‘We’re doing good work,’ he murmured. ‘What we’re doing is right.’

They fell silent, listening to the monotonous high-pitched droning of insects. From the trees, a bird called once.

‘Whoever wrote that letter, they’re going to act again. You know that, don’t you?’

His lips moved against her hair. ‘Let them write what they want – words can’t hurt us.’

‘But the staff don’t know how the letter got here,’ she said hoarsely and broke away from his arms. ‘No one came to the door. It means there was an intruder on our property, watching me, stealing onto the veranda while my back was turned. . . He could have got into the house and helped himself to our things. . . he could have done anything at all.’

‘But he didn’t,’ said Stephen, firmly. ‘Anonymous letter writers are cowards. They don’t have the guts to own up to their threats, let alone carry them out.’

She became aware of Jongy tugging at her skirt. He had an uncanny ability to sense her distress. She picked him up and he gazed at her, chittering softly. For a few moments she held him to her face for comfort. She felt utterly lost.

18 Catherine, Rhodesia, 1950s

18

Catherine, Rhodesia, 1950s

I missed Mufaro terribly. I refused to take off his bracelet, even though Mum said it was probably full of germs. She suggested that I invite school friends home, but they were scattered all over the district and transport was a problem. Besides, there was no one I was drawn to like Mufaro.

‘Well, I can’t say anything constructive, except that you are going to grow up,’ my father said one day. ‘It’s rotten being at this in-between stage.’ He had started making an effort to spend more time with me. He was a wonderful companion, and a walking encyclopaedia when it came to nature, be it bird, animal or insect. If it was still light when he came home we would sit on the veranda and watch all sorts of birds swoop down to drink and bask in the birdbaths he had built, fluffing themselves. Dad would point out the different breeds. ‘When you study them, you realise that they’re among the most delightful creatures on the planet,’ he said.

He began to select a book for me to take to bed each night, telling me to make sure I read it and didn’t swap it for anything else. Books became my friends: The Complete Grimm’s Fairy Tales, Shakespeare’s poetry anthologies, the Greek Myths and the classics. Immersed in their worlds, I was at peace. But the moment I closed the pages, I was filled with an emptiness that felt like hunger.