The bookshelves at home were full of books not only because my parents took books with them to Africa, but because they continually ordered books from London, every kind of book and periodical. In those days it took a long time. First the letter from the farm in Africa took over a month to get to London. There the order had to be processed. Then the parcels of books took a month or so by ship to Africa. They went from the port by train to old Salisbury, were put on another train, and were fetched from the station by a servant who bicycled or walked the seven miles. I shall never forget my excitement as the books were unwrapped. What had arrived this time? A remarkable mix of books, and I seized Black Beauty, or Little Women, or Pride and Prejudice, or The Mayor of Casterbridge, or the story of Alexander the Great, and bore them off to my room, where books were piled on chairs, on the empty bed beside mine, around the walls – where they were always in danger of being devoured by fishmoths or white ants.