The instant success of the ‘Emil in the back of the bakkie’ recording had led to another recording and then another, and another, and another. In turn, these recordings had found their way into enough homes on the eastern side of every city and town in the country that, as a result, the war years had treated Tom rather well. The royalties he received from the ‘Emil and the Boys’ series, although no king’s ransom in and of themselves, kept Doreen and the little Fortenoys out of the poor house – that is, when he did not drink or gamble them away. The recordings also enabled him to get many free drinks at almost every bar with a white proprietor in the City of Kings. Realising that he had sunk unforgivably low for one who had been classically trained and who had cut his teeth in Shakespearean productions, Tom allowed himself to drink himself to near oblivion every night, and gradually pickled his liver. Cirrhosis, his doctor had called it. That was what, two years ago? Now he was calling it cancer.

Tonight was no different. It was New Year’s Eve, and all the men at the bar were feeling more than a little generous and very willing to ply him with libations. When he received his payment for the gig, he determined that the first thing he would do on leaving the bar would be to go home and press the newly minted money into Doreen’s hands. He remembered making a similar resolution around Christmas, but then something had happened that prevented him from going home. What was it? Something about a lucky strike. No worries. This time, this time he would keep his promise. And … he would ring in the New Year with his family.

Just then the men at the bar started counting down towards the New Year: ten … nine … eight … seven … so maybe he would not be able to ring in the New Year with Doreen and the little Fortenoys after all, but he would definitely spend the New Year, 1980, with them. Three … two … one: ‘Happy New Year!’ He joined in the cheer, and then began singing the first chorus of ‘Auld Lang Syne’.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot
And days of auld lang syne?

By the time Tom left the Dilettante Club, in the early hours of New Year’s Day, he was so drunk that he forgot his Emil’s khaki boonie hat, left on the back of his bar stool.