‘A powerful place,’ he said. ‘You feel it when you’re there.’

He’d accepted the invitation and gone up with the boy. Before the climb, he hadn’t thought much about the bark-cloth they made on the mountain, though the headmaster had shown him a small piece on his wall, a gift sent down from the chiefs. He had felt the fibrous texture of the fabric and looked at the strange irregularity of the pattern, but the cloth was ill-lit and crowded by the lists and schedules pinned around it. He had had to climb the steep ridges of the mountain, a two-day journey, to reach the villages high above the morning mists. There he saw the bark-cloth hanging from houses and gateways, adorning the people. He saw that the black lines were painted with a free hand, the patterns heightened with rust browns and reds, dabs of yellow, a vibrant vocabulary of the mountain. It was then that Alex thought of Leonard. He’d seen his film of the canoe-makers of Tuvalu, and knew his reputation to be among the best.

‘And here he is!’ he said, arms flung wide. It was an achievement, persuading Leonard to come from Oxford to this new university, and for the film he’d shoot on the mountain to be associated with his department. So the faces turned towards this tall, slightly stooped man with a bony face that made him look more than ten years older than his wife.

The circle of men closed around him and Rika was left to Susan Penrose, a small woman who’d had too many children and didn’t like the heat.

‘Let me introduce you to the women,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid we’re rather old-fashioned up here. With the men working, we have to make our own amusements.’

More faces, more names to miss, Rika thought.

The wives coming forward with their hands outstretched were matronly. Rika’s dress felt appallingly wrong and she gave the skirt a surreptitious tug. Then she saw the bark-cloth tacked to the wall. Not a good position, but there it was, a pattern of abstract, semi-triangular shapes hanging imperturbable beside the door to the kitchen, where she could see people slicing chicken, arranging dishes, washing glasses.

‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ Susan said. ‘The women paint the cloth, and one of their chiefs sent me this one. Not to Alex. To me.’ She laughed. ‘What a different world if our chiefs were women.’

The wives thought this hilarious. Something inside Rika sank. Was this what awaited her? This and the raw house where the car had left them that morning? There were still building materials piled outside. From inside, there was nothing to see but sparse trees. All afternoon she’d sat staring out, as if the hills might hold some surprise, some hint of possibility. But there was nothing. All this way, and nothing.

Later, Rika would say that if it hadn’t been for Martha, she’d have run home to her father there and then, all the way to the Netherlands, and begged him to turn back the clock. As it was, Martha was standing near the kitchen, under the bark-cloth, and when she saw Rika look up at it, she smiled. In their exchange, hope rallied. Beside Martha was Laedi, with a child on her hip. Both women looked young - the same as her, Rika thought, with hair that was long and skirts that were short. No slacks for them. Martha was smiling, making small movements with her hands that said keep going, don’t stop, as Rika extricated herself from a woman in a tie-dyed skirt who ran art classes and another who was starting a choir. When eventually she reached them, Susan Penrose didn’t have to make the introductions. They did it themselves, as if the wait had been too long and they had a lot to catch up on. The child on Laedi’s hip cackled with pleasure at Rika. Rika hitched her onto her own hip, saying, ‘Come, it’s hot. Let’s go outside.’