Stephen had more moral courage than she did, and he cared less what other people thought. Nevertheless, he too was feeling the strain. All the while, the spectre of the anonymous letter-writer hovered over them both, his identity a mystery. They were helpless, waiting for him to strike again. They had limited their contacts to a handful of trusted friends: the Richardsons, also Wim and Linette Schekman – the Dutch couple who ran Kukwanisa. Ginie had avoided being alone with Mark and hoped he had put their kiss behind him. The memory of it was mortifying and made her burn with shame.

On a sultry summer’s day, the Courtaulds drove to meet Mark at the farm. The Schekmans greeted them warmly; both were large, genial and fair-haired. The heat had brought clouds which were appearing over the hills, crowding each other as they built into sullen purple masses. The Courtaulds walked around the property with Mark, while Wim finished his work and Linette made tea.

They didn’t talk much as they strolled through the small nursery of pines and conifers that had been planted around the school buildings. As they headed out towards the fishponds, the orchards and the maize fields, Ginie began to sweat. She could feel it running down her back and thighs under her dress. They passed the herd of pigs that was already producing porkers and baconers for the market, and the hen houses. Based on current laying rates, Mark said it was predicted that they would lay over a thousand eggs this year.

They came to a group of young men hoeing a field of peanuts, sweeping steadily and rhythmically, through the weeds. All wore the Kukwanisa uniform of khaki shorts and bush shirts.

‘They look so dapper,’ Ginie said, smiling. ‘How do you decide who works where?’

‘We split the boys into teams of eight and give them different areas of the farm to run,’ Mark answered. ‘Then we have instructors, who make sure that each pupil has plenty of individual attention.’

‘It looks like it’s all running smoothly.’

They began to make their way back, stopping to watch a herd of handsome cows being driven to the milking shed with slaps and whistles. The Schekmans’ son, Jon, was running towards them. He was about seven years old, sturdy and tanned with tousled blond hair.

Ginie hugged him. ‘They’re making a funny noise, aren’t they?’ he said of the cows.

‘It sounds like they’re grumbling,’ said Ginie, her arm around his shoulders. ‘It’s rather funny to grumble to each other like that, isn’t it?’

‘Mhmm! The first calves that were born here were called Ginie and Stephen,’ Jon said, excitedly.

‘Yes, I know. How lovely!’

‘I nearly forgot. Mummy says come and have tea.’