‘So, de Quehen is angry with me. He called my latest report “cotton wool without substance”. He can’t extract anything concrete from it. I’m afraid he’s losing confidence in me.’

My mother suggested acidly that perhaps Dad hadn’t managed to gather any useful Intelligence about Stephen because he was too busy being sweet on Ginie. ‘You have to be single-hearted and committed,’ she added, ‘to do this job properly.’

‘Perhaps there’s nothing to find out,’ he answered curtly. ‘Stephen’s an honourable man, if deluded. Funding the Nationalists may be stupid, but it’s not illegal.’

There was a pause so long, I couldn’t stand not knowing what was happening. Opening my bedroom door as quietly as I could, I peered through the crack. The late-afternoon sun was coming through the living room windows and shadows had started creeping over the floor.

‘I can’t cope with you on my back too,’ Dad was saying. ‘Give me a break. Please?’

The sunbeams falling across his features made them look chiselled. I could see the shadow of stubble on his face. I knew that it was wiry and coarse enough to hurt my skin when he kissed me goodnight, but in the mellow light it looked downy, which made him seem younger and more vulnerable. My parents exchanged a long, long look and the air between them changed. Dad sat down heavily on the sofa. Mum sat beside him and he leaned his head on her shoulder. Relief surged through me. While he talked, she smoothed his hair back from his forehead.

‘The writing’s on the wall,’ he said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘The townships are a mess. It’s only a matter of time before they turn all that frustration and hatred onto us.’ He exhaled a shuddering breath. ‘I’m scared for the future. I don’t know what it holds for you and me, let alone for Cathy.’

They stopped speaking, their faces caught up in invisible thoughts.

Then Mum said, ‘I’m worried about Cathy.’

‘You’re always worried about her.’

‘Yes, but this is different. She’s too careful, too polite. Don’t you think so? She’s like an anxious little ghost.’

‘Yes.’

Mum put her hand on his thigh and looked up into his eyes. ‘She’d be better if we were better.’

I turned away from the door without bothering to listen to my father’s reply. That frightful feeling of loneliness had come over me in all its strength. I lay on my bed, staring at the crazy paving of cracks running across the ceiling and tried not to cry. My parents had each other, but I was a misfit everywhere. If only Mufaro were here. I wished for him so hard, my breath caught in my throat.

39 Ginie, Rhodesia, 1950s

39

Ginie, Rhodesia, 1950s