I waited for my dad, but he did not come back. The light deepened and spread, staining the trees gold and casting stripes on the grass where it slipped between them. The glow lingered on the treetops, while the shadows of dusk began to creep over their lower branches. A bird called and crickets started up a low, persistent creaking. Two poodles appeared and made their way towards the house, agitated. They paused by the rust-coloured stain the Dragon Lady had left on the grass, sniffed at it and started to lick it. I realised that they were as forgotten as I was.

2 Ginie, Rhodesia, 1950s

2

Ginie, Rhodesia, 1950s

Ginie woke to a room bathed in sunlight, with the feeling that La Rochelle, their brand-new Rhodesian house, already fit her like a second skin.

She could hear the houseboy chopping wood on the woodpile; the slow sound of his axe a hypnotic accompaniment to the twittering birds that filled the garden every morning. She checked the mosquito net for spiders, scorpions and snakes, then got out of bed and went to the window. Her roses blazed on the lawn. In the distance, a line of hills rose up into an impossibly blue sky, tendrils of cloud dissolving around their summits.

The bathroom glittered with sunlight; she turned on the taps and water gushed forth in sequins of light. After a short bath, Ginie sat on the edge of the tub and towelled her legs, pulling at the skin around her ankle, making the serpent rear up and open its jaws. The tattoo had been a mistake, indelible as sin. Initially she had regretted it, but then decided to play up to it, taking pleasure in inventing stories about why she’d had it done. It was a teenage dare, a coded message for a lover, a membership badge to a secret society. She changed the tale according to whoever was listening. No one need know the truth.

She put on a cream, sleeveless shift dress that was printed with navy pen and ink drawings of Paris. The smooth cotton against her skin made her feel free and alive. Perhaps in Rhodesia, she would find peace at last.

Her husband, Stephen, was already waiting for her in the breakfast room. Light fell in bright spears through the windows where a full English breakfast was laid out on the white tablecloth, alongside pawpaw, fruit salad and jugs of cream. Ginie kissed him on the cheek and sat down, noting his pallor.

‘Bad night, darling?’ she asked.

He nodded. ‘I dreamt about Edward and Will again. They were pulling my leg about something. . . such good men.’

The air came alive with the ghosts of old soldiers.