Chapter 11
Dorothy’s concentration was disturbed by the sound of branches crashing to the ground as Babiya pruned the trees. Resting her book on her lap, she looked up and watched him. His feet barely touched the trunk as he climbed to the top of the jacaranda tree. He leaned across and cut a branch, then cut another, before slipping round out of sight behind the tree trunk. She picked up her book again, conjured up the ballroom, the men in their ruffled shirts, the women in their lace and satin dresses; a pianist’s fingers flying across the keyboard. The rhythms stepped out from the words, waltzes ran across the page. She read and read; the match-making, the flirtatious comments blocking out the concerns, her worries of the day.
Already the heat was becoming oppressive; the cooler morni
