‘Yes, but I can take it.’ She lowered her voice to a murmur and Ginie had to lean forwards to hear her. ‘If I keep quiet, the others are safe. I know how to shut my mind off from what’s happening. I think of my children, or Eliot, when we were courting.’ The ghost of a smile played around Mary’s lips, and for a moment, Ginie saw the girl she must have been: pretty and forthright and radiantly in love, walking beside her sweetheart, laughing at something he had said.

‘You’re so strong,’ Ginie said, awed. ‘I don’t think I could be as brave as you are.’

‘I am not strong, really,’ she whispered. ‘I can’t stand being away from my children. It’s breaking me apart.’

Somewhere, a door screeched open and banged shut. Ginie thought she heard a woman scream.

Slowly, painfully, Mary said, ‘I worry about them so much, I can’t sleep.’ There was a spasm of coughing, one hand clutching the front of her dress. It was a few minutes before she could continue. ‘Sophie has spots on her face. It makes her shy to go out, sometimes she is teased and comes back crying. Tamai is a poor eater. His favourite food is a good broth made from chicken bones – he always finishes his bowl and asks for more. Please ask Zandile to make it? It will build up his strength and help his body fight illness when winter comes.’

‘Yes, of course. Gladly.’

‘How is La Rochelle?’ Mary asked, ‘I miss it. Tell me the news – I need something good to think about.’

‘Well, the home crafts club is in fine shape. Lucia is running our school, but she’s not half as good with the children as you are.’

They began to talk about the pupils, clinging to mundane everyday details, which seemed, at that moment, infinitely precious. The warden who had been stationed outside the open door to monitor the visit; a heavyset blonde woman with hard blue eyes, poked her head in. ‘Five minutes left,’ she announced.

There was so much more to be said. Ginie could feel all the unspoken words hanging in the air between them, but she felt too numb and clumsy to articulate them.

‘Do you know the worst thing about prison?’ Mary asked, eventually. ‘After missing my children?’

‘No, what is it?’

‘There is prejudice, even in here. The white prisoners are in a different block with better food, and they aren’t knocked around like we are. When I learned that even in prison we’re treated worse than the whites. . . Well, now I know what oppression really means.’

The warden had come into the room. ‘Time’s up,’ she said, putting her hands on Mary’s shoulders and yanking her roughly to her feet. Mary’s lips trembled, tears spilling down her cheeks. Ginie stood up too.