Cocktail Hour Under the Tree of Forgetfulness
“1966.Dad with Van. 1966. The last day of our South African holiday dawns stifling hot. During the night a wind from the northern desert has blown the last of the moderate temperatures south. We’re all suffering from slight headaches—“self-inflicted,” Mum says—so we sit on the veranda after breakfast drinking tea, too lethargic to bother with our usual morning walk. Dad is smoking his pipe. Mum has a pair of binoculars resting on her lap in case she sees a bird and then the glasses flash to her ...eyes. “Look at that sweet little thing with a stripy head,” she says. She consults her bird book. “It’s a Cape bunting, I think. Oh dear, they say in here it’s a very common resident.” She glares at the disappointingly common bird. “We don’t get them in Zambia. Do we, Tim?”“Say again?” Dad says.“CAPE BUNTING!” Mum shouts. “NOT ONE OF OURS.” THE WORDS THAT CHANGED my parents’ lives were few enough and small enough to fit comfortably onto a postage stamp: “Wanted: Manager for ten thousand hectares in Africa.”MoreLess
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