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‘Mr Lincoln, what do you think of South Africa?’

‘Hey, Link, how about a big smile...?’

‘Is there any truth in the rumour...?’

‘Our readers would like your views on...’

‘Give us a smile...’

I tried not to stop walking, but they slowed us down to a crawl. I smiled at them collectively and said soothing things like ‘I’m glad to be here. This is my first visit. I am looking forward to it very much,’ and eventually we persevered into the open air.

Clifford Wenkins’s dampness extended to his brow, though the sunshine at 6,000 feet above sea level was decidedly chilly.

‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘but they would come.’

‘Marvellous how they knew the right day and the right time, when my flight was only booked yesterday morning.’

‘Er... yes,’ he agreed weakly.

‘I expect they are often willing to arrange publicity for people, when you want them to.’

‘Oh yes indeed,’ he agreed warmly.

I smiled at him. One could hardly blame him for using me as payment for past and future services, and I knew it was widely considered irrational that I preferred to avoid interviews. In many countries the media gave you a rough passage if you wouldn’t let them milk you for copy, and the South Africans had been more civil than most.

Wenkins rubbed his beaded forehead with one of the damp palms, and said, ‘Let me take your suitcase.’

I shook my head. ‘It isn’t heavy,’ I said, and besides, I was a good deal bigger than he was.

We walked across the car park to his car, and I experienced for the first time the extraordinary smell of Africa. A blend of hot sweet odours with a kink of mustiness; a strong disturbing smell which stayed in my nostrils for three or four days, until my scenting nerves got used to it and disregarded it. But my first overriding impression of South Africa was the way it smelt.

Smiling too much, sweating too much, talking too much, Clifford Wenkins drove me down the road to Johannesburg. The airport lay east of the city, out on the bare expanses of the Transvaal, and we were a good half hour reaching our destination.

‘I hope everything will be all right for you,’ Wenkins said. ‘We don’t often get... I mean, well...’ He laughed jerkily. ‘Your agent was telling me on the telephone not to arrange any receptions or parties or radio shows or anything... I mean, we usually put on that sort of show for visiting stars... that is, er, of course, if Worldic are handling their films... but, er, we haven’t done anything like that for you, and it seems all wrong to me... but then, your agent insisted... and then, your room... not in the city, he said. Not in the city itself, and not in a private house, he said, so I hope you will like... I mean, we were shattered... er, that is, honoured... to hear you were coming...’

Mr Wenkins, I thought, you would get a lot further on in life if you didn’t chatter so much. And aloud I said, ‘I’m sure everything will be fine.’

‘Yes, well... Er, if you don’t want the usual round of things, though, what am I to arrange for you? I mean, there is a fortnight before the premiere of Rocks, don’t you see? So what...?’

I didn’t answer that one straight away. Instead I said, ‘This premiere... How much of a thing are you making of it?’

‘Oh.’ He laughed again at nothing funny. ‘Er, well, big, of course. Invitations. Tickets in aid of charity. All the glitter, old boy... er, I mean... sorry... er, well, Worldic said to push the boat right out, you see, once they’d got over the shock, that is.’

‘I do see.’ I sighed slightly. I had chosen to do the damn thing, I thought. So I ought, in all fairness, to give them value for their trouble.

‘Look,’ I said, ‘if you want to, and if you think anyone would want to come, go ahead and arrange some sort of drinks and canapés affair either before or after the showing of the film, and I’ll go to that. And one morning soon, if you’d like to, you could ask all those good friends of yours at the airport, and any others in their trade that you want to include, to meet us somewhere for coffee or a drink or something. How would that do?’

For once he was dumb. I looked across at him. His mouth was opening and shutting like a fish.

I laughed in my throat. Nerissa had a lot to answer for.

‘The rest of the time, don’t worry about me. I’ll amuse myself all right. For one thing, I’ll go to the races.’

‘Oh.’ He finally overcame the jaw problem and got the two halves into proper working order. ‘Er... I could get someone to take you there, if you like.’

‘We’ll see,’ I said noncommittally.

The journey ended at the Iguana Rock, a very pleasant country hotel on the northern edge of the city. The management gave me a civil greeting and a luxurious room and indicated that a clap of the hands would bring anything from iced water to dancing girls, as required.

‘I would like to hire a car,’ I said, and Wenkins gushed forth to say it was all arranged, he had arranged it, a chauffeur-driven pumpkin would be constantly on call, courtesy of Worldic.

I shook my head. ‘Courtesy of me,’ I said. ‘Didn’t my agent tell you that I intended to pay all the expenses of my trip myself?’

‘Well, he did, yes, but... Worldic say they’d like to pick up the tab...’

‘No,’ I said.

He laughed nervously. ‘No... well, I see, er, I mean... yes.’ He spluttered to a stop. The eyes darted around restlessly, the hands gestured vaguely, the meaningless smile twitched his mouth convulsively, and he couldn’t stand still on his two feet. I didn’t usually throw people into such a tizzy, and I wondered what on earth my agent could have said to him, to bring him to such a state.

He managed eventually to get himself out of the Iguana Rock and back to his car, and his departure was a great relief. Within an hour, however, he was on the telephone.

‘Would tomorrow, er, morning... suit you for, er, I mean, the Press?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Then, er, would you ask your driver to take you to, er, Randfontein House, er... the Dettrick Room... that’s a reception room, you see, which we hire for this, well, sort of thing.’

‘What time?’

‘Oh... say eleven thirty. Could you... er... get there at about eleven thirty?’

‘Yes,’ I said briefly again, and after a few further squirms he said he would look forward... er... to seeing me then.

I put the receiver down, finished unpacking, drank some coffee, summoned up the pumpkin, and went briskly off to the races.

Chapter Four

Flat racing in South Africa took place on Wednesdays and Saturdays throughout the year, but only occasionally on other days. Accordingly it had seemed good sense to arrive in Johannesburg on Wednesday morning and go to the only race-meeting in South Africa that day, at Newmarket.

I paid to go in and bought a race-card. One of Nerissa’s constant failures, I saw, was due to have another go later in the afternoon.

Newmarket was Newmarket the world over. Stands, cards, horses, bookmakers; atmosphere of bustle and purpose; air of tradition and order. All were much the same. I wandered across to the parade ring, where the runners for the first race were already walking round. Same little clumps of owners and trainers standing in hopeful conversations in the middle. Same earnest racegoers leaning on the rails and studying the wares.

Differences were small. The horses, to English eyes, looked slightly smaller-framed and had very upright fetlocks, and they were led round, not by white stable lads in their own darkish clothes, but by black stable-boys in long white coats.

On the principle of only backing horses I knew something about, I kept my rands in my pocket. The jockeys in their bright silks came out and mounted, the runners went away down the track and scurried back, hooves rattling on the bone-dry ground, and I strolled down from the stands to search for and identify Nerissa’s trainer, Greville Arknold. He had a runner in the following race, and somewhere he would be found, saddling it up.