She then took the flowers through to the parlour and set them on the table, stepping back for a moment to admire her work. Their full perfume spread through the warm room.

She went back to the kitchen. The saucepan was filled with a lightly simmering pulp and Gideon stood fishing out the fruit stones with a large slotted spoon. Ginie added cupfuls of sugar and they left the jam to boil, its aroma slowly seeping through the house. In the parlour, Dixon brought her two letters. The first was from Mark, a single line that read: I have to see you. There’s something urgent I must explain.

No doubt he wanted to talk about what had happened in the Dell. Ginie sighed. She had slipped into this situation so easily, it was like trying on a shoe. Getting out of it was another matter entirely. The night after the fire, Stephen had come to her room and made love to her in a way he never had before. He did it wordlessly, with a kind of deep, blind hunger, tracing the contours of her face with his fingertips, as though he were trying to read her soul. Her heart had cracked open and a deep spring of love and tenderness flowed out, feelings she feared had been lost for good.

The landscape of Ginie’s emotions could change as quickly as the light and shadows moved over her beloved hills. She was deeply fond of Mark and sorry about the feelings she had aroused in him. Turning her attention to the second letter, she felt the ground slide from under her. The handwriting on the envelope was small and square; it was writing she’d hoped she would never see again.

MY PATIENCE IS RUNNING OUT. LEAVE RHODESIA.

YOU ARE NOT WANTED HERE.

NO MORE CHANCES.

Ginie stared at the words in fear and confusion. She and Stephen had long ago concluded that one of the Thompsons must have written the anonymous letters, but Eric was dead and Jill was in hospital. She struggled to think clearly. If the letters hadn’t come from the Thompsons, then who had sent them?

Some of the petals from her roses had already dropped on to the table wilting around the edges. Whoever had written the letters, he was angry. And he was probably perfectly capable of carrying out his threats.

32 The Courtaulds, Rhodesia, 1950s

32

The Courtaulds, Rhodesia, 1950s

‘I have a favour to ask you,’ said Mary.

She hovered at the threshold of the parlour. Ginie glanced up from a book she was reading.