The butterflies were all in the same valley and they were resting on the tangled stems of lianas; woody vines that trailed through plants and bushes and hung from trees. Their flight was slow and Dad found it easy to lure them into his nets with a bait of rotting bananas, brown sugar, rum and beer – a mixture that was irresistible for butterflies.

They turned out to belong to a new species of nymphalidae butterfly. The Museum of Natural History in London bought the specimens. Dad sent them to England by parcel post and received a handsome cheque in return some weeks later. The museum wrote that it had decided to name the butterflies after him: Apatura riccardi.

We had a celebration. Mum teased her hair into a chignon and put on one of the dresses she’d brought with her from England which she usually kept in a trunk beneath her bed. The dress was dark blue chiffon, long and form-fitting, with embroidered cuffs and hems, and a deep V neckline. She cooked a side of beef without burning it and my parents held hands over the supper table. Mum’s lips were parted and her eyes were bright. It was a good evening.

I began to spend afternoons reading under the big mawonga tree in our garden, its trunk firm against my back. Tucker was nearby, scratching around for food, making sounds that were like mournful whistles interspersed with strange ticks. While I read, I ate pink, fleshy plums, which were so sour they made the back of my throat tingle. I had just started Wuthering Heights and for the next few hours, I was transported to the Yorkshire Moors.

When I returned to the house, I was aware of a sour, musty smell. In the light from the door, a spider’s web glinted, full of flies and insects. My mother was sitting on the sofa in the living room, gazing into space. It took her a whole minute to register my presence.

‘My sweet girl,’ she said sadly. ‘Wandering about in the forest by yourself.’

It wasn’t the forest that upset her. I threw my arms around her neck. ‘Don’t worry about me, Mum. I’m fine, I was just reading. I’ll take care of you.’

This was what she wanted to hear.

‘I’m not cut out for Africa,’ she said, hugging me back.

19 Ginie, Rhodesia, 1950s

19

Ginie, Rhodesia, 1950s

A few days after the delivery of the anonymous note, Jongy failed to appear, though Gideon had put out the usual chopped banana and saucer of milk for him. Puzzled and a little worried, Ginie went to the garden to look for him. She passed the ruffled surface of the swimming pool, crossed the lawn and came to where the cultivated section of the garden merged with the Dell.