After the meal, they tried to listen to BBC news. There was a rose beetle that lived in the tuning bar of the radio, which had to be pushed across while Stephen tried to find the station. He couldn’t get reception, just crackles and static, with the odd burst of Afrikaans or a few bars of music. After a while, he gave up and the beetle was left in peace. Ginie was secretly relieved. She wanted the outside world, ravaged by war, hate and political dissensions, kept out of their valley. She gazed at the sky, waiting for the young spotted eagle-owl that came every night and landed on the ledge outside their window. When she saw the beating of wings in the light from the parlour, she pushed a dead mouse onto the sill, through the mosquito netting. She paid the children of her staff a few pennies to collect food for the owl; there was always a bag of mice and rats in the fridge.

The owl ate sumptuously for several minutes while Ginie talked to it quietly. It was a marvellous bird, with winged ears, light-and-dark barred feathers and golden, yellowing eyes. When it had finished, it flew back into the dark landscape.

3 Catherine, Rhodesia, 1950s

3

Catherine, Rhodesia, 1950s

Our house was on the top of a hill that had bubbling streams flowing down to the valley below. The slopes were covered with mopane tree forests and thick bush. My father had built the house himself, from locally made bricks. It had a stone path leading up to it, a corrugated iron roof, and concrete floors. He called it a hut. He always called our homes huts.

Dad was a lean, sandy-haired man, burnt as brown as toffee, with broad shoulders and a fluid way of moving. His eyes were a clear grey-blue and his expression was generally kind and humorous. He was always up at sunrise, when a dense mist hung over the forest, to make his meticulous plans and preparations for collecting the day’s specimens.

One evening, he came home after a twelve hour day in the bush and his eyes were red-raw with fatigue. He sat down for supper beneath our softly hissing oil lamp, which had a cloud of flying insects around it. My mother put a plate of corn bread, vegetables, and extremely burnt meat in front of him. I waited to see what his reaction would be. All he did was reach for his food, smile at Mum and ask me how my day was at school. I don’t remember what I told him about school but I do remember hearing Mum eventually say, ‘I’m sorry I burnt the meat, Mark.’ As she spoke, an insect fell onto the table, fatally intoxicated by the fiery lamp.

‘Diana, I love my meat well-done,’ came his reply.