These two had not long been in the Service. They had got jobs because they were relatives of the Minister. They were not from pre-Liberation days. Most new States, even though enjoying a complete change of government, keep the Secret Service of the previous government, partly because they are impressed by the range and extent of the knowledge of these people who have so recently spied on them, and partly because a good few have secrets they do not want revealed. These men still had to make names for themselves, and needed to impress superiors.

'Has Zimlia ever had to expel someone for being an agent?' enquired Rose.

‘Oh, yes, many times.'

This was not true, but it made them feel important, belonging to such stern and efficient service.

‘Oh, really?’ said Rose excitedly, scenting a story.

'One was called Matabele Smith. ' The other amended, ' Mata-bele Bosman Smith. '

One evening, in the cafe Rose had just left, some journalists had joked about the spy rumours, and had invented a spy with a name that embodied as many unpleasant characteristics – to the present government's mind – as they could. (They had vetoed Whitesmith, on the analogy of Blacksmith.) This character was a South African frequently in Zimlia on business, and he had tried to blow up the coal mines at Hwange, Government House, the new sports stadium, and the airport. He had entertained the cafe for a few evenings, but they lost interest. Meanwhile he had reached the police files. In the cafe the name Matabele Bosman Smith became shorthand for the spy mania and the agents who frequented the place were hearing the name but could never actually find out more.

‘And you deported him?’ said Rose.

The two men were silent, exchanged glances again, then one said, ‘Yes, we deported him. ‘And the other, ‘We deported him back to South Africa. '

Next day Rose completed her paragraph about Sylvia with, 'Sylvia Lennox is known to have been a close friend of Matabele Bosman Smith who was deported as a South African spy. '

The general style and attack of this piece was right for the papers she liked to use as a receptacle for her inspirations in Britain, but she decided to show it to Bill Case, and then Frank Diddy. Both men knew the origin of the famous deportee, but did not tell her. They did not like her. She had long ago outstayed her welcome. Besides, they did like the idea of this famous Smith being injected with new life, to provide an evening or two's amusement in the cafe.

The piece was in The Post, which was not likely to notice one inflammatory paragraph among so many. She sent it to World Scandals, and it reached Colin, under the rule that if anything unpleasant is printed about one then it will be sent you by some well-wisher. Colin at once sued the paper for a hefty sum and an apology, but as is the way with such newspapers, the correction was put in tiny print where few people were likely to notice it. Julia was again branded as a Nazi; the suggestion that Sylvia was a spy seemed to Colin too ludicrous to bother with.

Father McGuire saw the paragraph in The Post, but did not show it to Sylvia. It found its way to Mr Mandizi, who put it in the file for St Luke's Mission.

Something happened that Sylvia had been dreading all the years she had been at the Mission. A girl who had acute appendicitis was carried up to her from the village by Clever and Zebedee. Father McGuire had taken the car to visit the Old Mission. Sylvia could not telephone the Pynes; either their telephone or the Mission's was not working. The girl needed an immediate operation. Sylvia had often imagined this emergency or something like it, and had decided that she would not operate. She could not. Simple – and successful – operations, yes, she could get away with that, but a fatality, no, they would be down on her at once.

The two boys in their crisp white shirts (ironed for them by Rebecca), with their perfectly combed hair, their scrubbed and scrubbed again hands, knelt on either side of the girl, inside the thatched shed that was called a hospital ward, and looked at her, their eyes filled with tears and brimming over.

'She's on fire, Sylvia,' said Zebedee. 'Feel her.'

Sylvia said, 'Why didn't she come up to me before? If we had caught this yesterday. Why didn't she? This happens again and again. ' Her voice was tight, and rough, and it was from fear. ‘Do you realise how serious this is?'

‘We told her to come, we did tell her. '

It would not be her fault, if the girl died, but if she, Doctor Sylvia, operated and the girl died then it would be judged her fault. The two young faces, washed with tears, begged her, please, please. The girl was a cousin, and a relative too of Joshua.

‘You know I am not a surgeon. I have told you, Clever, Zebedee, you know what that means. '

‘But you must do it,’ said Clever. ‘Yes, Sylvia, please, please.'

The girl was pulling her knees up to her stomach and groaning.

'Very well, get me the sharpest of our knives. And some hot water. ' She bent so her mouth was at the girl's ear. ' Pray,’ she said. ' Pray to the Virgin. ' She knew the girl was a Catholic: she had seen her at the little church. This immune system was going to need all the help it could get.

The boys brought the instruments. The girl was not on ' the operating table' , because she should not be moved, but under the thatch, near the dust of the floor. Conditions for an operation could not have been worse.

Sylvia told Clever to hold the cloth she had soaked in chloroform (saved for an emergency) as far as possible from his own face, which he must turn aside. She told Zebedee to lift the basin with the instruments as high as he could from the floor, and began as soon as the girl's groans stopped. She was not attempting keyhole surgery, which she had described to the boys, but said, ‘I am doing an old-fashioned cut. But when you do your training I think you'll find this kind of big cut will be obsolete – no one will be doing it. As soon as she cut, she knew she was too late. The appendix had burst and pus and foul matter were everywhere. She had no penicillin. Nevertheless she swabbed and mopped and then sewed the long cut shut. Then she said in a whisper to the boys, 'I think she will die.' They wept loudly, Clever with his head on his knees, Zebedee with his head on Clever's back.

She said, ‘I am going to have to report what I have done. '

Clever whispered, ‘We won't tell on you. We won't tell anyone.'

Zebedee grabbed her hands, which were bloody, and said, ‘Oh, Sylvia, oh, Doctor Sylvia, will you get into trouble?'

'If I don't report it and they find out that you knew you will get into trouble too. I have to report it. '

She pulled up the little girl's skirt, and pulled down her blouse. She was dead. She was twelve years old. She said, ' Tell the carpenter we must have a coffin soon-soon.'

She went up to the house, found Father McGuire there, just back, and told him what had happened. ‘I must tell Mr Mandizi.'

‘Yes, I think you must. Don't I remember telling you that this might happen?'

‘Yes, you did. '

‘I will ring Mr Mandizi and ask him to come himself. '

' The telephone's not working.'

‘I’ll send Aaron on his bicycle. '

Sylvia went back to the hospital, helped to get the girl into her coffin, found Joshua where he was asleep under his tree, told him the girl was dead. The old man took time these days to absorb information: she did not want to wait to hear him curse her, which he was going to do – he always did, no necromancy was needed to foretell this – told the boys to say in the village she would not come that afternoon, but that they, Clever and Zeb-edee, would hear the people read, and correct their writing exercises.

At the house the priest was drinking tea. 'Sylvia, my dear, I think you should take a little holiday.'