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‘Hallo, darling!’ and ‘Wonderful party!’ and ‘Kate, you look heavenly!’ But I moved on; I would come back to their little nest later, for that preferred party session, the post mortem.
    Joel Sachs was talking rapidly and persuasively to one of the newspaper-women, an earnest female scribe who had once delighted us all by writing of a wedding reception: ‘The bridesmaids wore bouffant skirts and little Dutch caps.’ Joel winked at me; he was working, as he always was.
    At Eumor’s group I stopped for a moment. Even more dwarfed than usual, he was deep in conversation with some of his gambling friends, large fleshy men who grasped their tumblers of whisky as if they were Indian clubs, and constantly stared about them in search of something to bet on – the number of people in the room, drinks on a tray, flies on the wall, waiters with spectacles, women without hats, men with blue eyes.
    It was a world that Eumor loved, though it had often dealt him serious blows; I already knew from other sources that the bookmakers had taken him to the cleaners, the previous weekend, and that this was one of those recurrent moments when he needed £12,000 by Wednesday, without fail … He would get it, of course; he always did. But for gamblers like Eumor, Monday and Tuesday were often bad days.
    ‘Great party, Kate,’ said the largest man in the group, whom I recognised vaguely as a nightclub owner, splendidly indifferent to the law, with such diversified interests as roulette, wrestling promotion and the illegal importation of brook trout from Lourenço Marques. ‘Always the best party of the year.’
    ‘But can I sell you any advertising?’ I asked seriously.
    He guffawed. ‘I don’t want to advertise,’ he said, between wheezes. ‘The police wouldn’t like it at all.’
    ‘Then you must be nice to Eumor instead.’
    He laughed again. ‘Nice to a Greek ? Do you think I want to cut my own throat?’
    Eumor kissed my hand, with that air of sexual promise which for him took the place of performance. ‘Thank you, dar-r-r-ling. I really need friends tonight.’
    ‘Anything except money, Eumor.’
    His eyes gleamed. ‘For you I do it free. Later on, yes?’
    ‘I’ll leave the key under the mat.’
    There was a vague disturbance behind me, and a commanding voice said: ‘Here she is!’ I turned, to be confronted by the gimlet eyes, lacquered smile and loathsome personality of Mrs Arkell.
    Mrs Arkell, for me, existed on a very odd plane indeed. I could only see her in social-page headlines; not as a womanat all, but as a portmanteau word, expressing entertainment, charitable blackmail and unremitting social activity. I had only to shut my eyes, and there she was, in black and white, but endlessly so, like old-fashioned ticker-tape.
    I saw her now. FLASH! Mrs Arkell Entertains Visiting Polo Team . FLASH! Johannesburg Hostesses: No. 8. Mrs Arkell . FLASH! Mrs Arkell and Doggy Friend . FLASH! Arkell Home Thrown Open to Boy Scouts . FLASH! Prime Minister Takes Tea at ‘ Little Cherrystones ’, Gracious Home of Mrs Arkell . FLASH! Cripples Express Thanks . FLASH! Mrs Arkell Ends South Coast Holiday .
    I was always hoping to read: FLASH! South Coast Holiday Ends Mrs Arkell , but alas, it was not to be … She was a Johannesburg institution, like gambling or criminal assault: traditional, regrettable, old-established; and though we had the most cordial dislike for each other it was for some reason unthinkable that I should not invite her to my parties, or that she should not attend – arriving rather late, leaving rather early, exhibiting throughout a rather special blend of snobbery and discontent. And here she was now, all ready with the acid dropper and the bared bodkin. I braced myself.
    ‘Darling, such crowds!’ she began, on a shrill note of disapproval. ‘You really do invite everybody to your parties, don’t you?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘But yes!’ It came like a rifle-shot. ‘I’ve noticed! You like lots of