He turned and went into the house. Ginie stayed outside watching the sky, lost in thought. It felt as though she needed the edge that lay beneath the surface of life in this continent. Perhaps the danger lurking at every corner was part of what made her feel so alive here. The idea of living in a safe and predictable country, full of neat rows of houses and hedged gardens, made her feel utterly disheartened.

Stephen was back.

‘Who was it?’ The wind had picked up; she could feel it crisp against her face.

‘Sergeant de Kock. He said he was sorry for calling us so late,’ Stephen said, raking his hands through his hair, which made it stand on end. ‘Darling, the police have identified the bullet that killed Jongy.’

26 Catherine, Rhodesia, 1950s

26

Catherine, Rhodesia, 1950s

Our house was freezing in winter. Cold radiated up from the floor and through the walls, the iron roof sang and crackled with cold. The air in our sparsely furnished rooms was thin and dry. The linoleum numbed the soles of my feet, my legs ached and my eyes smarted. I could never get warm, despite the fire that glowed in the hearth. Though I felt its heat on my skin, it didn’t penetrate the chill inside me.

My mother had taken to sitting for hours at a time wrapped in a blanket on the battered old sofa in our living room. It was as if she was in a trance. Her skin was flaky and blotchy, and there were deep lines around her eyes.

Dad asked her if she was feeling ill. She gave a fluttering sigh and said that actually, she was. She was suffering from headaches and lethargy. She seemed relieved that illness might be the cause.

He suggested that perhaps she should go to Umtali for a few days, for a rest and a change of scene. She could stay with one of her friends and do some shopping.

‘You want to send me away?’ she cried suddenly, her eyes filling with tears. ‘How will you manage without me? Who will cook and look after Cathy?’

Dad didn’t reply.

‘You’ve fallen out of love with me, haven’t you?’ she said. She sounded shrill, desperate. It was terrible to hear her like this.

Dad went white. He put one hand out to touch her face, but let it fall away before making contact with her skin. I couldn’t bear to look at either of them; my eyes roved around the living room. I saw walls mottled with stains, windowsills that were thick with dust and dead flies, a plate of mouldy apples on the table. I wondered how Mum could have let the house fall into such a state.