Chapter 6
The first spears of heavy, hot sun stabbed the morning air, signalling the coming of summer, the promise of long, leisurely days and excursions to the river. At that time of the year, we climbed the mulberry trees and ate the fruit that stained mouths and fingertips a gentle purple. My mother dressed in cut-off trousers and oversized shirts, her ice-cubes clinking in a highball glass with gin as she watched Matlock on the small television in the kitchen. Mosquitoes droned above our heads, small insects hovered in dimly lit rooms, and in the guesthouse the overhead fans creaked into life, their frantic white arms whirring in the humidity. Bob Patterson wore shorts to council meetings, Brenton’s pimples dried out, and the guests drank martinis on the balcony. Tropical fruits appea
