the eye.

She hooted with joy when she opened it.

Ruth, true to her nature, gave me a selection of silk and lace lingerie and sleepwear that made me blush; it also made Riaan flush until his face matched the color of his Father Christmas suit.

One of Riaan’s gifts to me was a leather-bound Bible with my name embossed in gold. “In case you want to start reading the scriptures again,” he told me, piercing me with his sincerity.

After a huge lunch, Riaan brought out a cake.

“Thank you for not being in charge of it,” I said to Ruth, seeing the plain chocolate cake with Happy Birthday, Delilah written on it in gold icing. “No fondant, thank God.”

“Don’t thank me just yet,” she replied, proceeding to cover the cake with fifty-eight miniature candles that she lit with painstaking slowness for emphasis.

When she was finally done, I pulled Mandla up on my lap, asking for his help in putting out the blazing fire. He blew once or twice, ineffectually, and grabbed at the cake halfheartedly.

“Does he feel hot to you?” I asked, trying not to inject any alarm into my voice. It was difficult to tell because his temperature ran to hot and he’d felt that way for ages.