When I was six years old we visited my dad’s friend, a chef, who lived out in the country. While the adults – my mom and dad, and the chef and his wife – sat outside on the back patio, drinking wine and chatting, I went inside, into the chef’s study – it was lined with books, and I’d just discovered the life-changing world of reading.

While I was scanning the shelves, a movement outside caught my eye. I looked through the study window. My little sister, who was five years old at the time, stood some way from the house, about halfway up the small koppie in the back garden. She was looking at something or someone out of my line of sight, and shaking her head.

I crept down the passage to the kitchen, the back door of which led out to the patio where the adults had been sitting. Now, the chef was at the back door. He was standing side-on to me, so I