‘Not at all,’ Mark replied. Something in his tone made her look at him more closely. His face was carefully shaved and burnt dark by the sun, but his eyes were tired, the skin around them deeply creased.

‘Cheers.’ They clinked glasses and drank.

‘Is there any news from Guthrie?’ Mark asked.

‘His sister is a little better,’ said Ginie. ‘They’re trying a new drug from America and it seems to help. He doesn’t know when he’s coming back, though.’

‘Tell us how the school is going,’ Stephen said, abruptly.

Planning the school had been more complicated than first envisaged. There had been several obstacles and delays, but they were working hard to overcome them. Despite the Courtaulds’ wealth, they sometimes had difficulties with cash flow and had raised the initial capital by selling the star ruby ring that Stephen had given Ginie in the early days of their marriage. The ring had considerable sentimental value and they were both sorry to see it go, but their determination to get the farming school off the ground was stronger.

Mark had found the ideal location; a stretch of barren Government land forty kilometres outside Umtali. He also knew the right person to run it: Wim Scheckman, a former colleague.

‘We’re getting there,’ Mark said, sitting forwards in his chair. ‘Wim’s busy overseeing the building work. He’s also interviewing teaching staff and stocking the farm.’ He paused, adding: ‘I’m happy to tell you that we have four hundred applicants for the first thirty-three places!’

‘Hurrah!’ Ginie exclaimed, clapping her hands.

‘Although I’m afraid the project is known in town as “Courtaulds’ folly”.’ Mark didn’t look at them when he said this; he blew a piece of fluff off his shirtsleeve with great care. ‘People don’t like us empowering young African students. They feel that any philanthropy should go to white government schools.’

‘We can’t worry about what they think,’ said Stephen. ‘If we did, we’d never get anything done.’

Mark looked up. Ginie met his gaze and drained her whisky in one gulp. ‘We’re wondering what to call the school,’ she said. ‘We’re stumped, actually. Nothing we’ve thought of is quite right.’

‘I have a suggestion,’ said Mark. ‘There’s a word in Shona: Kukwanisa. It roughly translates as “being able to”.’

Stephen tried it out. ‘Ku-kwan-i-sa. Well, it rolls off the tongue.’

‘Yes,’ said Ginie. ‘And it captures our “learning by doing” philosophy.’

‘So? How about it?’

‘I like it,’ said Ginie.

‘Me too!’ echoed Stephen. ‘The Kukwanisa Farm School it is.’

Mark looked pleased. ‘I’m glad you agree.’

When the discussion had run its course, Stephen got to his feet. He asked Mark to excuse him, as he had important correspondence to deal with.

‘Stay and talk to me, Mark,’ urged Ginie. ‘Stephen’s going to be buried in his study for the rest of the day.’

‘I’d love to.’