The longer it continued, the stronger Stannard’s feelings of physical nausea. The boy’s humiliation disturbed him the most. The physical wounds would heal, but the mental ones would fester for years. Stannard understood why Courtney was convinced that an accommodation had to be made with Kenya’s native people. The pent-up rage emanating from the onlooking staff was almost tangible, yet the whites who were egging Sir Percival on seemed oblivious to the troubles they were storing up for themselves.

By the tenth stroke, Sir Percival appeared to be struggling.

‘I say,’ someone declared, ‘poor old Percy’s in danger of a heart attack. Anyone else want a go?’

‘I’ll do it,’ another replied.

‘Attaboy, Quentin!’ came the shout as a man emerged from the scrum and marched towards Sir Percival.

He was old enough to be Stannard’s father and considerably fatter than the man he was taking over from – indeed, he was obese. He carried his weight like a weapon with which to bully anyone smaller or weaker than himself.

Something made Stannard glance at Leon Courtney. He had his eyes fixed on Quentin and his face bore an expression of loathing that seemed out of keeping with the self-confident, generous nature Courtney had demonstrated earlier.

‘Let me help you with that, old boy,’ Quentin said.

‘Much obliged,’ Sir Percival wheezed, handing over the whip.

Quentin smacked it gently against his palm a couple of times, then went to the boy and said something to him. The words were too quiet for anyone else to hear, but Stannard could see the boy’s eyes widen. Whatever Quentin had said had made him frightened.

With good reason. The last five strokes were delivered with a brutal fury. Each one drew blood; the beaten boy howled and brought a deeper look of savage satisfaction to Quentin’s face.

When it was over, the boy let go his grip on the chair and collapsed to the ground. Quentin stood over him for a moment, like a hunter over his dead prey, then walked to the other club staff and strolled past them, smacking the whip against his palm.

The message was clear. Quentin would do the same to any black Kenyan who broke the rules. Stannard was overcome with disgust at this vile sadist and the supposed gentlemen who were encouraging him on. He felt his stomach heave, his throat gag, and he bent over and was violently sick.

Billy Atkinson saw Stannard bent double, puking his guts out on the tarmac.

‘Aye, like I said, soft,’ he crowed.

His teammates, who had spent the afternoon running across the outfield fetching the balls that Stannard had hit to all corners, took delight in seeing their sporting tormentor humbled.

Stannard went out onto the lawn outside the clubhouse to get some fresh air. He was still there, trying to clean the mess off his clothes and shoes, when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to see his captain, Arthur Henderson, who said, ‘A word with you, young man.’