She took a piece of shortbread and bit into it. I watched her chew and swallow, brushing the crumbs from her lips. In newly-hushed voices, she and Mum speculated that Ginie might have other hidden tattoos on her breasts or buttocks. And weren’t women with tattoos likely to be drug addicts, or belong to secret societies, or practise black magic? Perhaps it was a form of branding, a way to signify ownership or submission, some kind of erotic enslavement.

‘She was married before, you know,’ said Mum. Jill nearly choked on her tea.

‘I had no idea! How do you know, did Harriett tell you?’

My mother nodded. Harriett was Mum’s cousin; she lived just outside London. She was friendly with a man called Herbert Moore, who had been the Courtaulds’ chauffeur when they lived in England. Moore’s wife, Libby, had a bad heart and this forced her to lead the life of a semi-invalid. She read, she made all her children’s clothes and she was a prolific letter writer. We learnt a lot about Stephen and Ginie through her correspondence.

‘Ginie’s first husband was an Italian count,’ said my mother.

‘I don’t believe you!’

‘It’s true, it’s true,’ sang Mum. I hadn’t seen her this animated for weeks. ‘His name was Paulo Spinola, and she was still married to him when she met Stephen. Spinola was a staunch Catholic. Ginie, by that stage, had given up on her religion. She and Stephen managed to get that marriage annulled. Libby doesn’t know how much they must have paid the Vatican for it, but it will have been a lot.’

Jill digested this information, looking as pleased as a snake that had just swallowed a nice, plump rat.

Generally, life in the district followed a set pattern. Crops flourished or failed, according to the rains. Native workers came and went; some were good, some weren’t. Sometimes there was theft and the police were called in. A few people drank too much; spouses fought, and occasionally, someone walked out. We had never seen anyone like Ginie Courtauld.

I went to school in Umtali, making the long journey there and back each day on a bus that stopped to pick up all the white children in the area.

My school was for whites only. It was known as an ‘A’ school and it had the best teachers, equipment and facilities. Black children attended ‘C’ schools, though there were schools for a tiny number of them only. There were ‘B’ schools for the Indians and half-castes, who were classed as coloureds.

School was not complicated at all. It was a different world, where time dragged by slowly while I sat through lessons and played with my friends. It had little to do with what was important. I left, relieved to resume my real life, which was at home in the forest.