been Shiwa’s primary source of income until the sadness disease came and killed the citrus trees.
‘Sadness disease?’ asked Agnes.
‘Yes, a fungus called tristeza,’ said Ronald. ‘Ah, but sometimes I think Shiwa is cursed!’
The pitch of the aeroplane’s engines changed. The captain announced their descent.
* * *
The drive from Mpika to the estate was identical to the ones in Kenya – tediously bumpy – except for the newly paved Great North Road, which felt as smooth as the tarmac in England. Agnes, her head out the passenger window, took in the smells: sunbaked earth, the coppery funk of untempered sweat, a sprig of fruit, the rot of rubbish, woodsmoke, the green smell of green leaves. She tried to match these scents with the images she had of Africa from books: little round huts and little black men and flat trees and elephants and dust. The only thing she could confirm thus far was the dust. And the heat, which was positively melting. It was all terribly exciting, nonetheless. And what bliss to touch Ronald again. Every time their skin brushed, a wave crashed through her, a thrilling crest of anticipation. They would be alone together again soon.
Ronald turned onto a bumpy road and a new scent came through the car window. It was medicinal and pure, singing out from the other smells like an oboe in an orchestra.
‘What is that smell?’ she asked.
Ronald sniffed. ‘Eucalyptus! We are almost home.’
The borrowed Fiat stumbled along, navigating roots rather than potholes now, the air growing cooler as the trees stretched taller around them. Ronald began to narrate their surroundings to her. There was the lake, flashing in the distance. Here was the old bulky Fowler steam engine, which the children called Chitukukututuku. And now the workers’ buildings. Children running and waving. A woman sitting on the stoop, grinding millet.
‘And here is the gatehouse to the estate of Shiwa Ng’andu!’
Agnes sniffed. ‘What is that smell?’
‘The cypress trees,’ he said as the car began to ascend a slope, ‘they are imported from Italy.’
‘No, not cypress. Something unnatural…’
‘And there is Peacock Hill!’ he said. ‘Just to the side of the house, we can see it now.’
‘Oh, are there peacocks here?’ Agnes brightened. She had an affection for their eye-riddled train of feathers.
‘There used to be,’ he said. ‘But this hill is named for a man, Mr Peacock, who died here in a car accident. He was pinned upside down in a ditch, with his head in a puddle of water – just a few inches, but enough to drown. He was buried on that hill.’
‘Goodness,’ Agnes shivered. ‘The place is overrun with graves.’
Ronald began describing the manor, his excitement chopping the images to fragments: red bricks – arched windows – iron lattice – vines on the walls – orange and pink flowers – a big wooden door – the Union Jack. Where on earth am I? Agnes suddenly wondered. Northern Rhodesia. A storybook land. Named after the great Cecil Rhodes. They may as well have called it Northern Cecilia, she thought hysterically. What was the name of that poem again? The title bit the bait, but she could not reel it in. It thrashed under the surface of her mind.
Ronald opened her door. Agnes stepped out, grass tickling her sandalled foot, and the next thing she knew, she was immersed in a hot pool of sunlight, swamped in that strange smell.
‘Lady Agnes,’ a voice intoned, thunderously British. ‘Welcome to Shiwa Ng’andu.’
She reached out her hand to shake and flinched when a kiss squelched on it instead.
‘Stewart Gore-Browne,’ boomed the British voice again. ‘Very pleased to meet you.’
‘Ba Golo,’ Ronald said shakily, ‘I mean, Sir Stewart. We are so honoured to be home.’
* * *
Apart from Agnes and Ronald, Sir Stewart and his butler Henry Mulenga, there were a Lord and Lady Vyvant, and someone’s niece, a Miss Higgins, here for dinner. This small party was immediately subjected to a tour. Every room of the manor was a new world of sounds and smells. The entrance hall: mouldy carpet dust, the slight spice of old wood. The sitting room: burnt stone, the animal scent of leather, oil-paint resin, the brush of velvet against glass windows. The kitchen: an oniony halo, the funk of dried meats, the tang of cooking oil. The chapel felt the most familiar, the most English: shoes slapping the flagstones, a floral scent from the hymnals, the creak of the pews.
The upstairs library felt the most alive. A gramophone was playing opera. A fire was