‘Quite so. And when the war was over, they had the same reaction as their white comrades. They’d gone to fight for the Empire, now they wanted something in return. That’s why so many British soldiers voted Labour in the ’45 election and kicked poor old Winston out of Number Ten. I’d never in a month of Sundays do any such thing, I might add—’

‘Thank God for that,’ sighed Sir Percy.

‘. . . but I could see their point. And I can see the Kikuyu veterans’ point, too. They stuck their necks on the line and when they came back, nothing had changed. Bear in mind, these men spent time in India during the war. They know about Gandhi and they’ve seen India gain its independence. Hardly surprising they think, “I’d like a bit of that.”’

‘But Indians are civilised,’ Sir Ronald objected. ‘They had cities, writing, mathematics and all that long before we got there. They were far readier for independence than the African.’

‘The African doesn’t agree,’ said Leon. ‘He may be wrong, but he wants the chance to find out. That’s why this is a matter of self-interest. I’m a businessman and I don’t want to lose my business. So I say, let’s make a deal – they get more say in governing the country, we keep most of our land. Trust me, if we don’t make that deal we’re liable to lose the lot.’

‘No we aren’t,’ Sir Percy insisted. ‘That’s the point. They don’t have the means or the might to beat us.’

‘Gandhi beat us.’

Before Sir Percival could argue the point further, the club’s maître d’, a stately, bald Kikuyu in a sharply pressed charcoal grey suit, walked up to the three men, waited until Sir Percival had acknowledged his presence and then whispered a few words in his boss’s ear.

Sir Percival frowned as he listened, then murmured, ‘You’re quite sure about this?’

The maître d’ nodded.

‘Then I think we should deal with the matter immediately. Get everything ready and we’ll be with you in a few minutes.’

The maître d’ nodded and walked away.

‘What was that about?’ Leon asked.

‘One of the boys was caught trying to steal food from the kitchen. Cheeky little bugger had been going through the dirty plates and picking off bits of uneaten meat.’

Stannard looked aghast. ‘But . . .’

Sir Percival patted him on the shoulder. ‘Sorry, my boy, must dash. If you want to watch the action, Leon, we’ll be in the yard behind the kitchens. I’m going to round up a few of the other chaps. Best be discreet, though. Don’t want to worry the memsahibs.’

The Wanjo chairman disappeared into the crowd of guests. Stannard watched him sidling up to another group of male guests for a brief, conspiratorial conversation and then saw the looks of excitement on their faces as Sir Percival walked away.

‘What’s going on?’ Stannard asked Leon.

‘How long have you been out here?’ Leon replied.