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troubled David not at all to sit down in the company of a Jew. Martin Kirchoff was also on holiday, and during the couple of hours they spent together
in the lobby of his smart hotel, they found an instinctive enjoyment in each other’s company. Martin had a sense of fun which he tried to keep under tight control but which David was able to
tease out of him. He was transparently entranced by the vision of an undergraduate lifestyle and presented himself as a sort of social thoroughbred yearning to escape from a commercial carthorse
existence — but only occasionally since he was so deeply committed to his business aspirations. For his part, David was stimulated by Martin’s status as an emerging entrepreneur. It
seemed to David that this guy was already embarked on life with a capital L, whilst his own existence was dilettante in comparison. It further appealed to David that Martin was in partnership with
his father. The image of a dynasty fired his imagination.
    They concluded their form filling and exchanged contact details but parted without a plan to meet again. Yet each took away the firm expectation that there was more to come from this chance
encounter. They were right.

JOSH TROLLOPE — 1965
    David Heaven’s graduation day on 13th July 1965 was significant also for Rory Trollope as it was the date of his birth. Rory was pugnacious from conception, a kicker and
a puncher in the womb. He gave his mother a hard time of it in the Pretoria hospital where Rory came into the world. She lay in the hot and foetid cot staring at the fan above her head beating
vainly at the successive waves of pain which broke about her.
    This was not Moira Trollope’s first experience of labour, but it was infinitely the worst of her three pregnancies and was bearable only because she could feel the living child within her
whereas the previous two births had resulted in stillborn girls. But the monster about to emerge felt all too like a man with a demanding nature. She bit her tongue and ground her teeth against the
astonishing pain, determined that she could and would get through this to triumph in her healthy son but she did so wish that his father Josh could have been there with her, or at least within
call. Instead of which, he was lost to her, hundreds of miles to the north somewhere, a soldier of fortune fighting in some squalid little war in which he had only two interests — to stay
alive and to pick up his mercenary’s pay with which to establish a home and hearth for his wife and child.
    Josh Trollope had come late to marriage and to any thought of settling down. A career soldier, he had joined the British Army straight from school and the elite Grenadier Guards had enveloped
him as a member of their lifelong family. Josh had seen action in Normandy after D-Day and had remained in the thick of it until the end of the War. He had gone on with his Regiment, serving as
much overseas as at home, steadily increasing his status with the passage of time and the building of experience.
    He had been a senior NCO serving in Germany when he met Moira five years previously. She was a South African over on a working holiday and they had fallen for each other in a style which had
amazed Josh’s mates. Moira’s father had land in South Africa, but he was widowed with no son to take it on and he himself was running short of strength and morale. Josh and Moira paid
one visit to the farm, in the process using up much of their savings and his accumulated leave, but it was worth it. For Josh, seeing was believing and understanding, so he returned to hand in his
papers, taking an immediate chance to leave the Guards after twenty years of loyal and productive service.
    He was now just forty years old and on the day of his son’s birth he was lying prone, silent and sweating behind inadequate cover in a small village many miles northeast of Libreville,
capital city of the republic of Gabon. In 1965, all this region of West