‘Yes,’ she said, with the secret smile that was just for him, ‘there’s nothing in the world I would like more.’

The stars shone brightly through the window as he took her in his arms.

They began to move to the music, warm and close, and Ginie felt as though everything in her life led to this moment; all the pain, all the hardship, every mistake. It was so rich and sweet that she was simply grateful to be alive and to be sharing her life with Stephen. She saw the rest of their lives stretch out before her: they would stay in Rhodesia and carry on their work for as long as they had strength. Stephen always by her side, loving her. The emotion running through her was deeper than contentment. . . She finally felt at peace.

She opened her mouth to tell him, but he placed one finger lightly on her lips.

‘Shh. Don’t speak.’

So closing her eyes, she leaned into him and gave herself up to the music.

Ginie sat at the breakfast table the next morning with the delicious languor in her limbs that came from having made love and slept well. Dixon brought her a letter and she idly ripped the top open with her thumb. Inside was a white chicken feather smeared with tar and a note.

I WARNED YOU, BUT YOU WOULD NOT LISTEN.

EXPECT ME.

The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. Stephen took the letter from her and his face paled.

‘What does it mean?’ she asked.

‘Tarring and feathering was a punishment used by the Ku Klux Klan as part of their campaign to restore white supremacy. The victim was painted with molten tar and rolled in feathers. . . The aim was to inflict enough pain and humiliation to make him either conform to the mob’s demands, or leave town.’

They looked at each other, truly afraid.

‘This is a step too far,’ he said. ‘I’m going to the police.’

41 Catherine, Rhodesia, 1950s

41

Catherine, Rhodesia, 1950s

My mother winced as she carried a heavy frying pan to the sink. She had burnt her arm while cooking, and it had been wrapped in bandages for almost two weeks.

‘Surely that should have healed by now?’ said Dad. ‘Let me have a look.’

I expected Mum to be grateful for his concern, but she wasn’t. Her eyes flitted back and forth and she looked trapped, resentful.

‘It’s nothing,’ she protested, ‘I’m fine.’ She tried to move away from him, but she was caught by the sink at her back. Dad took hold of her arm and peeled the bandages away.

He gasped when he saw the wound. Raw, sticky flesh covered most of her forearm, oozing pus. There was a clump of feathers stuck to it and blobs of black, congealed stuff. It smelled awful.