‘You ought to know what the people are saying. '

' To say such a thing, to an old friend. '

'Yesterday I was listening to... the old man cursed me, to make me take his sons to London. He cursed me ... I am so full of curses that they must be spilling out of me.'

And now he was really uneasy. ' Sylvia, what are you saying? Are you cursing me too?'

‘Did I say that?’But between her eyes was the deep tension furrow that made her look like a little witch. ' Franklin, have you ever sat beside an old man dying of AIDS while he curses you up hill and down dale? – it was so terrible his sons won't tell me what he was saying. ' She held out her wrist, that had around it a black bruise, like a bracelet.

‘What's that?'

She leaned across the desk and gripped his wrist, in as tight a hold as she had felt yesterday. She held it, while he tried to shake her away, then released it.

He sat, head bowed, from time to time giving her panicky glances.

' If your son wanted to go tomorrow night to London and needed a passport, don't tell me you couldn't fix it.'

' Okay, ' he said at last.

‘I shall wait for the boys' documents at the Selous Hotel. '

‘Have you been ill?'

'Yes. Malaria. Not AIDS.'

‘Is that meant to be a joke?'

' Sorry. Thank you, Franklin. '

' Okay, ' he said.

When Sylvia rang home from the airport before boarding she said she was arriving tomorrow morning with two boys, yes black ones, and she had promised to educate them, they were very clever – one was called Clever, she hoped it wasn't going to be too cold because of course the boys wouldn't be used to that, and she went on until Frances said that the call must be costing a fortune and Sylvia said, 'Yes, sorry, oh, I'm so sorry,' and at last rang off saying she would tell them everything tomorrow.

Colin heard this news and said that evidently Sylvia intended the boys to live here. ' Don't be silly, how can they? Besides, she is going to Somalia, she said. '

‘Well, there you are. '

Rupert after some thought, as was his way, remarked that he hoped William would not be upset. Which meant that he too thought the boys would be left with them.

Neither Frances nor Rupert could be there to welcome Sylvia, they would be at work, but Frances suggested a family supper. This family conference was handicapped by lack of information. ' She sounded demented,’ said Frances.

It was Colin who opened the door to Sylvia and the boys. In his arms was his daughter and Sophie's, Celia, an enchanting infant, with black curls, black flirty eyes, dimples, all set off by a little red dress. She took one look at the black faces, and howled.

'Nonsense,' said her father, and firmly shook the boys' hands, which he noted were cold and trembling. It was a bitter November day. ' She's never seen black faces so close, ' explained Sylvia to them. ' Don't mind her. '

They were in the kitchen, then at the faithful table. The boys were evidently in a state of shock, or something like it. If black faces can be pale, then theirs were. They had a greyish look, and they were shivering, though each had a new thick jersey. They felt themselves to be in the wrong place, Sylvia knew, because she did: too fast a transition from the grass huts, the drifts of dust, the new graves, at the Mission.

A pretty young woman in jeans and a jolly striped T-shirt came in and said, ' Hi, I'm Marusha, ' and stood by the kettle while it boiled. The au pair. Soon big mugs of tea stood before Sylvia and the boys, and Marusha set biscuits on a plate which she pushed toward them, smiling politely. She was a Pole, and absorbed in mind and imagination in the disintegration of the Soviet Union, which was in energetic process. Having gathered Celia on to her hip, she said, 'I want to see the News on the telly,' and went up the stairs singing. The boys watched Sylvia putting biscuits on to her plate, and how she added milk to her tea, and then sugar. They copied her exactly, their eyes on her face, her movements, just as they had watched her for the years at the hospital.

' Clever and Zebedee,’ said Sylvia. ' They have been helping me at the hospital. I shall get them into school the moment I can. They are going to be doctors. They are sad because their father has just died. They have no family left. '

‘Ah,’ said Colin, and nodded welcome to the boys, whose sad scared grins seemed permanently fixed. 'I'm sorry. I do see that all this must be terribly difficult for you. You'll get used to it. '

‘Is Sophie at the theatre? '

'Sophie is intermittently with Roland – no, she hasn't actually left me. I would say she is living with both of us.'

‘I see. '

‘Yes, that's how things are. '

' Poor Colin. '

' He sends her four dozen red roses at the slightest excuse or meaningful messages of pansies or forget-me-nots. I never think of things like that. It serves me right.'

‘Oh, poor Colin. '

‘And from the look of you, poor Sylvia. '

' She is sick. Sylvia is very sick, ' the boys came in. Last night on the plane they had been frightened, not only of the unfamiliar plane, but Sylvia kept vomiting, going off to sleep, and coming awake with a cry and tears. As for them, she had shown them how the toilets worked, and they thought they had understood, but Clever had pushed what must have been the wrong button, because next time he made his way there the door had Out of Order on it. They both felt the stewardesses were looking at them critically, and that if they did something stupid the plane might crash because of them.

Now, when Sylvia put her arms around them, as she sat between them, they could feel that she was cold, through her clothes, and was shivering. They were not surprised. The view out of the window coming from the airport, all oozing grey skies and endless buildings and so many people bundled up like parcels made them both want to put their heads under a blanket.

'I take it none of you slept a wink on the plane?' asked Colin.

'Not much,' said Sylvia. 'And the boys were too overcome with everything. They are from a village, you see. All this is new to them. '

‘I understand,’ said Colin, and did, as far as anyone can who has not seen for himself.

‘Is there anyone in Andrew's old room?'

‘I work in it. '

‘And in your old room, '

‘William is in it. '

'And in the little room on that floor? We can get two beds in there. '

' Bit crammed, surely, with two beds?'

Zebedee said, 'There were five people living in our hut until my sister died. '

' She wasn't really our sister,’ said Clever. ' She was our cousin, if you reckon by your ideas. We have a different kinship system. ' He added, ' She died. She got very sick and died. '

‘I know they are not the same. I look forward to your explaining it to me. ' Colin was just beginning to distinguish the boys from each other. Clever was the thin, eager one with enormous appealing eyes; Zebedee was bulkier, with big shoulders and a smile that reminded him of Franklin's.

' Can we look at that fridge? We have never seen a fridge as big as that before. '

Colin showed them the fridge, with its many shelves, its interior lighting, its freezing compartments. They exclaimed, and admired and shook their heads, and then stood yawning.

' Come on,’ said Colin, and he went up the stairs, with his arms on their shoulders, Sylvia behind them. Stairs, stairs – the boys had not seen stairs until the Selous Hotel. Up they went, past the living-room floor, past Frances's and Rupert's, and the little room where once Sylvia had had her being, to the floor that had housed Colin's and Andrew's growing up. In the little room was already a big bed, and just as Colin was saying, 'We'll fix you up with something better,' the two flung themselves down on it and were asleep, just like that.