EIGHT

Theo used his bread and butter knife to tap a straight line around the top of his boiled egg before slicing it neatly off. Kitty eyed him from across the table as she toyed with her own egg; its shell, where she’d cut it, was a ragged mess. He was wearing a crisp white shirt and the trousers that belonged with one of his best suits – too dark for the climate, but very smart. It had been ages since she’d seen him dressed in his khaki field clothes; these days, he had to spend all his time at Head Office. The rains were due to start soon and ploughing was behind schedule. Down on the Units, the contractors and native labourers were working into the night, but the abrasive soils kept on breaking the ploughshares. The people at Head Office, along with a steady flow of visiting executives from London, were holding urgent meetings to try to solve the problem.

‘Who’s arriving today?’ Kitty asked. ‘Someone important?’

Theo sighed. ‘The DC has requested a meeting. As if we haven’t got enough on our plates already.’

‘The District Commissioner?’ Kitty queried. She wanted Theo to know she remembered the initials – that she took in all the things he said to her.

Theo nodded. ‘He has to dig his oar in now and again, or he feels left out. The Colonial Office finds it hard to accept that the Scheme is run by the British Ministry of Food and not by the Government of Tanganyika.’

‘It does seem odd,’ Kitty commented.

Theo waved his hand dismissively. ‘The Colonial Service is just too slow, too . . . old. The Ministry of Food is new. Fast-moving, efficient, a place for fresh ideas.’

Kitty hid the surprise she felt as she listened to her husband. She still couldn’t get used to hearing him express forward-thinking views like this. His experiences in the war had prompted him to turn so firmly to the past, adopting the belief that whatever was old was best. Old families, old homes, old books and paintings . . . She looked at his left hand resting on the table. On his little finger he wore a gold signet ring. The Hamilton coat of arms engraved there – the lion, the leaf, the book – was an ever-present symbol of the power of history and tradition. When she’d met Theo, he’d not been wearing the ring. He’d taken it off as a gesture of rebellion against the principle of inherited privilege. In the kitchen of the Garden House there had been long, late-night discussions – arguments, really – between Theo and Yuri, as the older man tried to defend the imperial court and the cause of the White Russians. In those days, Theo talked passionately about justice and equality. But the war, it seemed, had brought everything into question. There had been the terrible disaster when he’d crashed his Lancaster and been the only survivor. And that was only the beginning. He’d watched all but a few of his friends die, one after another. Over the course of the war over half of Britain’s airmen were killed. He’d seen so many last letters written, last meals eaten, last cigarettes stubbed out . . . Theo’s mates died fighting to protect the British way of life, which was deeply grounded in tradition. They fought for their king – and there could be no more powerful statement of inherited privilege than royalty. By the time the war was over, the signet ring had reappeared.

With the coming of peacetime, Theo’s newfound commitment to his heritage had found an outlet in the task of reinstalling the family treasures at the Hall, so that Louisa and the Admiral could move back in. The main building had been requisitioned by the army not long after the war began. Kitty had been there the day the order was delivered. She and Theo were already married, and lived in some rented rooms near the airfield. Kitty had returned to visit her new relatives – but mainly to see Yuri. He was still adding paintings to the series of images of Kitty, working from sketches now that she was no longer there to sit for him. An ordinary black car had driven up to the front of the Hall. A man in uniform saluted the Admiral before handing over a typed document. When the old man finished reading it, the paper was nailed to the front door. Louisa had stood in front of it, wide-eyed with dismay as she mouthed the words written there: RAF Requisition Order of Premises. Emergency Powers (Defence) Act 1939. When the shock wore off, and the Admiral declared that the family must do its duty with a good will, the Hall was stripped of its fine furniture, the art collection, the wall hangings and carpets. Everything was stored in the gatekeeper’s lodge. The Admiral, his wife and a staff of three took over the Garden House. It was all very sudden; there had been no time even for Yuri to repaint the brush-marked walls in the studio. Kitty sometimes wondered what different path her life might have taken if the house had not been requisitioned. If Yuri had not been forced to move into the cottage at the edge of the village – that small and secret place, cut off from the outside world . . .

The Big House was handed back to the Hamiltons soon after the war was over. When the last military vehicle had driven away, Theo had swung into action. As he supervised the unpacking of boxes and the moving of furniture, he had been determined to recreate the family home exactly as he’d known it. Small details mattered – every ornament or piece of framed embroidery had to be returned to its rightful place. He even commissioned a stonemason to repair the marble fireplaces that had been damaged by soldiers poking at burning logs as they tried to stay warm. Kitty had assisted Theo where she could – there was little else for her to do, now that she was a resident at Hamilton Hall. Her role as a volunteer for the war effort was over; she was a country gentleman’s wife. Sometimes she wandered into the Garden House – the rooms now echoey, empty – searching for signs that Yuri had once lived and worked there. But the Hamiltons’ occupancy had all but erased any record of those years. There was just the odd smear of oil paint, overlooked by the decorators. Dents in the floorboards made by the legs of the easel. The scratch on the kitchen window where Yuri had shown Kitty how real diamonds can score a line in glass. Once she’d found a desiccated rat – not in the Garden House, but in the stables. It reminded her of the one Yuri had given her to draw, and of how pleased he’d been with the result. She could almost hear his voice, feel his congratulatory touch on her shoulder . . . Theo had come upon her crouched over the dead creature, her body racked with sobs. He’d been kind at first, but then frustrated at such extreme emotion being expended on a dead rodent, when there were enough real reasons for tears.

Kitty avoided going to the village. She knew that, like an addict drawn to their poison, she’d find herself walking to the far end, past the mill, to stand outside the little cottage where Yuri had lived – breathing its sooty creosote smell, staring at the windows, tracing the patterns of brown stains on the backs of closed curtains. There was no point in torturing herself, she knew. No act of penance could turn back time. And even if it were possible, what different choices would she have made?

Restoring Hamilton Hall had filled Theo’s days, causing him to rise early and work until dusk – but there had been something desperate about his commitment. When the project was over, he’d sunk into listless apathy. Now, the Groundnut Scheme was demanding a similar level of dedication from him. Kitty’s relief at seeing Theo so relaxed and engaged when she’d first arrived was giving way to a sense of unease. Was Theo simply doing a difficult job, fighting the war on hunger? Or was the Scheme his new obsession? She hoped the fact that he was now talking of the need to turn from the old and embrace the new was a good sign. That it meant he was becoming free again. He was returning to the view of the world that had been part of the man she’d fallen in love with. But she had a creeping fear that the shift was too sudden and too great.

Theo poured milk into his teacup, then tilted the pot to pour.

‘So, why does the District Commissioner want to see you?’ Kitty asked.

‘This time,’ Theo explained, ‘they’re making a fuss about conditio­ns in the Native Labour Camps. It’s true – there is some unrest. The water is rather brackish down there. They say the food rations are inadequate. But the big issue seems to be that the Africans thought they’d be able to bring all their wives and children here. That’s completely impractical. We’ve still got lots of European contractors waiting for proper housing so their families can come out here. The Africans will just have to wait.’

Kitty wondered whether to betray that she knew some of them had brought their wives to Kongara anyway. Pippa had scandalised the women at the Club with talk of a filthy slum that had grown up on the other side of town, out past the workshops. Wives of the native labourers lived there, alongside a growing population of African prostitutes.

‘I saw one,’ Pippa said. ‘She was outside the police station. She looked ghastly – red lipstick and blue eye shadow. It just doesn’t go with black skin!’

There had been silence while her words sank in. The image was hard to picture.

Kitty decided not to comment on what Theo had said. Obviously, he knew the slum was there. If she let on that she did too, he could well use its presence as proof that he was right in instructing his wife to keep to the central part of Londoni.

‘Have you met the DC before?’ Kitty asked. She eyed the butter, waiting for Theo to notice and pass it across.

‘A few times. He’s a reasonable enough fellow. Been here a long time. Very experienced. But there’s a cloud hanging over him. He was mixed up in some shady business a couple of years ago, involving a local white farmer. It was that dreadful chap Taylor. You saw him one day – remember?’

Kitty gave a brief nod, giving up on the butter and pretending instead to be focused on her egg. She had an irrational fear that whatever Theo was about to tell her might end up exposing the fact that she’d driven out of town to the Catholic Mission – that she’d seen Taylor’s vineyards and spent time feeding his labourers, tending their wounds.

‘Taylor was to go to prison – for what crime, I’ve no idea. It’s all rather hush-hush. But the point is, the District Commissioner allowed him to serve his sentence in some kind of private jail, instead of sending him to Dar es Salaam.’ He glanced up at Kitty, giving a short laugh. ‘You know what they call a prison here? Hoteli ya mfalme. The hotel of the king.’

Kitty gave a thin smile. Theo looked pleased with his Swahili phrase, but the words were barely recognisable – mispronounced, and distorted by his strong English accent.

‘Of course, it would be appalling for a white man to be locked up in an African jail,’ Theo added. ‘But still, in a colonial setting especially, justice should be seen to be done. There’s no doubt the DC went out on a limb for Taylor.’ Theo frowned thoughtfully. ‘It just makes one wonder if there’s some connection between the two. Knowing what we do of Taylor – that doesn’t reflect well on the DC.’

Kitty sipped her tea, hoping there was no sign on her face of her keen interest in Theo’s story. What crime had Taylor committed? How long had he been locked up for – and where? She couldn’t decide if the fact that the man had been jailed himself – albeit in a private cell – made it better or worse that he now fed off prison labour.

Theo picked up Cynthia’s salt pot, using the tiny china spoon to create a little pile of white on the side of his plate next to the wedge of butter he’d removed from the block in the dish. He chose a triangle of toast from the rack.

Kitty dug further into her egg. Then her hand froze as she saw a bloody red blob in the yolk. The beginnings of an embryo. She wasn’t offended by the sight in the way Theo would be; she’d grown up on a farm where roosters mixed freely with the hens. Most of the eggs were fertile, but you couldn’t tell as long as they were eaten soon enough after being laid. Kitty’s mother sometimes used eggs of questionable freshness, especially when the hens eased off laying, and the odd spot of blood didn’t bother anyone. But there was no need for this to happen in Londoni – villagers were always eager to sell their eggs. Eustace should be checking every egg he intended to use by making sure it wouldn’t float in a bowl of water. Kitty told herself she must remember to instruct him to be much more careful in future. She knew she should put her egg aside quickly, before Theo discovered this evidence of bad housekeeping. But instead, she just sat there, staring into the yolk, her gaze snared by the red stain. It reminded her that her period was due. Her third one since she’d arrived. She nursed a hope that she might be pregnant, but it was only faint.

As the pressure of work had intensified, Theo had had a desk installed in the spare bedroom and he’d spent long hours in there during the evenings, writing reports, checking the typescripts, reading documents from London. Late at night, after he’d finally finished, he’d linger in the sitting room, winding down with a whisky or two. Often, he then slept in the spare room with his desk, even though Kitty had never complained of being disturbed. Around the middle of this last month, he’d spent five nights in a row in there – the crucial dates on Kitty’s calendar. Several times, she had almost gone in and told him, straight out, that they had to make love. Right now, tonight; and again the next night, whether they felt like it or not. It was the right time. But men didn’t want to know about periods and ovulation – Pippa’s magazine had warned about the likelihood of acute embarrassment, the loss of romance. A perilous path for a wife to take. Adopting a different approach, Kitty had tried to seduce Theo away from his deskwork, hovering at his shoulder in her silky nightgown, her thigh pressing against his arm. Alongside thoughts of conceiving a baby, she was still clinging to the hope that the night of lovemaking they’d had, after sharing the box of chocolates, might be repeated. She’d bent over, letting her breasts spill towards him. But he’d just looked up at her in a distracted way before returning to his paperwork.

Theo left the table to get ready for work. Kitty sat alone, her breakfast abandoned. The day stretched ahead of her, barren and unappealing. She buried her face in her hands, a dark weight pressing in around her. Perhaps she would go back to bed, as she’d done on so many other mornings. Perhaps she would stay there all day, pretending to be ill . . .

‘I won’t be home for lunch today.’ Theo’s voice reached her through the open door, cutting off her thoughts. ‘I’ll see you later on.’

Kitty lifted her head as sudden anger sparked inside her. Her husband didn’t even offer reasons for staying at work any more. Nor did he give estimates of what time he might reappear. He was probably glad that telephones had yet to be installed in the houses on Millionaire Row (one more example, according to Pippa, of the inability of the OFC to prioritise in any sensible way). It meant Theo didn’t have to think of calling his wife to notify her of delays. It was as if she’d become almost invisible to him, a speck at the edge of his horizon. Did he never wonder whether or not she was happy here in Kongara? Did he even care? Why was it always up to Kitty to listen to him, and offer comfort? She was trying so hard to be a good wife. Couldn’t she at least expect some effort on his side? She heard the sound of his footsteps again, moving towards the front door. With a shock, she realised he was about to leave without kissing her goodbye. Anger evaporated, replaced by a spike of panic. But then the steps became louder. Kitty looked up as Theo entered the room. He flashed her a smile, his teeth white against his tanned skin. The navy jacket he now wore, set off by his white shirt, combined to highlight the fairness of his hair. He was breathtakingly handsome. Kitty’s anger melted like snow in the sun. When he leaned over her chair to kiss her cheek, she breathed in the smell of toothpaste and citrus aftershave, grateful to be close to him.

‘I love you,’ she said. She spoke again more strongly, overriding the pleading note in her voice. ‘I love you.’

Theo gave her a nonplussed look, then ruffled her hair. ‘Me too. Have a lovely day, darling.’ He tapped her on the shoulder and strode away.

Kitty squinted in the sudden brightness as she walked outside. Nearing her car, freshly dusted by the gardener, she remembered she’d forgotten her swimming bag. But she kept on walking. She’d only just managed to force herself to get dressed and put on her make-up. If she went back to her room, she might stay there.

Inside the car she opened the glove box, feeling for her sunglasses. Her hand closed around an object she didn’t recognise until she pulled it out. Father Remi’s penknife – the one Tesfa had found while emptying the basket of produce. She’d forgotten she’d put it in there. She ran her fingers over the bone casing, the warm smoothness reminding her of the tortoiseshell on Katya’s powder compact. The penknife was old and well used, the handle crazed with cracks. She opened the blade and tested the edge on her thumb, angling it sideways so she wouldn’t cut herself. It was sharp and straight.

Kitty brushed away some dried earth that had fallen from the blade onto her dress. It left a pink blush on the white spots that dotted the background of red. The sight reminded her of standing in Father Remi’s gardens, looking down at the rich red soil, the ground almost covered with greenery even though it was still the dry season. Set above the dusty plains with all the bare plantations, the place was like a vision. A land of milk and honey. But that was only part of the picture, she told herself. There were the prisoners as well, each with their own tragic story, no doubt. And the askaris armed with batons and rifles. Kitty’s thoughts turned to the man with the ulcer on his leg. Was it still festering beneath the surface, or had the antiseptic won out? She hoped Father Remi had found time to change the dressing each day.

She weighed the knife in her hand. A good knife, she knew, was a precious possession. Her father wore his in a pouch attached to his belt. He never removed it, even for church. It didn’t take long for her to reach a decision. Now that she’d found Father Remi’s knife, she would have to return it. It was the only thing to do. She wouldn’t stay, she promised herself. She’d come straight back. She’d have lunch at the Club. She’d even sit with Alice.

As Kitty drove into the Mission yard, she was surprised to see the prison trucks already parked there. Their open backs were empty – the prisoners were sitting in rows on the forecourt. She glanced at her watch. It was later than she’d thought.

Emerging from her car, Kitty retrieved Father Remi’s basket from the boot. Then she hovered by the vehicle, wiping off her lipstick with the back of her hand. She wished now that she’d gone back inside the house before driving off, to wash her face. She should also have changed into Janet’s sensible clothes. The red-and-white spotted dress was too eye-catching; the cloth clung too closely to her figure.

She could not see Father Remi among the prisoners. Nor was he standing by the serving table. Instead, Sister Clara and two younger nuns were waiting ready by the pots. Kitty felt suddenly reluctant to parade herself in front of the crowd. For a second, she thought of Louisa. Which points of etiquette would she recommend to a lady faced with greeting a hundred or so male prisoners? Glancing about her, Kitty saw a path leading down the side of the church. If she could make her way around the back, she could get to the other building. Father Remi might well be in there. If not, she could wait in the reception room for someone to appear, then ask for him to be called.

Kitty’s high-heeled sandals were as unsuitable as her dress and make-up. As she wobbled over the paving stones, she didn’t dare look back to see if her presence had been noticed. She felt sure the sound of her car arriving, the banging of the door and the boot, would have attracted at least some attention. Reaching the church, she turned down the side path, slipping gratefully out of sight.

The path was made of soft bare earth. The heels of her sandals sank in at each step. Before long, Kitty crouched to take them off, adding them to the basket. She strode on, foot-sure and comfortable. As she went, her gaze travelled up the high stone wall to where pigeons stalked the edges of the tiled roof, making cut-out shapes of grey against the blue. She was almost at the corner when she felt something tugging at the back of her dress. With a lurch of fear, she spun around. A small monkey peered up at her, its hand clutching her hem. Kitty stiffened, trying to pull away. The animal stood only a little taller than the level of her knee, but she remembered Janet’s warning about the danger of catching rabies from the bite of a monkey or dog. She was relieved when her dress was let go. But then the monkey reached up and grabbed her hand instead. The grip was firm; the little fingers folded around her own. For a moment, Kitty just stared at it. Something about the wispy fur made her think the animal was quite young.

She bent to look at the pale, hairless face. The big dark eyes were so shiny they might have been swimming with tears.

‘Hello there.’

The monkey was clearly tame – someone’s pet. She wondered if it was meant to be wandering around on its own. An impatient chattering sound broke from the thin-lipped mouth. Kitty glimpsed teeth, a pink tongue. Then the monkey began dragging her forwards.

As she followed it along the path, a memory stirred in Kitty’s head. She felt she’d seen this animal before. Then it came to her. It was the creature she’d first thought was a naked child, crouched on the bonnet of that ramshackle shed-on-wheels.

Taylor.

The hand tugged her on, around the corner. She almost walked into a metal pipe, poised in the air at chest height. A man stood with his back to her some distance away, holding the pipe in the middle, balancing the unwieldy load on his shoulder. Kitty could see he was trying to manoeuvre one end towards a hole in the side of a water tank. As she watched, the end close to her began to tilt. Without thinking, she pulled her hand free of the monkey’s grasp, put down the basket, and rushed forward to steady the pipe.

‘Asante!’ the man called back. ‘Shika tu.’ Hold it still.

Kitty didn’t reply, but did as she was instructed.

‘Inua tu!’ Lift it up!

As soon as she’d complied, another stream of Swahili was flung in her direction. This time it was too fast for her to translate, but she could see what was needed. She walked her end to the left, holding it aloft.

The man struggled to ease the pipe into the hole, which was in an awkward spot near the top of the tank. Kitty made it easier for him by adjusting the height of her end. She was a farmer’s daughter; it didn’t occur to her not to help out in a situation like this. At the same time, though, she watched the man through narrowed eyes. It was Taylor, she felt certain. The presence of the monkey was not the only clue. She recognised the unruly, sun-streaked hair from the glimpse she’d had of him on the road. She studied him while he worked. He had the build of a shearer: strong but agile. His bush shirt had the sleeves torn off above the elbow, revealing forearms bulked with muscle.

‘Imekwisha.’ It is finished.

He turned around, rubbing his hands on the seat of his dirty trousers. He stared at Kitty in open shock – looking away, then back, as though to check that the woman in the red and white dress was really standing there.

Then he strode towards her, relieving Kitty of her load by resting her end of the pipe on the branch of a tree. ‘I’m so sorry, I thought you were Tesfa. He was here, just before.’

With a single bound, the monkey leapt up onto his shoulder. The man’s hand rose to steady the animal. ‘This is Gili.’

‘We’ve met,’ Kitty said.

‘I hope he hasn’t caused any trouble.’

Kitty shook her head.

‘I’m Taylor.’ He moved his right hand, but then let it drop. Kitty could see he wasn’t sure if they should shake hands or not. She felt a flicker of satisfaction. He had no manners. He knew less than she did.

‘I’m Mrs Theodore Hamilton.’ Kitty kept her arms by her side. She didn’t need Louisa to advise her that Taylor was precisely the kind of man a lady would choose not to greet with a handshake.

Taylor’s eyes travelled over her, moving from head to toe. Kitty stared back at him. He was probably no older than Theo, but he had the weathered skin of a man who worked outside. There was stubble on his chin. A smear of mud on his forehead. She found his gaze unnerving, piercing and inscrutable at the same time. His voice was disconcerting as well. He had no accent at all – as if he came from nowhere, or everywhere.

‘I don’t mean to be rude,’ he said finally, ‘but – apart from having bare feet – you look like you should be down at the Kongara Club having tea.’

His words were so apt, Kitty had to smile. ‘I should,’ she agreed. She glanced at her watch. ‘In fact, right now I am meant to be at a meeting of the planning committee for the Christmas Ball.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Christmas is ages away.’

‘There’s a lot to arrange – apparently the Ball is the social highlight of the year. Today they’re discussing music and dancing. Maybe it’s best I’m not there – I can’t do a single one of the dances. I don’t even know the steps.’

‘Well, that’s no good. You’ll be thrown out of the Ball.’

Kitty smiled again. It was relief to have the issue of the dancing made into a joke. And the way he teased her brought up memories of Paddy – his straightforward, easy ways. But then Kitty reminded herself who Taylor was. She took a step back, picking up her basket. She wasn’t sure how they’d come to be chatting like this; the shared task with the pipe and the antics of the monkey must have created a false sense of connection. She held out the penknife. ‘I just came to return this to Father Remi.’

‘There it is!’ Taylor looked pleased as he took it from her, slipping it into his shirt pocket. ‘He said he lost it. But all the time it was you.’

Kitty felt herself blushing as she walked on. Taylor came behind her. They reached an open doorway leading into the rear of the church.

‘He should be in here,’ Taylor said. ‘Thanks for your help, by the way.’ He nodded towards the water pipe. ‘I’ll be glad when I get the other end of that pipe back in place.’

‘Why don’t you get your prisoners to do it?’ Kitty decided it was time to let Taylor know she was well aware of the kind of business he ran.

‘Well, I could have. I only just noticed it had been removed. The Fathers are very busy. They overlook these practical things sometimes. I like to check over all their buildings before the rains come.’

‘That’s kind of you.’ Kitty’s tone was tart. It wasn’t much of a gesture on his part, considering the Mission had the job of feeding and caring for his workers.

Taylor looked puzzled. Kitty wished she hadn’t spoken. The last thing she wanted was to begin a conversation about this man’s morals. She was about to make an excuse to walk off when Gili suddenly leapt down from Taylor’s shoulder, launching himself into her arms.

She staggered backwards, dropping the basket, as she grasped the animal’s body, her fingers disappearing into fine soft fur. Two long arms wound themselves around her neck. A faint smell rose to her nostrils, reminding her of times, years ago, when she’d lain in the sun with the farm dogs, burying her face in their thick coats.

She realised Taylor was staring at her, open-mouthed. ‘Gili is usually afraid of strangers. He was tortured by the people who captured him. He still has the scars.’

‘That’s terrible. Poor creature.’ Kitty wrapped her arms over the monkey’s back, lodging him securely against her chest. She felt oddly gratified as though she’d done something to deserve Gili’s trust. She found she liked the feeling of the animal clinging onto her, the tickle of fur against her neck. She rested her cheek on his downy head.

‘He’s so . . .’ She hunted for the word that would describe the quaint miniature nose, mouth and ears; his comic antics; but also the intelligence that burned in his wide-open eyes. ‘Like a real baby.’

‘Much less trouble, from what I’ve been told.’ Taylor grinned. His eyes crinkled at the corners, showing he smiled a lot.

The drone of male voices coming from the other side of the church suddenly rose to a new level. Kitty guessed the meal was about to be served. The stone forecourt crowded with prisoners seemed a world away from where she stood, with this man she didn’t know and a monkey in her arms. Pigeons, cooing in the belltower, were louder, more present. So was the hidden choir of insects humming in the midday sun.

‘I spoke to you in Swahili back there,’ Taylor commented. ‘You understood.’

‘I only speak a little.’ Kitty felt half proud and half embarrassed. She knew she’d made good progress with the language but felt – at the same time – as if she’d been caught out doing something unseemly or pretentious.

‘Why would someone like you learn Swahili?’ Taylor sounded genuinely interested.

‘Well, I thought it might be useful. I didn’t know what it would be like here. I thought I might be able to . . . do something.’ Kitty felt a wave of emotion rise up as she spoke. She was aware of all the frustration she’d suppressed; all the words she’d bitten back – each and every one of them was still there, just waiting to burst out. ‘I have to go.’

‘I’ll take you to the Father, then,’ Taylor said.

‘No, it’s all right. I don’t need to see him. If you could just give him that . . .’ She gestured towards the basket, lying on its side where she’d dropped it. Her sandals were on the ground nearby.

Taylor went to pick them up. In his work-roughened hands, the thin straps and high heels looked delicate and impractical. ‘You seem quite at home in bare feet.’

Kitty lowered her gaze. He could see right through her, she felt sure. He’d probably detected her accent was fake, her manners a thin veneer. She didn’t really belong in the Kongara Club. Someone like Alice would never have taken off her shoes, or joined in with a man’s outdoor work. Taylor could tell Kitty was an outsider, like he was. An imposter. But even as these thoughts came to her she knew she couldn’t afford to accept that picture of herself. She had to belong in the world she now shared with Theo.

She lifted her head, flicking back her hair in the way she’d seen Diana do. She adopted the dismissive, critical gaze she saw so often in Londoni. ‘They should make some proper paths in this place. Out of concrete.’

Kitty peeled the monkey from her body, handing him over to Taylor, taking her shoes in return. The exchange had a domestic feel to it – as though it were something they’d done often before, and would again.

‘Next time you come, use the shortcut,’ Taylor suggested. ‘It’s much quicker. And once the rains start, the main road will be flooded. The track cuts straight across the hill. Joins onto the other end of that top road. The one with all the big houses. Do you know where I mean?’

Kitty nodded, but said nothing. She didn’t want to reveal that she lived there, in Millionaire Row – the best address in Tanganyika. It might cause Taylor to think less of her. She viewed herself with astonishment. Why would she care what someone like Taylor thought?

The man smiled at her again. Kitty realised what was so striking about his eyes: the irises were blue-green around the pupil but gold at the edges. She felt drawn to them, like a moth to light.

‘Thank you, but I won’t be coming back.’

The line between Taylor’s brows deepened for just a second. But then a mask came over his features. ‘Goodbye, then.’ His voice was neutral.

‘Goodbye.’

Kitty walked away, still barefoot, the sandals swinging from her hand. She imagined she could feel Taylor’s eyes – his strange intense gaze – following her. She fought an impulse to turn around.

She headed back along the side of the church with a reluctant step. She wanted to stay here – to help serve lunch. To work in the clinic. To see the two Fathers again. Tesfa, as well. She wanted to play with Gili.

She could keep her distance from Taylor.

But she forced herself to keep on, quickening her pace. She’d made mistakes before – not understood where she was headed. But this time it was going to be different. She could see the danger.

She knew to fly away.