‘Everyone loses in the end,’ I said.
‘Oh, don’t be such a downpour,’ she exploded. ‘Just like Dad.’
Her eyes suddenly opened wider, and she transferred her attention to somewhere behind me.
Danilo joined us. White shorts, sturdy sunburned legs, light blue windcheater hanging open.
‘Hi,’ he said happily, including us both.
‘Hi,’ echoed Sally, looking smitten.
She left me and the half finished orange juice without a backward glance, and went off with the bright boy as girls have been going off since Eve. But this girl’s father had a gold mine; and Danilo had done his sums.
Arknold came, and the reception desk directed him to the garden. He shook hands, sat down, huffed and puffed, and agreed to a beer. Away in the distance Danilo and Sally belted the ball sporadically over the net and laughed a lot in between.
Arknold followed my gaze, recognised Danilo, and consolidated his indecision in a heavy frown.
‘I didn’t know Danilo would be here,’ he said.
‘He can’t hear you.’
‘No... but... Look, Mister... Do you mind if we go indoors?’
‘If you like,’ I agreed; so we transferred to the lounge, where he was again too apprehensive to come to the boil, and finally up to my room. One could still see the tennis courts; but the tennis courts couldn’t see us.
He sat, like Conrad, in the larger of the two armchairs, seeing himself as a dominant character. The slab-like features made no provision for subtle nuances of feeling to show in changing muscle tensions round eyes, mouth or jaw line, so that I found it as nearly impossible as always to guess what he was thinking. The over-all impression was of aggression and worry having a ding-dong: the result, apparent indecision about whether to attack or placate.
‘Look,’ he said in the end. ‘What are you going to tell Mrs Cavesey when you get back to England?’
I considered. ‘I haven’t decided.’
He thrust his face forward like a bulldog. ‘Don’t you go telling her to change her trainer.’
‘Why precisely not?’
‘There’s nothing wrong with the way I train them.’
‘They look well,’ I agreed. ‘And they run stinking. Most owners would have sent them to someone else long ago.’
‘It’s not my fault they don’t win,’ he asserted heavily. ‘You tell her that. That’s what I came to say. You tell her it’s not my fault.’
‘You would lose their training fees, if they went,’ I said. ‘And you would lose face, perhaps. But you would gain freedom from the fear of being prosecuted for fraud.’
‘See here, Mister,’ he began angrily, but I interrupted him.
‘Alternatively, you could sack your head boy, Barty.’
Whatever he had been going to say remained unsaid. His trap-like mouth dropped open.
‘Should you decide to sack Barty,’ I said conversationally, ‘I could advise Mrs Cavesey to leave the horses where they are.’
He shut his mouth. There was a long pause while most of the aggression oozed away and a tired sort of defeatism took its place.
‘I can’t do that,’ he said sullenly, not denying the need for it.
‘Because of a threat that you will be warned off?’ I suggested. ‘Or because of the profit to come?’
‘Look, Mister...’
‘See that Barty leaves before I go home,’ I said pleasantly.
He stood heavily up, and gave me a hard stare which got him nowhere very much. Breathing loudly through his nose, he was inarticulate; and I couldn’t guess from his expression whether what hung fire on his tongue was a stream of invective, a defence in mitigation, or even a plea for help.
He checked through the window that his buddy Danilo was still on the courts, then turned away abruptly and departed from my room without another word: a man on a three-pronged toasting fork if ever I saw one.
I returned to the terrace: found Clifford Wenkins walking indecisively about peering at strangers behind their newspapers.
‘Mr Wenkins,’ I called.
He looked up, nodded nervously, and scuttled around tables and chairs to reach me.
‘Good morning... er... Link,’ he began, and half-held out one hand, too far away for me to shake it. I sketched an equally noncommittal welcome. His best friend must have been telling him, I thought.
We sat at one of the small tables in the shade of a yellow and white sun awning, and he agreed that... er... yes... a beer would be fine. He pulled another untidy wad of papers out of an inner pocket. Consulting them seemed to give him strength.
‘Er... Worldic have decided... er... they think it would be best, I mean, to hold the reception before... er... the film, you see.’
I saw. They were afraid I would vanish during the showing, if they arranged things the other way round.
‘Here... er... is a list of people... er... invited by Worldic... and here... somewhere here... ah, yes, here is the Press list and... er... a list of people who have bought tickets to the reception... We limited the... er... numbers, but we have... er... had... I mean... it may be... perhaps... just a bit of a crush, if you see what I mean.’
He sweated. Mopped up with a neatly folded white square. Waited, apparently, for me to burn. But what could I say? I’d arranged it myself; and I supposed I was grateful that people actually wanted to come.
‘Er... if that’s all right... I mean... well... there are still some tickets left... er... for the premiere itself, you see... er... some at twenty rand...’
‘Twenty rand?’ I said. ‘Surely that’s too much?’
‘It’s for charity,’ he said quickly. ‘Charity.’
‘What charity?’
‘Oh... er... let’s see... I’ve got it here somewhere...’ But he couldn’t find it. ‘Anyway... for charity... so Worldic want you to... I mean, because there are still some tickets, you see, to... er... well, some sort of publicity stunt...’
‘No,’ I said.
He looked unhappy. ‘I told them... but they said... er... well...’ He faded away like a pop song, and didn’t say that Worldic’s attitude to actors made the KGB seem paternal.
‘Where is the reception to be?’ I asked.
‘Oh... er... opposite the Wideworld Cinema, in the Klipspringer Heights Hotel. I... er... I think you will like it... I mean... it is one of the best... er... hotels in Johannesburg.’
‘Fine,’ I said. I’ll be back here by, say, six o’clock next Tuesday evening. You could ring me here for final arrangements.’
‘Oh yes... er,’ he said, ‘but... er... Worldic said they would like... er... to know where you are staying... er... in the Kruger Park.’
‘I don’t know,’ I said.
‘Well, er... could you find out?’ He looked unhappy. ‘Worldic said... er... on no account... should I not find out...’
‘Oh. Very well,’ I said. ‘I’ll let you know.’
‘Thank you,’ he gasped. ‘Now... er... well... I mean... er...’ He was working himself into a worse lather than ever over what he was trying to say next. My mind had framed one large No before the thought of Worldic on his tail had goaded him to get it out.
‘We... well, that is to say... Worldic... have fixed a... er... photographic... session for you... I mean... well, this afternoon, in fact.’
‘What photographic session?’ I asked ominously.
He had another mop. ‘Just... well... photographs.’
He had a terrible time explaining, and a worse time when I got it straight, that what Worldic wanted were some pictures of me reclining in bathing trunks under a sun umbrella beside a bosomy model in a bikini.
‘You just run along and tell Worldic that their promotion ideas are fifty years out of date, if they think cheesecake will sell twenty-rand seats.’