The shop next to the lumber yard was a cavernous building, filled with shelves, floor to ceiling, of . . . everything. Blankets, soap, buckets, dresses, hats, dishes. Black people from surrounding farms came into the shop and bought things, they were the bulk of my father’s customers. But Afrikaans women from the town were customers too. White women in their prim, print dresses, their heels, their stockings. Sometimes they expressed disdain, I see disdain now in their faces, as I remember them. Perhaps that’s not fair, but I think it’s true.

Their dresses, their stockings, their pale faces: they were not unlike my mother. But my mother was not an Afrikaner.

I WAS INTERRUPTED in my thoughts, my thinking about Villiers, by a voice. Mrs. Kline, Mrs. Kline, I’ve been looking for you. Howard said you’d be here, at the pool! And I opened my eyes to see Candace walking towards me, Candace in higher heels than I’d seen her wear at the office, Candace teetering, in a pale peach-coloured dress, towards me.

Oh Candace, I said, and I stood up at once, and smoothed my skirt, I wore a skirt and blouse, how is it that I remember, so clearly? It was a silky blue skirt, it reached to my knees. The blouse was another shade of blue, also silk, a buttoned shirt, tucked in. Perhaps I wore that because it was Howard’s office party. It wasn’t a cocktail outfit, most of the women were in cocktail outfits. But I liked that skirt and shirt, I’d had it for years.

Mrs. Kline, she said. I’ve been telling everyone about the beautiful art you put in our office. Such a beautiful picture, Mrs. Kline, she said. I felt the rush of warmth towards Candace again, it was such a small canvas, she’d paid it such close attention. Thank you, Candace. And then I looked at her and said, did you ever study art? Oh, no, she said. But I think I’d like to. I used to like drawing when I was a child. Well, me too, you know, I said. I smiled. I suddenly felt protective of Candace. I thought of her sitting at her desk, in that sober reception room, the suited men that must walk through those doors. The long days, of that, just that. Ushering suited men into Howard’s office, Jack Benator’s office, Jones’s office. And then: making tea. Carrying in trays of tea. Howard, or Benator, or some other man would say then, thank you, Candace. And out she’d go again through the door, shutting it behind her. I thought of Emily.

You know, Candace, I think you should take some art lessons, just for fun you know, take some lessons. She looked at me in astonishment, as though this had never occurred to her before. Yes Mrs. Kline, but I have to save money, I’m still living with my parents, I must save money so one day I can get a flat, move out. Get married, she said. And she laughed. Of course, I said. I thought then of the men in suits, or other men, looking at Candace, up and down, up and down. Candace’s young, beautiful body. Perhaps I can think of someone who teaches art, I said.