‘We brought the panes with us from Eltham,’ said Ginie. ‘All our visitors wrote on them. Some of the names are a bit difficult to decipher. Look, there’s Moira Shearer and Rab Butler – and in the top corner over there is Stravinsky.’

Jill was admiring and bemused. ‘It seems that everybody who’s anybody has come to call on you. I’ve never seen anything like your beautiful home.’

Tea was served by Dixon, the houseboy. He was handsome, with skin like burnished metal. His hair was parted on the left side, shiny with oil and smoothly combed. His face was impassive above a starched, white linen uniform as he poured tea, handed out Spode china crockery and passed food around. There was a huge spread served on silver platters: crustless cucumber sandwiches, muffins, crumpets, and two kinds of cake.

The poodles, Max and Sandra, lay with their noses pointing towards the food, too well-behaved to beg. Ginie drank her tea black and very strong. She had a tiny bottle of brandy on the table, which she splashed into their cups without asking for permission. She sipped her tea, enjoying the burn.

‘The weather makes you thirsty,’ Jill said, thoughtfully. ‘Had you been to Africa before you moved here?’

Ginie nodded. ‘I suppose I was in my late teens when I first came; North Africa, you know, Egypt and so on. I think I must have read about Africa when I was very young. You can have a special feeling for a place and I always did for this one.’

Jill pursed her lips. ‘I’ve been here since we got married twenty years ago. Eric was lured out by the promise of government farming subsidies, but I’ll just say this, being a farmer in Rhodesia is not a bed of roses. Truthfully, the work is much harder than we ever imagined. . .’ She gave a tiny shrug and mopped her face with a clean, white handkerchief.

‘I raised my sons here, in the middle of nowhere. They’re at boarding school in Salisbury now. I’ve made the best of it, but at times I feel buried alive.’ She frowned, then tried to smile. ‘Tell me why you like it so much.’

Ginie’s eyes were fixed on the line of hills beyond the garden: interminable, boundless, fading into a bluish haze.

‘I love the open spaces, the wildlife and the glorious climate. It’s good.’ She smiled, longing to be striding through the bush, inhaling its smells and feeling the sun on her skin. ‘I got fed up with Europe and all the bad things that were happening. There’s always this drive, you know, and it’s generally about power or money, and the things people do to get it. . . It’s nice to be away from all that.’