‘I wonder if there’s anything we can do to make people feel differently about us,’ he mused aloud. ‘Perhaps when our theatre is ready they’ll change their minds?’

28 Catherine, Rhodesia, 1950s

28

Catherine, Rhodesia, 1950s

My mother pulled herself together because she had to. She took up her place again and did all the things she was supposed to, but was rigid and controlled. Before long, there was news on the front page of the Umtali Post that took her out of herself:

MAJOR STEPHEN AND MRS VIRGINIA COURTAULD DONATE $R70,000 TOWARD THE COST OF BUILDING A THEATRE IN UMTALI

There was a short interview with Stephen. He said that in the time he and Ginie had lived in Rhodesia they had seen striking progress, but that it was largely in material things like commerce, industry and infrastructure. He realised that in the early years of colonisation, the emphasis would inevitably be on the material, but he felt that the country had reached a stage where its culture should be developed.

‘It’s on this other side of progress, the educational, cultural and spiritual, that we would like to support.’

Mum read the interview aloud. ‘At least someone understands the need to bring on the culture here,’ she said happily. She loved the theatre. It reminded her of the life she had left behind in England. The school bus drove past the construction site every morning and every afternoon, so I was able to observe its progress and report back to her. Within months, it had grown into a spacious, dreamy building in the art deco style. It was painted cream and pink, with a tower and a glassed-in area at the front for people to have drinks during the interval. It was named the Courtauld Theatre. State-of-the-art and professionally equipped, it was the first of its kind in Africa. The opening had almost been delayed because the seats, which were made in England, were held up on a ship caught in bad weather. Most of the townspeople were so starved of entertainment, they would have happily sat on the floor, but the seats arrived just in time.

My parents took me to the opening night. On the morning of the performance, Mum pulled out the trunk that had the clothes she’d brought from home and together, we readied ourselves to look through it. I knew what lay inside: satin cloaks edged with embroidery or diamante, velvet shoes and satin shoes, elbow-length silk gloves, dresses that were dreamy confections of chiffon or silk or lace, all in glowing colours. It seemed incredible that there were places in the world where these clothes were part of everyday life.

I took pleasure in watching Mum open the trunk, revealing layers of garments carefully wrapped in tissue paper. As she lifted out the top layer, a flurry of moths flew up. Her eyes widened and her face turned red.

‘I didn’t put in enough mothballs,’ she breathed.