‘A Mr Findlay. Yes, I saw him in the photo. I assumed that he was the one who had met a rather unfortunate end.’

‘No. No such thing. Lived a long life. Went on to establish himself quite remarkably in business.’

‘You have a great institution here, Mr Stuardts,’ Saskia said, putting him out of his misery.

‘That we do, that we do,’ he said, very happy to change the subject. ‘One hopes, of course, that we will be able to hold on to that greatness.’

‘Oh?’ Saskia said, placing a hand lightly on his upper arm.

‘Our first intake of a multiracial cohort, you see. Adding fi – five Africans, t – two coloureds and one Indian to the m – mix … a Mohammedan at that. Ch – ch – changing times and all that. But one worries, doesn’t one? About standards. About the ability to uphold standards – to keep tradition as it were, you see.’

Saskia did see, and so she said, ‘Surely standards have always been of great concern to the Selous School for Boys.’

In response, Mr Stuardts smiled a weak smile that was certain that Saskia did not see.

‘Oh my!’ Saskia said, bringing his attention to another case. ‘You even have a “Man of the Year” medal.’

‘Yes. Yes, we do,’ Mr Stuardts said, opening the case. ‘Coetzee won it in 1942, I believe … yes. Yes, 1942.’ He delicately removed the 1942 medal from the case and handed it to Saskia, who also held it delicately.

‘What makes one the “Man of the Year” at the Selous School for Boys?’ Saskia asked as she felt the weight of the medal in her hands.

‘Popularity. It is entirely determined by the students via vote.’

‘And what, pray tell, made Emil Coetzee so popular in 1942?’

There came the distant ringing of the telephone, and Mr Stuardts apologised before rushing off to answer it. He returned a few moments later with a message from Saskia’s editor saying that Clement Rutherford wanted her to get to Emil Coetzee’s home in Brookside as soon as possible. Saskia closed the medals case and began to hasten out of the building.

‘Rutherford … another proud Old Boy, that,’ Mr Stuardts said, but not with nearly as much pride and awe as he had spoken of Coetzee. ‘You will, of course, give him my best regards,’ he said, rushing ahead to open the door for her.

‘Rutherford?’

‘No. No. Coetzee. I mean Coetzee.’

‘I will, and I will let him know how absolutely helpful you’ve been.’

‘Thank you. It has been my great pl – pleasure,’ Mr Stuardts said.

‘All mine, I assure you,’ Saskia said, placing a hand on his upper arm once more.

There was that profuse blush again as Mr Stuardts’ eyes managed to linger over her entire body before he shut the door.