He sat forwards, trying to read Mugabe’s face. Mugabe’s life was so different and he thought so differently; it was hard to know what went on inside his mind.

‘I think it would be wise to issue a general denunciation of such conduct, and hope that is has some restraining effect,’ Stephen said at last.

Mugabe didn’t reply. Stephen felt confused, impotent. Sweat prickled his forehead as he searched for words to try to get through to him. There was a knock on the door and Dixon pushed it open before Stephen could say ‘Come in’. Dixon’s brow was furrowed with anxiety.

‘Nkosi Richardson has come,’ he said.

Stephen experienced a flash of intense irritation. What did Mark want now? Lately, it seemed that he was always hanging around La Rochelle. Mugabe was already on his feet, moving towards the door.

‘Please don’t worry,’ said Dixon. ‘You have time. I sent Gideon out to keep him talking.’ Stephen smiled gratefully. ‘I will show Mr Mugabe out by the back door,’ he finished.

They said a hasty goodbye. ‘When you agreed to help us, a great stone was lifted from my heart,’ said Mugabe, shaking his hand. ‘Please don’t withdraw your support.’

Moments later, Mark strode into the parlour.

‘Nice chap, that Gideon,’ he remarked. ‘I never realised he was interested in butterflies. He’s just been telling me about the different species in your garden.’

Smiling inwardly, Stephen offered Mark a whisky. Mark was getting a little stooped, he noticed, and had developed a way of thrusting his head forwards, chin raised, to look into one’s eyes with a serious, worried expression. They went to the veranda to enjoy their drinks. The air was soft and warm as a bath.

Stephen said, ‘So, how are things in Sakubva?’

Mark took a long drink and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. ‘There are still outbreaks of gang violence.’

Stephen grimaced. ‘It’s a bad business. Have you been called up?’

Mark shook his head. ‘Actually, official policy is to intervene as little as possible. So long as the blacks are breaking each other’s heads and burning their own property, they’re only hurting the African cause.’

‘Hmm.’

‘When I first met you and Ginie,’ Mark began, ‘I’ll admit I was somewhat influenced by your ideas about the Africans, but now I’m not so sure.’ He swallowed another mouthful of Scotch. ‘Look, I think teaching them to farm was a good thing – they have an aptitude for the work and we all benefit. But the unrest in the townships has convinced me that they’re simply not up to political engagement.’

Stephen frowned, wanting to object, but recognising the futility of trying to change Mark’s mind.

Mark raised his chin and narrowed his eyes. ‘I gather you’ve been talking to Sithole and his friends,’ he said casually.

Stephen looked at him in surprise.