by Dick Francis
‘Not yet, my dears. Another two months, perhaps… Two months at least, I think.’
Charlie shook her head in protest, but Nerissa patted her hand. ‘It’s all right, my dear. I’ve come to terms with it. But I want to arrange things… which is why I want Edward to see about the horses, and I really ought to explain…’
‘Don’t tire yourself,’ I said.
‘I’m not… tired,’ she said, obviously untruthfully. ‘And I want to tell you. The horses used to belong to my sister, Portia, who married and went to live in South Africa thirty years ago. After she was widowed she stayed there because all her friends were there, and I’ve been out to visit her several times over the years. I know I’ve told you about her.’
We nodded.
‘She died last winter,’ I said.
‘Yes… a great sorrow.’ Nerissa looked a good deal more upset about her sister’s death than about her own. ‘She had no close relatives except me, and she left me nearly everything she had inherited from her husband. And all her horses, too.’ She paused, as much to gather her forces as her thoughts. ‘They were yearlings. Expensive ones. And her trainer wrote to me to ask if I wanted to sell them, as of course owing to the African horsesickness quarantine laws we cannot bring South African horses to England. But I thought it might be fun… interesting… to run them in South Africa, and then sell them for stud. But now… well, now I won’t be here when they are old enough for stud, and meanwhile their value has dropped disastrously.’
‘Dearest Nerissa,’ Charlie said. ‘Does it matter?’
‘Oh yes. Yes, my dear, it does,’ she said positively. ‘Because I’m leaving them to my nephew, Danilo, and I don’t like the idea of leaving him something worthless.’
She looked from one of us to the other. ‘I can’t remember—have you ever met Danilo?’
Charlie said, ‘No,’ and I said, ‘Once or twice, when he was a small boy. You used to bring him to the stables.’
‘That’s right, so I did. And then of course my brother-in-law divorced that frightful woman, Danilo’s mother, and took him to live in California with him. Well… Danilo has been back in England recently, and he has grown into such a nice young man. And isn’t that lucky, my dears? Because, you see, I have so few relatives. In fact, really, Danilo is the only one, and even he is not a blood relative, his father being dear John’s youngest brother, do you see?’
We saw. John Cavesey, dead sixteen years or more, had been a country gent with four hunters and a sense of humour. He had also had Nerissa, no children, one brother, one nephew, and five square miles of Merrie England.
After a pause Nerissa said, ‘I’ll cable to Mr Arknold…that’s my trainer… to tell him you’re coming to look into things, and to book some rooms for you.’
‘No, don’t do that. He might resent your sending anyone, and I’d get no co-operation from him at all. I’ll fix the rooms, and so on. And if you cable him, just say I might be calling in, out of interest, while I’m in South Africa on a short visit.’
She smiled slowly and sweetly, and said, ‘You see, my dear, you do know how to investigate, after all.’
Chapter Three
I flew to Johannesburg five days later, equipped with a lot of facts and no faith in my ability to disentangle them.
Charlie and I had driven home from Nerissa’s in a double state of depression. Poor Nerissa, we said. And poor us, losing her.
‘And you’ve only just come home,’ Charlie added.
‘Yes,’ I sighed. ‘Still… I couldn’t have said no.’
‘No.’
‘Not that it’ll do much good.’
‘You never know, you might spot something.’
‘Very doubtful.’
‘But,’ she said with a touch of anxiety, ‘you will do your best?’
‘Of course, love.’
She shook her head. ‘You’re cleverer than you think.’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Sure.’
She made a face, and we went some way in silence. Then she said, ‘When you went out to look at those two young chasers in her paddock, Nerissa told me what is the matter with her.’
‘Did she?’
Charlie nodded. ‘Some ghastly thing called Hodgkin’s disease, which makes her glands swell, or something, and turn cellular, whatever that really means. She didn’t know very clearly herself, I don’t think. Except that it is absolutely fatal.’
Poor Nerissa.
‘She also told me,’ Charlie went on, ‘that she has left us a keepsake each in her will.’
‘Has she really?’ I turned my head to look at Charlie. ‘How kind of her. Did she say what?’
‘Keep your eyes on the road, for heaven’s sake. No, she didn’t say what. Just something to remember her by. She said she had quite enjoyed herself, drawing up her new will and giving people presents in it. Isn’t she amazing?’
‘She is.’
‘She really meant it. And she is so pleased that her nephew has turned out well. I’ve never seen anyone like that before… dying, and quite calm about it… and even enjoying things, like making a will… and knowing… knowing…’
I glanced at her sideways. Tears on Charlie’s cheeks. She seldom cried, and didn’t like to be watched.
I kept my eyes on the road.
I telephoned my agent and stunned him.
‘But,’ he stuttered, ‘you never go anywhere, you always refuse… you thumped my table and shouted about it…’
‘Quite,’ I agreed. ‘But now I want a good reason for going to South Africa, so are any of my films due to open there soon, or are they not?’
‘Well…’ he sounded thoroughly disorganised. ‘Well, I’ll have to look it up. And are you sure,’ he added in disbelief, ‘that if one of them is due to open, you really and truly want me to tell them you’ll turn up in person?’
‘That’s what I said.’
‘Yes. I just don’t believe it.’
He rang back an hour later.
‘There are two, coming up. They are showing One Way to Moscow in Cape Town, starting Monday week. That’s the first in a series of six revivals, so although Moscow itself is pretty old, you could turn up to give the whole lot a boost. Or there’s the opening of Rocks in Johannesburg. But that’s not until September 14th. Three weeks off. Is that soon enough?’
‘Not really.’ I pondered. ‘It will have to be the Johannesburg one, though.’
‘All right. I’ll fix it. And… er… does the sudden change of heart extend to chat shows and newspaper interviews?’
‘No, it does not.’
‘I was afraid of that.’
I had taken home from Nerissa’s house all her trainer’s letters, all the South African Racing Calendars, newspaper cuttings and magazines she had been sent, and all the details of breeding and racing form of her eleven non-winning youngsters. A formidable bulk of paper, it had proved; and not miraculously easy to understand.
The picture which emerged, though, was enough to make anyone think, let alone the owner of the horses in question. Nine of the eleven had run nicely when they began their racing careers, and between December and May had clocked up a joint total of fourteen wins. Since the middle of May, none of them had finished nearer than fourth.
As far as I could judge from a limited squint at the leading-sires tables and the breeding notes section of the South African Horse and Hound, all of them were of impeccable pedigree, and certainly, from the amounts she had laid out, Nerissa’s sister Portia had bought no bargains. None of them had so far won enough prize money to cover their purchase price, and with every resounding defeat their future stud value, too, slid a notch towards zero.
As a bequest, the South African horses were a lump of lead.
Charlie came with me to Heathrow to see me off, as I had been home only nine days, which hadn’t been long enough for either of us. While we were waiting at the check-in counter half a dozen ladies asked for my autograph for their daughters—nephews—grandchildren—
and a few eyes swivelled our way; and presently a dark-uniformed airline official appeared at our side and offered a small private room for waiting in. They were pretty good about that sort of thing, as I came through the airport fairly often, and we accepted gratefully.
‘It’s like being married to two people,’ Charlie sighed, sitting down. ‘The public you, and the private you. Quite separate. Do you know, if I see one of the films, or even a clip of one on the box, I look at the pictures of you, and I think, I slept with that man last night. And it seems extraordinary, because that public you doesn’t really belong to me at all, but to all the people who pay to see you. And then you come home again, and you’re just you, my familiar husband, and the public you is some other fellow…’
I looked at her affectionately. ‘The private me has forgotten to pay the telephone bill.’
‘Well, damn it, I reminded you sixteen times…’
‘Will you pay it, then?’
‘Well, I suppose so. But the telephone bill is one of your jobs. Checking all those cables, and those phone calls to America—I don’t know what they should be. We’re probably being overcharged, if you don’t check it.’
‘Have to risk it.’
‘Honestly!’
‘It will be set off against tax, anyway.’
‘I suppose so.’
I sat down beside her. The unpaid telephone bill was as good as anything else to talk about: we no longer needed to say aloud what we were saying to each other underneath. In all our life together we had taken good-byes casually, and hellos, too. A lot of people mistook it for not caring. It was perhaps too much the opposite. We needed each other like bees and honey.
When I landed at Jan Smuts International Airport sixteen hours later, I was met by a nervous man with damp palms who introduced himself as the South African Distribution Manager for Worldic Cinemas.
‘Wenkins,’ he said. ‘Clifford Wenkins. So nice to see you.’
He had restless eyes and a clipped South African accent. About forty. Never going to be successful. Talking a little too loudly, a little too familiarly, with the sort of uneasy bonhomie I found hardest to take.
As politely as possible I removed my sleeve from his grasp.
‘Nice of you to come,’ I said; and wished he hadn’t.
‘Couldn’t let Edward Lincoln arrive without a reception, you know.’ He laughed loudly, out of nerves. I wondered idly why he should be so painfully self-conscious: as Distribution Manager he surely met film actors before breakfast every month of the year.
‘Car over here.’ He walked crabwise in front of me with his arms extended fore and aft, as if to push a path for me with the one and usher me along it with the other. There were not enough people around for it to be remotely necessary.
I followed him, carrying my suitcase and making an effort to suffer his attentions gladly.
‘Not far,’ he said anxiously, looking up placatingly at my face.
‘Fine,’ I said.
There was a group of about ten people just inside the main doors. I looked at them in disillusion: their clothes and the way they stood had ‘media’ stamped all over them, and it was without surprise that I saw the tape-recorders and cameras sprout all over as soon as we drew near.
‘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.