We unpacked the dresses with trepidation. I knew that they represented her lost life in England and when she handled them, she was not in Africa with us at all; she was back in England as a young, beautiful girl, her whole life stretching out in front of her, full of promise.

Tears filled her eyes as we discovered that several garments had holes nibbled through them. The insects in our district were insatiable. Moths chewed the fabrics to lace while white ants and borers ate at the supports of our houses. The week before, part of my parents’ bedroom ceiling had collapsed while they slept – ­luckily, not on top of them.

Mum managed to find one undamaged dress: a sheath made out of pale green sequins. She looked almost beautiful in it, once she had dried her tears, done her hair and put her lipstick on. I looked as awkward as I felt, zipped into a scratchy peach-coloured frock with puffed sleeves that I was far too old for. I could feel the elastic biting into the soft flesh of my upper arms as I sat wedged between my parents in our truck, bumping and lurching over the bad roads towards Umtali.

The theatre was a great source of pride for Umtali. There was electricity in the air as the audience awaited the arrival of Governor General Llewellyn, who had come all the way from Salisbury to cut the ribbon.

The auditorium was packed; the whole town seemed to be there. I spotted policemen, farmers, shop owners, the doctor and several of my teachers, all uncomfortably dressed in their best clothes. Most of us were seeing the interior for the first time, admiring the blue stucco and panelled walls, the concealed lighting and the red velvet seats that were soft under my fingertips. Clearly they had spared no expense.

It was very hot. I could smell sawdust, perfume, sweat, greasepaint and slightly musty costumes. As conversation hummed and the pianist played cascades of notes to warm up, I wondered what kind of world the Umtali Players were going to build on top of bare boards. Suddenly, heads swivelled and the air around us changed; Ginie and Stephen had arrived.

I craned my neck for a better view as they walked down the central aisle to their seats in the front row. I had heard a great deal about the Courtaulds, but this was the first time I’d seen them. She was slim with dark hair and she moved as fluidly as a dancer. He was well-built, with aquiline features and greying hair.

‘Talk about making an entrance,’ snorted Anne, who was sitting next to me. She had too much makeup on. Even in the dim light, I could see foundation caked in the long lines that ran from nose to chin.

‘Yes, I know,’ said Mum. ‘But it was good of them to give us the theatre.’ Her eyes flicked up and she froze.