TWO

The Daimler turned into a sweeping driveway, tyres crunching the gravel. Kitty searched eagerly for the first glimpse of the house. After the tents and bungalows, she was prepared for disappointment, but the building that came into view was solid and large, and strikingly modern. A central verandah jutted forward from the façade. The walls, made from concrete blocks, were freshly painted white, and the tin roof had an elegant pitch. There was a spacious garden in front of the house, bordered by a white picket fence. Bougainvillea bushes grew there – most of the flowers were a strident purple, like the ones in Australia, but there were also pastel tones of pink, orange, mauve and white. An attempt had been made to train the plants into arches, but unruly shoots sprang out in all directions.

The driver honked the horn. Within moments, two African men dressed in white shirts and shorts emerged from the front door. They were joined by another two men in khaki uniforms. The four flanked the entrance, a pair each side, standing to attention. Kitty was reminded of scenes at Hamilton Hall before the war. Whenever one of the family returned after more than a week or so away, the whole staff – at least twenty of them – would be assembled to form a welcome party.

Diana climbed out of the car, leaving her hat behind on the seat. She was perfectly calm now – the incident with the child and the ball might never have occurred. She led Kitty up onto the verandah. Crossing a polished concrete floor speckled with tiny stones, she stopped in front of the Africans.

‘Your cook, your houseboy, gardener, guard.’ She paused by the last man, waiting pointedly until he removed his cloth cap.

Kitty tried to offset Diana’s dismissive manner by smiling warmly. She even gave a greeting in Swahili. ‘Hamjambo.’

The men stared at her as if they did not understand, even though Kitty knew her greeting was correct. She could almost hear Janet’s firm tone, drumming it all in: ‘Hujambo is used when saying hello to one person. For two or more, it is Hamjambo, to which the reply is Hatujambo . . .’

Kitty tried again. ‘Habari gani?’ How are you?

Still no answer came.

‘How sweet of you to learn some Swahili.’ Diana sounded bemused. ‘But they speak perfectly reasonable English. Cynthia was very particular about her staff.’

Kitty was about to move on when the man described as her houseboy reached for the bunch of flowers in her hand.

‘I can put them in a vas-ie, Memsahib,’ he said.

‘Vase.’ Diana corrected him, rolling her eyes. ‘They’ve got this thing of adding “i” on the ends of words. Tractori. Londoni. It’s awfully annoying. Sounds like they’re making a joke of everything.’

Kitty decided not to explain that all nouns – and all names – in Swahili must end in a vowel. Refusing to be put off by the apparent rejection of her language skills, she gave a friendly smile to the houseboy. He now stood to attention, the flowers held upside down by his side. He looked about the same age as her – late twenties, early thirties perhaps. At Hamilton Hall, Kitty had become used to being waited upon by grown men. But it felt stranger here, somehow. Tanganyika was their country, not hers.

Diana led Kitty on into the house, stripping off her gloves and dropping them into her handbag. Her heels rapped smartly against the floorboards as she entered a large sitting room. There was a slight smell of fresh paint, even though a pair of French windows stood wide open. It was late afternoon now, and the sun made pools of light on the varnished floor. Kitty took in a three-piece suite upholstered in green velvet. Matching curtains draped the windows. There was a bookcase with sets of leather-bound novels on its shelves. A drinks trolley stood nearby, loaded with bottles and decanters, glasses and a silver soda siphon. There was even a potted palm, draping frayed fronds onto a coffee table. The place reminded Kitty of a picture from a magazine. It looked rather unreal, but she was pleased and impressed.

Diana took a packet of cigarettes from her bag. She shook it until two poked out. ‘Cigarette?’

‘Not at the moment, thank you.’ Kitty decided to postpone declaring that she didn’t smoke.

‘You should find everything you need.’ Diana spoke from the side of her mouth as she lit her cigarette. ‘Otherwise send a note to Supplies. If they don’t have what you want, keep asking. If there’s anything you don’t like, just send it back.’

Moving into a hallway, she opened the door to another spacious room. ‘The master bedroom,’ she announced. ‘The houses are all the same. So I know my way around.’

There was a double bed with a cream candlewick cover and mosquito nets hanging from a canopy. The rest of the space was dominated by a vast dressing table with a scalloped-edged mirror. Kitty searched the room, a puzzled frown on her face. Theo was meant to have moved over from the single men’s quarters weeks ago, as soon as the painters had left. Yet there was no sign that he was sleeping in here. Kitty left the room quickly, wondering if Diana had noticed this as well.

Further along the hallway, Diana moved past a closed door. The smell of kerosene and cooking oil emanated from behind it.

‘I never set foot in my kitchen if I can help it, but Cynthia liked to make regular inspections.’ Diana looked at Kitty as if expecting to hear which approach she favoured. Kitty gave an equivocal shrug. She wasn’t sure which woman she should be agreeing with.

‘Anyway,’ Diana moved on, ‘the good news is that we finally have decent fridges. Electrolux. They only arrived last week. So we have cold tonic at last. And plenty of ice.’ She smiled back over her shoulder – the first proper smile Kitty had seen. One of Diana’s front teeth was slightly crooked, but the flaw only enhanced the perfection of her other features.

‘Lavatory. Study.’ Diana pointed out some other rooms. ‘The bathroom. I’m afraid you’ll find pink towels in there. Lord knows where they got that idea.’ She paused, tilting her head thoughtfully. ‘Some of the wives believe the people in London chose the colour on purpose, since everything turns pink in the end out here, because of the red dust in the water.’ She shook her head. ‘But that seems unlikely to me. Far too sensible for the OFC.’

Kitty wondered what was meant by this last remark. So far, everything she knew about the workings of the Overseas Food Corporation (picked up from Theo, and from her own experience of the travel arrangements) formed a picture of order and precision – just as one would expect with all the ex-army, navy and air-force people involved.

Diana flicked ash into the sink, then left the bathroom. She gestured towards another closed door. ‘That was the children’s room. There were two.’

Kitty assumed they’d inspect the space together as they had done all the others, but Diana hung back. She examined her finger­nails, picking at a cuticle. Kitty decided to take a quick peek, regardless. As she pushed open the door, she faltered in surprise. On a small table she recognised Theo’s hairbrush. On the floor by a narrow single bed were his slippers. His blue dressing gown was draped over a chair. For a moment, Kitty’s pleasure at seeing these familiar possessions was overridden by confusion. It seemed odd – inexplicable – that her husband had set himself up in the spare room. But then it came to her. Theo was just being thoughtful. He had waited for her to arrive before occupying the master bedroom. From the very beginning it would belong to them both.

She looked around the sunlit space. Another happy thought came to her. One day, her children would sleep in here. There would be at least two, hopefully three, but no more than four. (Theo had been a lonely only child, and for her part, Kitty had watched her mother worn out by too many offspring.) They hoped to start their family soon; Kitty was nearly twenty-eight, and Theo was older. During the war the couple had endured frequent sep­arations. When they had been able to see one another, they took careful precautions. It was no time to bring a child into the world. And then, life afterwards had not proved to be very much easier. But now, it was time. Kitty smiled as she scanned the room. She would enjoy choosing bright curtain fabric and bedspreads. She might even have the walls and window frames repainted. Lemon, perhaps – to suit both girl and boy.

Kitty found Diana waiting for her in another large room. She’d located a glass ashtray and was carrying it around.

‘What are the schools like here?’ Kitty asked her.

Diana drew deeply on her cigarette. ‘I’m not the one to ask. I don’t have any children.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ Kitty bit her lip, wishing she could take back the thoughtless question. At least there was no emotion in Diana’s eyes – it seemed she wasn’t one of those women who’d been unable to have children and became upset when they were mentioned. It occurred to Kitty that Diana could even be content to be childless. There was nothing motherly about her.

In the short silence Diana took another long pull on her cigarette. Kitty moved around the room, skirting a heavy dark table surrounded by dining chairs. She stopped by a glass-fronted cabinet. It was stacked with crockery. Along with the usual plates, bowls, cups and saucers, there was a cake stand, a butter dish, a salt pot and a pepper shaker.

‘I thought crockery was on the list of personal items,’ Kitty said, feeling puzzled. After checking the document sent to her by the OFC, she had purchased a new set – plain white, sturdy – especially to bring with her.

‘It is,’ Diana confirmed. ‘Cynthia left hers behind. She didn’t want to go to the bother of having it packed up.’ She raised her eyebrows enquiringly. ‘You do know who she is – Mrs Wainwright?’

Kitty nodded, lowering her eyes respectfully. Cynthia was the widow of the previous Manager of Administration, Major Wainwright. Theo had inherited both the man’s house and his job. Ever since she’d learned of the situation, Kitty had been uncomfortably aware that she and Theo had benefited from someone else’s heartbreak. She looked up at Diana, wondering if she was going to make any comment on the tragedy. But Diana was already crossing to the table.

‘This belonged to her as well.’

From the patina on the wood, Kitty guessed it was generations old. It was solidly built with thick legs, square edges – out of place in this modern house with all the finely formed, pale pine furniture.

‘She bought it from some Foreign Service fellow who finally got a transfer home, after being stranded here the entire war,’ Diana said. ‘Cynthia asked me to give this to you, personally.’

Kitty unfolded a piece of paper, finding a handwritten recipe for furniture polish. At the top was the instruction: To be applied under supervision, twice a day, after meals.

Kitty trailed her hand along the surface of the dining table – so silky smooth, the tone rich and dark. It was beautiful, but she already felt the burden of being responsible for it. She pictured dents, scratches, stains and watermarks.

Over in the cabinet, she could see Cynthia’s crockery with its pattern of pink roses, embellished with gold. The handles on the cups were delicate and ornate. Kitty knew they’d be hard to hold securely – especially while remembering to stick out that little finger, dead straight. The cups were so fine she’d fear biting a piece out of the lip. The narrow base meant it would be almost impossible to pass them across the table without causing them to rattle on their saucers.

Diana stubbed out her cigarette, then put down the ashtray. ‘Well, I’ll leave you to settle in.’

Kitty gathered herself, remembering that she was now the mistress of this house. ‘Would you like some tea before you go? I could check . . .’

‘No, thank you. I should go home and prepare for the evening. I’ll collect you tomorrow at ten. We’ll go to the Club. There’s a coffee morning.’

She trotted down the steps, high heels tapping on the concrete. When she reached the driveway, she walked on tiptoes so that her heels wouldn’t sink into the gravel.

Kitty waited on the steps as the Daimler pulled smoothly away. Then she spun around, striding eagerly towards the front door – her front door. She couldn’t wait to walk back through the house looking properly at each room. At last, she and Theo had a home of their own. The rooms they’d rented after they married, near the air base in Skellingthorpe, didn’t really count; they were only there together when Theo managed to get some leave. And when Theo was de-mobbed they’d moved back to live with his parents in Hamilton Hall. Kitty had felt they were only visitors there. The rooms they’d been given bore the stamp not only of her mother-in-law’s taste, but that of generations of Hamilton ancestors. Everything was sacred – the pair of china dogs with their gold-painted ears; the child’s highchair that held a life-sized baby doll with black glass eyes; and the medals, admiral’s hats and other military memorabilia. Then there was the portrait of a girl in a red dress – some distant relative of Theo’s – whose haunted eyes seemed to hold a premonition that she would die before reaching her seventh birthday. Each of the rooms they’d used had been heavy with history. Theo referred to their sitting room as ‘the schoolroom’, because he’d had lessons in there as a child. Their bedroom was really ‘Gran-Gran’s room’. No single space was blank and fresh.

 

But here in Kongara, it was different. The house was almost brand-new. It was nothing like the grand old establishment Theo was used to. In fact, Kitty found it hard to picture him living here – but then, he must have been aware that adapting to different conditions would be part of the job he’d taken on. She smiled as she gazed around her. The house was utterly unlike the run-down weatherboard homestead she’d grown up in. To both her and Theo, it was a completely new setting. There was only the impersonal hand of the OFC to be shaken off. Cynthia’s crockery could be packed away; the precious table covered with a cloth. Kitty stepped back over the threshold, hugging herself with silent pleasure. She’d been married to Theo for almost seven years. The first five had been disrupted by the war, and the next two overshadowed by what had come next. It had been a long wait. But now heart and home were at last coming together.

Kitty stood for a moment outside the closed door to the kitchen. She raised her hand to knock, then let it drop – it was her own kitchen, after all. Instead, she pushed the door open slowly, giving the servants warning of her presence.

The houseboy jumped up from the back doorstep, scattering peanut shells from his lap. The cook turned from the stove. Within a second or two both men were standing in front of Kitty, heads held high as if ready for inspection.

Kitty eyed them, feeling awkward. She addressed the cook. ‘What is your name?’

‘I am Eustace.’

Kitty saw that his tight-curled hair was sprinkled with grey. There were deep lines around his mouth. He was probably old enough to be her father.

‘And you?’ She looked at the houseboy.

‘I am Gabriel.’

Kitty was tempted to ask how they’d acquired these unusual English names – ones ending in consonants, which they would find difficult to pronounce. But she made do with introducing herself.

‘You may call me Memsahib Kitty.’

Eustace made no response at all. Kitty took a breath. She was determined to make use of her Swahili.

‘Chakula cha jioni pangu gani?’ What is your plan for the evening meal?

The men exchanged glances, but said nothing. Kitty was about to repeat herself, when Eustace responded.

‘Today is Monday.’ He spoke in English, forming his words carefully as though Kitty might have difficulty understanding him. ‘We are cooking corned beef, mashed potatoes, white sauce and beans. For pudding we are cooking Bakewell tart.’

He pointed towards the wall, where Kitty saw a page from an exercise book pinned up. Even from a distance she recognised the handwriting displayed there. It was from the same hand that had penned the recipe for furniture polish. She moved to take a closer look. Monday’s menu was as the cook had described it. Under ‘Tuesday’ was listed cold beef with potato salad and boiled vegetables, followed by rice pudding. Wednesday was roast chicken. Thursday, meat loaf. It was just the kind of food Theo liked – along with the rest of his family. Yuri used to laugh at them, saying they’d never grown out of eating boarding-school fare. He wouldn’t have contemplated adopting a set menu. Most of the time he didn’t even eat proper meals. He just foraged in the kitchen, collecting bread, cheese, pickles, smoked sausage – whatever the housekeeper had bought for him. In her mind, Kitty saw him crouched by the open fridge, silver hair falling forward over his brow. Stripped to the waist, in spite of the chilly air; a paint rag dangling from his trouser pocket. His upper body lean and trim for a man of sixty.

‘We will eat like peasants, Kitty,’ he’d say. At the same time, he’d be opening a bottle of French vintage wine, dusty from the cellar. The food would be dumped on a table spotted with candle wax, sharing space with whatever had accumulated there – a half-formed maquette, a pile of old letters, a jar of wilting flowers.

Banishing thoughts of Yuri, Kitty turned back to the cook. She took a moment to prepare what she wanted to say in Swahili. ‘And Bwana Hamilton – he is happy to have the same meals each week?’

‘Yes, Memsahib. The bwana is very happy.’

Kitty knew he would be. Since the war, Theo had liked things to be predictable. Who could blame him when he’d spent years knowing there was a good chance he’d not be alive by the next morning?

Kitty walked around the kitchen, pretending to be interested in the row of large canisters labelled as flour, sugar, salt, oats, biscuits. There was a tin of Keen’s curry powder set beside bottles of HP Sauce and Tabasco. She sensed this was a moment when she should ask a question, or criticise something – assert her authority as the new memsahib. Crossing to the stove, she lifted the lid from a large pot. Her eyes widened at the sight of a huge piece of meat, bobbing in a sea of boiling stock.

‘Where did you get this meat?’ she asked, abandoning using Swahili. She hadn’t seen a cut of beef this size since she was on the farm back in New South Wales. In wartime England the hunk of flesh in this pot would use up the weekly allowance of several large families – if it could be purchased at all.

‘From a cow,’ the cook answered.

Kitty searched his gaze but detected no sarcasm. She made do with nodding her approval. She was about to leave, but then realised she was thirsty. ‘I would like to have afternoon tea.’

‘Where shall I bring it?’ asked the houseboy.

‘The sitting room,’ Kitty replied. ‘Black tea. With a slice of lemon. And a biscuit.’

‘Yes, Memsahib.’

‘And Eustace – I believe the beef is boiling too fast. It will get tough.’

‘Yes, Memsahib.’ The cook smiled broadly as though pleased his mistress was finally behaving correctly.

As she left the room, Kitty congratulated herself. She felt she’d handled the exchange well. But when she reached the end of the hallway, she stopped. From behind the closed door to the kitchen she heard muffled laughter. She recognised Eustace’s voice, calling her name in a dramatic tone. ‘Kitty! Come here, Kitty!’ Then came the sound of mewing, high and fake. More laughter broke out as Kitty walked slowly away.

A large leather suitcase stood in the middle of the bedroom floor. Though old, with stains and scuff marks, it was of fine quality. Like the travelling trunk, it had been donated by Theo’s mother.

‘Take our luggage,’ Louisa had said. ‘My son won’t want his wife turning up looking like a refugee.’

She’d watched while Kitty removed the suitcase from a massive teak wardrobe in one of the spare bedrooms. Faded hotel labels were clustered around the handles; stickers from shipping lines – the Orient, the Union Castle – were slapped across the top and sides. Together they formed a picture of the life the Hamiltons had led, at least up until the war. There was an oval sticker with a grand crest in the middle and the words ‘Ritz Barcelona’ in gilded letters. Another identified Stateroom Baggage from the RMS Queen Mary. There was even a luggage label marked ‘Aloha Hawaii’ with a dark-skinned man on a surfboard.

Louisa had sighed deeply, taking a seat on a chair covered with a dust cloth. She looked old and tired, her body thin beneath the fuzz of her cashmere cardigan. A rope of pearls hung heavy around her neck. Kitty had pretended to study the suitcase, but she had still felt the woman’s accusing gaze. Louisa had almost lost her husband to a heart attack, brought on by acute stress. The family name was irreparably damaged. Now her only child had gone off to Tanganyika. Louisa blamed all these disasters on her daughter-in-law. And Kitty was not in a position to disagree.

Now, on the floor of her bedroom, Kitty knelt beside the suitcase. The hotel and cruise ship emblems had been covered up by the no-nonsense black-and-white labels of the OFC. She glanced at the bedroom door, which was firmly shut. When her luggage had arrived from the airstrip, Gabriel had carried it inside. The trunk was still in the hallway, but she’d asked him to take the suitcase to the bedroom. He’d lingered in here, clearly keen to help unpack, but Kitty had sent him away. She didn’t want him laughing about her possessions later on, behind her back.

Unbuckling the leather straps and opening the metal clasps, she raised the lid. The smell of stale lavender and camphor escaped. And there was something else there, too. She leaned over the case, drawing it in. The pine-needle tang of turpentine. She’d brought no paints with her, no brushes; not even a sketchbook – but the smell must have hidden in her clothes, clinging to the fibres like the proof of a crime.

She took out a pile of blouses, expertly folded by Lizzie, Louisa’s maid; then she unpacked some dresses, skirts and jackets. They would all have to be ironed in due course, but for now she planned just to put everything away. The wardrobe doors were wide open, and she’d pulled out all the drawers in both the dressing table and the tallboy. As she lifted up each item of clothing she examined it critically. If the other ladies in Kongara dressed like Diana, Kitty would be very out of place. Her clothes were either old-fashioned – cast-offs from Hamilton Hall – or else made to the strict utility designs enforced by the British government during the war: narrow skirts, tight sleeves, no extra pockets or wasteful decorations. But Kitty reminded herself of the women she’d seen from the car, moving busily around Head Office. Their clothes were plain and practical.

Kitty rummaged through the case until she found her own version of a khaki outfit. The shirt and skirt were looser in fit than the ones she’d seen earlier that day, and had more pockets, but they would be just as useful. Kitty ran her thumbs over the soft-worn cloth. There were darned holes here and there, along with old stains that looked like blood, and others that might have been grease from an engine. Kitty recalled the photograph of Janet wearing these very garments. She’d been a young missionary then – on her first tour to Africa – but still recognisable as the person Kitty had met at the village church near Hamilton Hall. Janet’s eyes were hidden behind the round discs of her spectacles, but you could tell from her posture that she was determined; even a bit fierce. Kitty had felt that glare when she stumbled over her Swahili lessons.

‘Get it right,’ Janet had admonished. ‘How can you expect to have any authority if you speak like a toddler?’

Kitty laid the old clothes in one of the drawers, then turned back to the suitcase. From among the last layers, she lifted out a flat bundle about the size of her hand. At the dressing table, she unwound the slippery lengths of a satin nightdress, revealing a leather picture frame. Theo’s face, formed in shades of black and grey, gazed out at her. The photograph had been taken soon after he joined the RAF. A studio light played over his face, throwing his features into contrast and making him even more striking than he was in the flesh. His posture was upright, his chest showing off the wings embroidered above his pocket. His gaze was level and firm.

Louisa had a copy of the photograph too. She’d placed it on the sitting room mantelpiece – set at a tactful distance from the image of Theo’s father, Admiral Hamilton, and the portraits of all the other Hamilton men who’d served in the navy before him. Their peaked caps were white with a black visor; their coats double-breasted. Theo’s airman’s cap was grey with a matching visor and his jacket had just one row of buttons. He was like an interloper from a different tribe.

Kitty stroked the picture with her fingertips. For years, she’d slept with it under her pillow on nights when she and Theo were apart – first while he was being trained, and then when he was on active duty. Lying alone, far away from him, she used to watch the sweep of searchlights pass over the darkened window of her room, waiting anxiously for the air-raid siren to sound. She’d push one hand under the pillow and grasp the leather frame. Just the firm shape was reassuring. And if she pulled it out, she was immediately comforted by the image of Theo, so brave and stalwart in his uniform.

Looking at the photograph now – halfway across the world from where she’d been then – Kitty suddenly felt differently about the picture. She wished she had one that reminded her of the old Theo – the man she’d fallen in love with; and the man she hoped he would become again, in this new setting. Before the war he’d been lighthearted and funny, with a head full of dreams and plans. He’d flown not to serve his king, but for the love of air and cloud and sky. Kitty smiled to herself, thinking back to the day – nearly ten years ago – when they’d first met, in the lush green of the English countryside. It was 1938, the year before the war began.

Frost lingered in the shadows beneath the blackberry bushes, even though the morning sun was bright. Kitty blew on her hands, puffing small clouds into the air, then rubbed them together for warmth. With her basket hooked over one arm, she eased further into the tangled mass of leaves and thorns and branches. It was late in the season, but there were still plenty of berries left. The purple-black fruit glistened with dozens of tiny polished orbs. She plucked a few, plump and round, dropping them into the basket. The next one she ate, closing her eyes in pleasure as the juice burst over her tongue. She’d make a fruit crumble later on, with rolled oats, sugar and butter – one of the few recipes she’d learned off by heart from her mother.

Twice as much flour as fat, or it won’t hold together . . .

The fruit that lay beneath the crunchy topping marked the seasons of her childhood – apple for most of the year, rhubarb as well; strawberries only in summer, blackberries stretching into autumn. Each member of the family had their favourite. Kitty pressed her lips together as visions of life at Seven Gums brimmed up, potent and painful. She missed her parents and little brothers so much. A whole year had passed since she’d left the family farm, travelling to Sydney and then on to England, and she longed for news from home. Had Jason stayed on at school or left to get a job? Had Tim’s broken leg finally healed or did he still have a limp? Did they manage to find homes for all of Tabitha’s kittens? Had her mother finished making the new curtains or was she still waiting to borrow a sewing machine? Though Kitty had written several times, giving a return address, there had been no reply. But what did she expect? Her father had made his views quite clear. And Kitty had made her choice.

She fumbled, dropping a berry into the shadows. Reaching for another, her finger was caught by a thorn. As she snatched her hand back, the spike dug in deep and then tore. The stinging pain blended with her feelings of loss. As she sucked the blood away, tears ached behind her eyes. She made herself focus on the scene before her: the lush green field with a copse of bare-limbed trees. Stone walls made up its boundary. Each rock had been fitted like a jigsaw piece into the right spot. She tried to imagine how many years it must have taken to build. But this thought only brought up more pictures of home. Kitty saw herself standing in a sheep-scarred paddock, sun beating hot through her shirt. She held the heavy head of a mattock up against a wooden fence post, bracing it while Jason hammered in staples from the other side. Some of the posts were so weathered the taut wire was all that held them up. There were no neat rock walls at Seven Gums – they had fifty thousand acres to deal with. Maintaining the fences was an unending task.

‘Like painting the Sydney Harbour Bridge,’ Kitty’s father liked to say.

Pushing the raw memories away, she returned to picking be­rries. She concentrated on their shape, their colour, as an artist would – noting the dots of reflected light, the many shades of purple-black. This was better. It made her think of Yuri, at work in his studio just across the field. He was not family, and she had only known him for a matter of months, but their friendship was already strong. At his age, Yuri could almost have been her grandfather, yet he seemed young and full of life. He had taught her so much already. And she had so much more to learn. That was why she was here, she reminded herself – why she’d left the farm behind.

She had almost picked enough berries when a faint buzzing sound came to her ear. It grew louder, overtaking the murmur of the stream nearby. Kitty searched the sky. A raven flapped in an empty expanse of blue. But then, another black shape appeared in the distance. It came steadily nearer, bigger. She saw the silhouette of a small plane with two wings mounted one above the other. Much closer, its true colour could be seen. A bright, strong red.

The plane flew towards her, dropping height. Then the engine changed pitch, slowing down. It was going to land, Kitty realised, right here in the field. Now, as she scanned the meadow, she noticed an area of grass had been mowed to create a landing strip. She wasn’t sure if it was new, or if she’d just not seen it before. She guessed the pilot would be someone connected to Hamilton Hall, the mansion that rose up beyond the line of ancient oaks. The aristocratic family that lived there – the Hamiltons – owned the fields, along with the hills, the woods and even the little house Kitty now shared with Yuri. They owned everything, as far as the eye could see.

Hastily, she plucked the last few berries that she needed. The plane bounced over the grass. Then it wheeled in a wide arc and headed straight towards her. The engine sputtered into quiet, leaving just the thudding sound of the propeller. Kitty measured the distance from the bush to the stone wall. It was too late for her to hurry off now – she would look like some common trespasser, running away. And the pilot may not even have noticed her. From the corner of her eye, she saw a man lever himself from his seat, then step onto the wing, before jumping down to the ground.

Kitty bent over the blackberry bush, letting her long hair fall forward to hide her face.

‘Hello there!’ A man’s voice came from behind her.

She pretended not to have heard anything.

‘You’re picking blackberries.’

Kitty leaned further into the bush as if seeking a prize berry. She didn’t want to have to explain who she was. She wasn’t sure what Yuri would want her to say . . .

‘You’re trespassing.’

She turned around reluctantly. She found herself looking into the face of a young man with friendly eyes and a teasing grin.

‘No, I’m not,’ she began. Then she swallowed, lost for words. The man’s eyes were clear and blue, his teeth even and white. His nose was straight, his brow wide. The leather helmet served as a frame for a face so classically handsome that it could have belonged to one of Yuri’s statues. Kitty gathered herself, gesturing towards the walled garden that lay beyond the main buildings of the Hall. It was just possible to see the gable of the Garden House set into the wall at the far end. ‘I live over there.’

‘Then we are neighbours. Allow me to introduce myself.’ The man removed a pair of leather gloves. ‘Theo Hamilton.’

It took Kitty a few seconds to realise he was watching her right hand. She remembered Yuri telling her that in England a lady must always initiate a handshake, unless she wishes to keep her distance. She thrust her hand forward. ‘I’m Kitty.’ Too late, she saw that her finger was still oozing blood. She snatched it back.

‘You’ve cut yourself!’ Theo took a handkerchief from the pocket of his jacket – clean and white, ironed into a square. He wound the cloth around her bleeding finger.

Kitty stood rock-still. He was standing so close to her that she could smell the oiled leather of his jacket, and feel the warmth coming from his body.

‘Thank you,’ she managed to say.

In a single movement, he pulled off his helmet and goggles. A lock of red-blond hair fell forward over his brow. He swept it back with one hand, then peered into her basket. ‘Looks like a good crop. I used to pick them when I was a boy.’ He grinned at her again. Then he nodded in the direction of the Garden House. ‘Has our Russian friend moved out, then?’

Kitty shook her head. ‘I am Prince Yurievitch’s guest.’ When she said the name she used her best Russian accent, rolling the ‘r’. She hoped she sounded like the kind of person one might expect to find staying with royalty. Not that Yuri was all that typical of a prince, as far as she could tell.

‘How is he?’ Theo enquired.

‘Very well, thank you,’ Kitty answered – even though, at this moment, Yuri was in bed with a cold. He’d worn himself out last night, working late on a large canvas. Kitty had begun by holding a resting pose for ‘Sleeping Girl with Shawl’, but had soon been truly asleep. When she woke, it was nearly dawn and the painting was almost done. It was strange to think of the long hours that had passed, with Yuri studying every detail of her skin, her hair, the folds of the velvet gown, while she was lost in dreams.

‘I haven’t seen him for months,’ said Theo. ‘I’ve barely been home.’

‘Where do you live?’ The question slipped out. She couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to move out of Hamilton Hall.

‘I’m at Oxford. Reading Classics.’

Kitty smiled vaguely. She knew Oxford was a city with a famous university, and she thought he was making a reference to his studies – but could not be certain.Wanting to change the subject, she turned towards the plane. ‘Did you fly all the way here from Oxford?’

‘It’s not far. Have you ever flown?’

Kitty shook her head. When she’d investigated travelling to England, she’d discovered it was possible to fly between Sydney and London, but the tourist-class ticket on an ocean liner had been cheaper. Consequently, the only time she’d been anywhere near an aeroplane was one year at the Wattle Creek Agricultural Show. A shiny new plane with just one seat for the pilot had landed on the football oval. The farmers had examined it longingly, talking of how it would be if they could check their whole properties in hours rather than days. But who’d trust it to stay in the air?

‘Would you like to?’

Kitty stared into her basket as she considered her reply. She didn’t know if Theo was making light conversation or if his query was serious. Either way, she felt a sudden desire to appear brave and worldly – as he no doubt was. She tossed her hair back, looking up into his face. ‘Of course.’

‘Well, let’s go up, then.’ As he said the words, he sounded almost surprised at himself.

Her pulse quickened. ‘You mean – now?’ She eyed the plane doubtfully. The front was propped up on two small wheels that could have come from a wheelbarrow. The wings seemed to be held in place by wires.

‘Why not? It’s a perfect day – and I have to fly back to Oxford tomorrow.’ He smiled. ‘Come on. It’s a very safe little plane, I promise.’ Theo was already putting his helmet back on. He began walking away.

Kitty remained where she was, clutching the basket. She couldn’t possibly go off in the plane with him. All she knew about Theo was that he was a Hamilton, from Hamilton Hall. He was friendly – but perhaps too friendly. He was probably used to being admired by women just because of who he was. And what would it say about Kitty, if she were prepared to accept such an invitation from a complete stranger?

‘Actually,’ she called to him, ‘I think I should go back. Prince Yurievitch will wonder where I am.’

Theo turned around. Kitty saw a shadow of uncertainty in his eyes. He seemed suddenly at a loss. She could easily imagine him as the boy who’d picked blackberries in this field. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I don’t mean to be pushy.’

There was a moment then, when everything hung in the balance. Kitty could see that Theo felt he’d been too forward; now he was afraid of rejection. She still wasn’t sure she should accept his offer. But it was as if a current had formed between her and this stranger, drawing them towards one another.

‘We won’t be long,’ Theo added. ‘Please come. You’ll love it.’ Along with the pleading note in his voice, there was an edge of challenge. He might have been inviting her to take part in a childhood game of chicken – and she didn’t want to lose.

‘All right, then.’ Dropping the basket, she strode after him before she had time to change her mind.

At the plane, Theo took her hand, pulling her up to stand on the wing, then guiding her into the front seat. She faltered in confusion at the sight of an instrument panel there.

‘This plane has dual control,’ Theo explained. ‘But the pilot usually takes the rear.’

He found a second pair of goggles and a helmet, and helped her put them on. Then he reached down beside her, locating the safety straps. As he arranged the harness over her body, tightening the belt, clipping it in place, she avoided looking at his face in case he saw how his touch unnerved her – how his hands, though gentle, seemed to leave their imprint behind, patterning her skin.

Theo eased himself into the seat behind her. Turning back, Kitty watched his head moving from side to side as he made checks of the aircraft. She couldn’t begin to imagine how he made sense of all the dials and switches. Finally, the propeller kicked into life again, speeding up to a blur. Then there was a wait – several long minutes – before the aircraft rolled forward, picking up speed.

Kitty felt the instant when the nose lifted. Then the wheels left the ground. The aircraft swayed and wobbled in the air. She swallowed hard, her stomach knotted with fear as she stared ahead at the empty sky. Soon, the motion began to feel less strange. She was able to look down over the side, past the red slab of the lower wing, to the field below.

They flew over the Big House with its many wings, the clock tower and the lofty barns that edged the farmyard. As they passed the walled garden and the quaint little Garden House, Kitty glimpsed her own washing hanging out on the line. Then they left Hamilton Hall behind.

They came to a river edged with trees. It curved like a snake over a landscape where every piece of ground was carved up by fences and walls. Even the woods were hemmed in. After they’d been flying for a while, Theo attracted Kitty’s attention, then pointed to the right side of the plane. Following his gloved finger, Kitty saw a large bird – a stork or egret – flying almost at their height.

They came upon a lake – a silver shape with smooth curves, a small pool beside it reminiscent of a child hovering close to its mother. As the plane swooped down, birds rose from the water, running and flapping along the surface before breaking into flight. Kitty looked around to Theo, wanting the share the moment. As their eyes met, a smile spread across her lips. Words were not possible – the engine was too noisy. And they were not needed, anyway. She knew exactly why he’d brought her here – what it was that he wanted her to see.

She saw that the shape of a hillside was like a woman lying down, her hands resting at her waist.

She understood how the green moss creeping over exposed rock was like a fine soft carpet.

She felt the freedom of being able to move in three dimensions, defying gravity.

The plane, Theo, herself – they were like one creature, riding the wind.

As they flew back towards the landing strip she looked down at the Garden House again, wondering if Yuri had glanced up and seen the red plane. If he had, what would he think when she told him she’d been inside it? From what Theo had said, it sounded as if the two had met. Perhaps they were even friends. She couldn’t wait to ask Yuri to tell her everything he knew about Theo Hamilton – and what he thought of him . . .

When they landed, she was breathless with excitement. As Theo helped her down from the cockpit, she found that her legs were shaking. She stumbled away from the plane, almost losing her balance. But suddenly, he was by her side, his hand at her waist, holding her up.

The ground beneath her gradually became firm again, her steps steady. But Theo remained close to her.

‘That was wonderful,’ she said. The comment was paltry, but any words would have fallen short of what she wanted to express.

‘I love the freedom. You feel you can escape from everything.’ As he spoke, Theo’s eyes turned in the direction of Hamilton Hall.

Kitty wanted to ask why he yearned to escape the luxurious life of the Big House. Living with Yuri, she’d caught glimpses of a whole troop of servants, and seen guests in shiny black cars arriving for weekend parties. There were lots of dogs of different breeds – none of them built to work. The gardens alone would require all the care of a farm.

She undid the chinstrap and pulled off her helmet. Her hair tumbled loose around her shoulders. Theo lifted a strand away from her cheek, tucking it back behind her ear. Then they just stood there, looking into each other’s eyes. A smile ran between them. It felt bright and strong, like a beam of light brought back from the sky.

Kitty paced in a slow circle around the sitting room, trying to decide where to put the framed photograph. Eventually, she chose a spot at one end of the sideboard, towards the corner of the room. She knew Theo would want his picture to be displayed, but in a way that was discreet. War service was to be acknowledged, not shown off. When she’d set it down, tilted to the right angle, she toured the room again, examining each item of furnishing that had been provided by the OFC. She wondered idly if the company had hired a wife to make the selections, or if one of the men on staff had done it. Or perhaps they’d left it up to the people in the furniture shops. Her footsteps were muffled as she trod on the mat that filled the centre of the room, then became loud again as she ventured onto the polished boards. Someone had been walking around with heels that were too spiky, she noticed. Areas of the wood were quite deeply pitted. Perhaps it had been Cynthia, perhaps a guest – whoever she was, she’d concentrated her steps around the drinks trolley, and crossed to the French windows more than once.

Passing the sofa, Kitty trailed her fingers along the back, making a furrow in the velvet pile. Then she stood still, listening for the sound of a car. But all she could hear was a rooster crowing in the distance and the clatter of pans coming from the kitchen. She checked her watch again. It was nearly five o’clock and Theo had still not arrived. She’d unpacked her luggage and moved Theo’s things from the single room into the master bedroom. Then she’d had a long relaxing bath before changing into a red-and-white spotted dress with a broad sash that showed off her trim waist. After that, she’d tried reading one of the novels in the bookcase, but found she couldn’t concentrate.

Kitty sighed as she ran her hand over her hair, ensuring that all the strands lay smooth. Bringing her wrist to her nose, she checked that her eau de Cologne was not too strong. Theo hated overpowering perfumes, not just before midday, but in the evenings too. She picked up the framed photograph of him from the sideboard where she’d put it earlier – trying it in a new position, then returning it to where it had been in the first place.

She went out to stand on the verandah. Past the picket fence, and beyond the foreground trees and shrubs, the settlement of Kongara was spread out for her to see. In spite of the neat placement of the tents, it was untidy and rather ugly. Viewed from up there, the lines of painted stones were crooked. The pale gravel roads had ragged edges; drainage trenches dug into the red earth were like long scars. Powerlines made black slash marks, seemingly at random. The few trees that remained looked lonely and unhealthy.

She listened again. This time, she heard the faint drone of an engine. Peering along the driveway, she saw the boxy shape of a small truck, or perhaps a jeep, like the ones the American soldiers drove. It might not be Theo, she warned herself. It could be Toby, or even Lisa, coming with a message.

But moments later, she saw him, sitting in the front passenger seat – his profile, his hair; so instantly familiar to her. With the vehicle barely at a standstill, he flung open the door and jumped out. He wore the khaki work clothes Kitty was now accustomed to seeing – the baggy shorts, the socks pulled up to his knees. Kitty felt a thrill of pride. He looked busy and efficient. He wasn’t just some desk-bound administrator who spent his time being driven around in a smart car. He’d been down at the Units, dealing with a serious problem.

He strode across to the house, waving up at Kitty, an eager smile on his face.

She waved back, then clasped her hands over her chest, trying to contain her impatience. When he reached the verandah she hitched up her skirt and ran towards him.

He raised his hands to ward her off. ‘I’m dusty from head to foot.’

‘I don’t care.’ Kitty threw her arms around him. As she hugged him close, she felt his arms enfolding her.

‘I’ve missed you so, so much.’ Theo’s voice seemed to come from deep inside his body.

‘Not as much as I’ve missed you.’

They held one another at arm’s length. Kitty looked into her husband’s eyes. His gaze was clear and bright. He had the beginnings of a suntan, which made him look healthy and relaxed. She could feel the change in his body as well. He was his true self again – light and happy.

His gaze lingered on her face, her hair. He made no mention of her new, fashionable look. Kitty didn’t know if this was because, deep down, he preferred her how she used to be, or if he wanted to avoid thinking back to how he had instructed his wife to make the change, and why.

She pushed the uneasy thought aside as Theo led her towards the French doors. At the threshold, he paused. Kitty guessed he was going to kiss her again, but instead he placed one arm behind her shoulders, and with the other he swept up her legs and carried her inside.

Kitty buried her face against his neck, smelling traces of soap beneath the dust. Joy and relief flooded through her. Theo loved her again. He had forgiven her.

Theo stood by the drinks trolley. He’d washed and changed into a cream linen suit. His jacket hung open but he wore a shirt and tie. Beside him, Kitty felt her spotted dress was too informal. He picked up a hand bell and gave it a good shake. A tinny clanging broke the stillness of the room. A short while later, Gabriel appeared. He wore a red fez and a long white gown.

‘Yes, Bwana.’

‘Pour some drinks, please. Gin and tonic for the memsahib. Don’t forget ice and lemon. A whisky soda for me.’

Gabriel set about preparing the drinks, whipping the lid from a bottle of tonic and using a small pair of tongs to lift ice cubes from a silver bucket. The chink of ice and glass was mesmerising. The late sun, reaching into the room, added its glow to the golden tones of the whisky, brandy and sherry set out in matching decanters.

Kitty’s drink was completed first. ‘Thank you,’ she murmured as the man placed the glass on a side table, positioning it on a coaster. Gabriel returned to the trolley, expertly angling the soda siphon, pulling the trigger. Then he selected another ice cube.

‘What are you doing?’ Theo sounded annoyed.

Gabriel turned to him, eyes wide with alarm. The ice cube dripped onto his tunic.

‘I don’t want ice, for heaven’s sake,’ Theo said. ‘And make it a double.’

‘Yes, Bwana.’

When Gabriel was gone, Kitty picked up her drink. The slice of lemon was in fact lime, as had been the case with the afternoon tea she’d been served. She watched the rind bobbing in the bubbles. It was such a pure, almost translucent tone of green. Taking a sip, she savoured the fresh, exotic tang. Beside her, Theo gulped down his drink and stood up to pour himself another.

‘How was your flight?’ he asked.

‘It was long, of course. Very tiring.’

‘No problems with your luggage?’

‘None at all.’ Kitty felt a sudden fear that the magic of their reunion was about to vanish under a blanket of banalities. Then she remembered something interesting to say. ‘We flew over El Alamein. Three of the other passengers were in the second battle of the campaign. They pointed out the places they’d fought. You could still see some burnt-out tanks and the remains of an aircraft. And there was a line on the ground – maybe a trench. Something to do with the Australians —’

‘Do you like the house?’ Theo gestured at their surroundings.

‘Yes, it’s very nice.’ Kitty hid her confusion at his blunt change of subject. Back in England, Theo had always been ready to discuss the war. He didn’t talk about his personal experiences, but was almost obsessed with analysing military strategies. He spent hours talking to the Admiral about it; they had something in common now, skirting their disagreement about Theo’s defection to the air force, and focusing instead on the atrocities committed by the enemy and the all-round superiority of the Allies. Kitty thought Theo would have been keenly interested in her anecdote about El Alamein. Then it occurred to her that perhaps he’d decided it was finally time to let it all go, as part of making a fresh start – though that wouldn’t be very easy; the Groundnut Scheme seemed to be staffed largely by ex-servicemen. She glanced across at the photograph on the sideboard. When she had the chance, she thought, she’d quietly put it away.

Theo stared down into his drink. He shook it slightly, making a sloshing sound.

‘Diana showed me around.’ Kitty spoke brightly, wanting to retrieve the light mood of before. ‘She introduced me to the staff.’

Theo raised his eyebrows. ‘Diana?’

‘She met me at the airstrip and brought me here.’

‘Did she?’ Theo sounded impressed. ‘She’s very busy, you know. Being the wife of the General Manager, she has a lot of responsibilities.’

‘She’s . . . very nice.’ Kitty let the comment hang in the air. She wasn’t sure she should mention how oddly Diana had reacted to the near-accident with the child, or the fact that Kitty found her manner quite difficult to read.

‘She’ll be a great help to you,’ Theo stated. ‘If you need any advice, information – just ask her. She sets a terrific example to everyone.’

Kitty twisted her hands around her glass. Was there something pointed about this last remark? Or was he simply paying a compliment to the wife of his boss? She bent her head, wishing she could still hide behind her long hair. The blunt-ended locks fell forward like broken wings to each side of her face.

‘I’m so glad you’re here.’

She looked up at Theo’s words. There was a faint crack in his voice that made her heart jump. In this new place, he was relaxed and in control. He was an important man with a big job to do. Yet he still needed her.

Rising from her chair, Kitty moved to stand in front of him. She looped her arms around his neck and pulled him close. For a moment, he seemed to collapse against her, making her take a short step back. Then he drew himself up, tall and straight. Kitty rested her face against his chest, breathed out slowly, and closed her eyes.