Ginie retrieved some cigarettes and matches from her handbag. ‘Oh, I just keep thinking about Mary. Seeing her taken away in handcuffs. . .’

She lit up a cigarette and blew out the match. She was watching Mark closely, trying to gauge how much he knew. ‘They won’t grant bail, I’m sure of it,’ she said. ‘I want to visit her, but even that is complicated.’ Taking a deep drag, she turned to Mark. ‘Given your connections, I thought you could help me get access?’

A pause followed and lengthened. . . Ginie’s heart fell and fell.

‘I’m not sure,’ Mark said at last. He kneaded his shoulder, avoiding her gaze. ‘I’ll see what I can do, but things are tense right now.’

‘What do you mean?’ She tapped her cigarette into the ashtray.

‘There’s trouble in Sakubva.’ He looked up and met her eyes.

‘Do you mean the strikes?’ asked Ginie. ‘We read about them in the paper.’ There had been a mass boycott of buses because of a proposed increase in fares.

Mark nodded. ‘The authorities are rattled. It’s a bad time to ask for favours.’

‘I understand, but perhaps you could try when it calms down?’

‘Yes, I’m happy to do that for you.’

There was another slight pause before Stephen exhaled and said, ‘I really can’t help sympathising with the strikers. African wages can’t support a rise in the cost of transport. At least it shows that they’re able to organize themselves and retaliate.’

There was no sound but the monotonous, high-pitched whine of the cicadas, which seemed to accentuate the building heat. The air was still and full of dust. Ginie could feel it in her hair and on her skin. Dark clouds moved slowly, covering the whole expanse of the sky.

‘Personally, I like the Africans,’ Wim said. Lightning quivered over the hills; the soft growl of thunder came moments later. ‘I’m just doubtful they’re ready for political activity quite yet.’

‘I disagree,’ said Stephen. ‘They’re getting ready sooner than you think.’

36 Stephen, Rhodesia, 1950s

36

Stephen, Rhodesia, 1950s

Stephen couldn’t sleep. His mind was racing and rain was hammering on the roof like an avalanche of small stones.

He had just returned from a trip to Salisbury, where he’d held successful meetings about the Rhodes National Gallery. He and Frank McEwen had been writing to museums and galleries around the world asking to be loaned work for the inaugural exhibition, and they were getting a good response. Stephen was lending his own paintings, furniture and tapestries, including two pictures by Veronese. In addition, a purchase fund had been formed for building a permanent collection: they were starting to buy paintings by European Masters, based on the principle of quality rather than quantity. Frank deliberately sought out lesser known works by famous artists, rather than greater works by lesser-known individuals.