and is the one member of my family who still speaks to me – that Mama tells all her friends I caught a fever in Africa which left me deranged.’
‘And what about your father? You always described him as being rather a good sort.’
‘He wasn’t . . . isn’t a bad man, no, just a weak one. But that morning, he saw what was happening – he watched the three of us as we left and didn’t say a word to Mama in our defence, even though I know he was fond of Stella, and of me too. He wrote me a while after, saying that I was to come to him if I ever needed help. I’m afraid my pride wouldn’t allow it, even at the toughest of financial moments.’
‘You never thought of coming home to Africa?’
‘Time passed, Bill, and I built a life with Stella here.’
‘Do you ever miss it?’ he asked abruptly.
‘Kenya, you mean?’
‘Yes. I presume that you didn’t and still don’t. After all, there was no reason why you couldn’t have visited during Stella’s school holidays.’
‘Bill, you talk as if we are old friends, as if there was never any feeling between us,’ Cecily said. ‘I . . . just needed to move on. To try and forget Africa, and you . . . I realised that you’d never really loved me, because if you had, surely you would have come to New York to persuade me to return home. I wrote and asked you to visit often enough. You never did, so for the sake of my sanity, I had to get on with my life.’
‘Not for a minute did I even suspect that you wanted me to do such a thing. If only I’d known . . .’
‘Then what, Bill?’ said Cecily, despairingly. ‘Wasn’t it obvious that I loved you? Those kinds of feelings don’t just switch off because you get on a boat or a plane and arrive in another country. After Kiki died, I remember being desperate to speak to you – it was Christmas Day, and I phoned Muthaiga Club, only to be told you’d gone on safari. You had my parents’ telephone number in New York, why didn’t you call?’
‘Who knows?’ Bill sighed. ‘At the time, I did feel rather as if you’d deserted me. Pride perhaps?’
‘Or, more likely, you simply forgot. It’s okay to just get real, you know. We are twenty-three years down the track after all. You can no longer hurt me.’
‘Oh God, Cecily, what a mess,’ Bill groaned and ran a hand through his thick hair. It was such a familiar gesture that Cecily only just restrained herself from reaching out a hand and placing it on his.
‘Seriously, Bill, why have you come?’
‘Because . . . I felt it was time that I – we – formalised our . . . well, mutual arrangements. I’m not getting any younger, as you can see, and the doctor says there’s something up with my ticker. Even though it’s not life-threatening, I have been told to take life a little more slowly. So I’m thinking of selling Paradise Farm and buying myself something a bit more manageable. As we are still married, I felt I should at least ask your permission to do so. After all, Cecily, you made not only the house but the garden your own, and almost everything in the house is yours. Do you want it back?’
‘Oh Bill, forget the furniture, for goodness’ sake! What is it that the doctor has said is wrong with your heart?’
‘It’s nothing whatsoever to concern yourself with. I was checked over by a Harley Street specialist when I was in England. He’s given me this rather revolting medicine to put under my tongue to stop the angina attacks. The good news is, it seems to be working. But that isn’t the point, Cecily. I’m asking you how you feel about selling Paradise Farm? As I said, things in Kenya are going through rather a boom and I have someone who is keen to buy it and run it as a going concern.’
Cecily closed her eyes and cast her mind back to her beautiful house and garden. It was rather like opening a book that had sat closed on a shelf for years, its beauty all but forgotten. Cecily heard herself catch her breath as she relived the view of the sunset from the veranda and smiled.
‘I loved that house,’ she breathed. ‘I was so happy there, if lonely,’ she