Icon of Gold

by Icon of Gold (retail) (epub)

  Cathy shrugged it from her shoulders. ‘Leon has booked a table for ten o’clock at a little restaurant just along the road — the “Pescatore”. He’ll meet us there. It’s all right — don’t bother to check it in. Let’s find our seats. There isn’t a lot of time…’

  The concert exceeded even Cathy’s expectations. It had been so long since she had attended a live performance she had almost forgotten the pleasure, the enthralling feeling of involvement that it could engender. The concert could have been planned with her own preferences in mind; Bruckner in the first half, Mahler in the second. The massive, dramatic Sixth, known popularly as the ‘Tragic’ Symphony, stirred her almost to tears. As, afterwards, they stepped on to the wet pavement and into the filthy, billowing smog the music still echoed in her head and in her heart. ‘That was wonderful. Thank you.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. I loved it. I hate to admit it but I don’t like going to concerts alone. Music is something to be shared.’

  Cathy pulled her collar up around her ears, slipped her arm through his. ‘You used to go with your Grandmother?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Two, three times a month.’ Their footsteps echoed dully. Traffic crept past, headlights yellow in the wall of fog. People hurried by, scarves muffling their faces in an effort to keep the smoke-laden stuff from their lungs.

  ‘You must miss her very much.’

  ‘Yes.’

  She cocked her head to look up at him. ‘It will pass, you know,’ she said, gently. ‘I know how bad it feels now, but it will ease.’

  ‘Yes. I suppose so.’ The sadness in his voice caught at her heart.

  They walked on in silence for a while. The shop windows glowed eerily in the foggy darkness. When Cathy spoke her tone was lighter. ‘Tell me — did you have a girlfriend in New York?’

  Nikos smiled, noncommittally. ‘A couple.’

  ‘But no one serious?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Not ever?’ She half wished she had not started the conversation, could not imagine why she had.

  He hunched his shoulders. ‘One, I guess. But it didn’t work out. Is this the place?’

  The restaurant was warm, cosy and intimate, a refuge from the chill, sooty dankness outside. ‘Ah — Signora Kotsikas — there is a message —’ The proprietor, small, dark and mildly harassed as his tables began to fill with after-theatre diners, led them to a small table in an alcove. ‘Signor Kotsikas — he telephoned —’

  ‘Oh, no!’ The words were exasperatedly resigned.

  ‘— he has been unavoidably delayed. He will join you perhaps for coffee. Please —’ he held the chair for her. ‘You would like an aperitif? I bring a menu. If I may recommend — the carbonara is very good —’

  Seated, they smiled at each other across the table. ‘Your father —’ Cathy began.

  ‘— is impossible,’ Nikos finished for her, and laughed. ‘I guess we’ll just have to talk amongst ourselves until he arrives.’

  Cathy sipped her Martini, savouring it. ‘Oh, I expect we can manage that, don’t you?’

  She was right. In the hour and a half that followed, before Leon finally joined them, at no time did the conversation flag. On the contrary, the carbonara cooled on their plates and the discreetly hovering waiters went unnoticed as they talked, of everything and anything except, by what seemed to Cathy later to be an odd, mutual pact, the personal. The subjects ranged from the light to the serious, from a partisan argument about the relative dancing skills of Fred Astaire and Gene Kelly, to the results of the recent election in Greece, that had brought to power Field Marshal Papagos. They agreed that the likelihood of a lasting armistice in Korea was unlikely and that with the testing of Britain’s first atom bomb and America’s first hydrogen bomb the world had by no means become a safer place. Cathy told Nikos – at his insistence — the denouement of The Mousetrap — ‘I’m not a theatre-goer, I’ll never see it, so it really doesn’t matter. It’s just that if the greater part of London knows I might as well too, don’t you think?’ And still, as if bound by some unspoken rule they avoided anything close to intimacy. When Leon finally arrived they were discussing the burning issue of the day; the trial and conviction of Christopher Craig and Derek Bentley and the subsequent death sentence meted out to Bentley, Craig at sixteen being too young to be subject to capital punishment. Cathy, passionately opposed to the death penalty, had taken the case to heart. ‘They surely won’t hang him. He didn’t do it. There’s never been any question. Craig shot the policeman —’

  ‘“Let him have it,”’ Nikos mused, sipping his coffee. ‘What did he mean? The gun? Or the bullet?’

  ‘It doesn’t really matter, does it? Oh, yes, of course it does, I know that. But to hang someone on such a chancy piece of evidence — to hang someone at all in this day and age — is barbaric. It’s judicial murder.’

  ‘There surely has to be some kind of sanction? Some kind of deterrent?’

  ‘I don’t think it does deter. It’s a vicious and inhuman punishment that has no place in a civilised society. I don’t want someone killed on my behalf, no matter what he’s done.’

  ‘You really do feel strongly about it, don’t you?’

  She laughed a little self-consciously. ‘Sorry. Yes, I do — ah — Leon! At last! Where have you been?’

  Leon kissed her cheek. ‘Lost in the fog.’ His smile somehow managed to belie the words. ‘How was the concert?’

  ‘Wonderful. Why won’t you ever tell me where you‘ve been?’ The question was mild.

  He seated himself beside her, spread his hands. ‘I had to see a man, that’s all. Business, koukla mou, business.’ He lifted a hand to a hovering waiter. ‘Coffee please. And a large brandy.’ He leaned back in his chair, looking from one to the other. ‘Now. Tell me about this wonderful concert.’

  *

  The next morning, still in the midst of one of the worst killer smogs in memory, Cathy made her way to Liverpool Street station and the train for Suffolk. To her surprise Nikos had offered to escort her, an offer that Leon accepted on her behalf despite her protestations that she could manage alone. Nikos stood now on the platform, talking through the open window. ‘You’re sure you’ll be all right at the other end? You’ve got an awful lot of parcels and things.’

  She laughed. ‘Nikos, for goodness’ sake! Of course I will. I’ll take a taxi. You’re as bad as Adam! I’m not a decrepit old lady, you know. Not yet, anyway. And I have a tongue in my head.’

  A whistle shrilled, steam shrieked from the engine, the couplings creaked and clanked and the train began slowly to move. She leaned from the window and kissed him affectionately on the cheek. The train picked up speed. He walked with it. ‘Did you mean what you said? May I come down to the cottage for a weekend?’

  ‘Of course. Any time —’

  ‘Thanks. I will.’ He stopped, his hand lifted in farewell. She leaned from the window for a moment, waving, then settled into her seat and reached for her newspaper.

  On the platform Nikos stood for a long time after the train had disappeared into the murk, looking after it. The station smelled of fog and of steam. People bustled about him; someone cannoned into him and hurried on without apology.

  Turning at last he hunched his shoulders, shoved his hands in his pockets and went back out into the foggy streets of London.

  Chapter Five

  On more than one occasion during the next few days Nikos Kotsikas found himself questioning, quite seriously, if he were taking leave of his senses. He could neither sleep not eat, his concentration was shot to pieces. He was restless as a sick child.

  He could think of nothing — absolutely nothing — but his father’s wife.

  They had danced together, they had spoken together and they had sat side by side listening to the majestic music of Mahler; and since the moment the train taking her back to Suffolk had steamed from the station he had not been able to get her out of his mind. Her face and her voice haunted him. He could see every single thing abou
t her as clearly as if she were constantly beside him; the smallest of her mannerisms was burned into his memory. The way she cocked her head to one side as she spoke; the wayward hair that refused to lend itself to the sleek and controlled styles of the day. Her sudden, flashing smile. Her silly habit of talking to herself. Her laughter, and her friendly generosity.

  Of which he knew he was in danger of taking a terrible advantage.

  In vain he tried to rationalise his feelings; he was still grieving at the loss of his grandmother, he was unsettled and uncertain of the future. From the start Cathy had shown nothing but kindness and understanding. It was natural he should be drawn to her, had been drawn to her since first they had met.

  The train of thought always ended in bleak self-derision; he knew he was lying to himself. This was no comfortable, natural, filial devotion. From the moment he had first seen his stepmother, rain-soaked, windblown and utterly unafraid, he had thought her beautiful. From the start her honesty and humour, her freeness of spirit had enchanted and attracted him. Her open and ready acceptance of him as Leon’s son had made it all too easy to get close to her; she, of course, had perceived no danger and by the time he had seen the peril of the situation it had been too late; the truth was that he was infatuated, and helplessly so. The terrible, enraging, enchanting thing was that, impossible as the whole situation was for him, he did not truly care. He had of course read — with the healthy scepticism of one who had never suffered it — of that lover’s condition where the simple existence of the loved one, no matter how unattainable, no matter how painful the circumstances, was a constant source of joy. The thought had always seemed to him to be irrational to the point of stupidity. Now, suddenly and ridiculously, here he was behaving like nothing so much as the hapless hero of a sixpenny romance. Confused as he was, yet still the mere thought of her could light the day. He took every possible opportunity to bring her name into a conversation. He was obsessed with the thought of seeing her again. And she had invited him to the cottage.

  Time and time over he suppressed the thought. He must not go, and he knew it. In two weeks or so Christmas would be here. He would see her then, safely, in company with his father and Adam. He should stay away until he drove down with his father, as arranged, early on Christmas Eve. If he went before, if he saw her alone, he knew the chances were that he would make a fool of himself and embarrass her. God alone knew what she would think of him if she suspected his feelings; just thinking about the possibility made him cringe. The only sane thing to do was to stay away from her. The strongly idealistic and romantic streak in him could savour that, exquisitely painful as it was. He believed he would die for Cathy — kill for her even — but he knew she would — must — never know. Nikos in his most impressionable years had had instilled into him an almost Quixotic view of womanhood, and in his stepmother he truly thought he had found its embodiment. As the week that followed the concert passed he persuaded himself that he could keep this most private and perilous of secrets safe from the world. Safe from Cathy herself. He would watch her, and guard her and keep his distance. He could never bring himself to hurt or upset her. He would not - could not — deny himself his dreams but he must be careful never, ever, to see her alone, most especially not at Sandlings.

  In that, however, as in so many other things, he had failed to take into account his autocratic father.

  The first thing Leon did, with not so much as a by-your-leave, was to move in with his son. He needed, he announced, a base; hotel rooms, however well appointed, were not always the most convenient or comfortable of places. The apartment in Prince’s Street was pleasant, conveniently situated, and there were two bedrooms. The solution, therefore was obvious. Nikos’ fainthearted suggestion that his father might like rather more privacy than this arrangement afforded was brushed aside. Sooner or later Leon would find accommodation of his own in the capital. For now he was too busy. This would do. He moved in the weekend before Christmas.

  On the following Monday, two days before Christmas Eve, a stranger turned up at the small office in Bayswater that was the modest headquarters of Kotsikas and Company. As it happened both Leon and Nikos were there checking a bill of lading when Miss Hooper, the sharp-faced, middle-aged and fiercely efficient factotum of the business put her head around the door. ‘A — gentleman — to see you, Mr Leon.’

  Leon raised his eyebrows amusedly at the more than obvious hesitation. ‘What sort of — gentleman?’

  ‘A Greek gentleman, I believe. He won’t give a name.’ Miss Hooper either missed or ignored the mischievous imitation of her own tone. ‘Will you see him?’

  Leon slanted a laughing look at Nikos.’Yes, Miss Hooper. We will see him.’

  The man erupted through the door in a torrent of ebullient Greek, stopped when he saw Nikos, his black eyes suddenly and, Nikos thought, rather oddly, wary.

  ‘Yannis!’ Leon leaped from his seat, came around the desk, thumping the smaller man on the back. ‘Yannis, welcome! Why didn’t you telephone?’ He too spoke in Greek.

  Yannis shrugged a little. His eyes were still on Nikos.

  Leon reached a hand to his son. ‘Nikos, come. Meet a very old friend. Yannis Vasilios. We go back many years. He met you once as a child. In the war. Don’t you remember?’

  Smiling, Nikos shook his head.

  The wary eyes had lightened. ‘Nikos!’ the stranger exclaimed, with as much native enthusiasm as if it were his own son who had stepped from the past.

  ‘That’s it. Nikos. My son. Grown to be a man and come to join us.’

  Nikos took the proffered hand and shook it. The man, though small and built not unlike a skinned rabbit, had a grip of iron. The thread of a long scar ran, white against the brown skin, across the right cheekbone of his thin face to the corner of his mouth. Even dressed in a shabby city suit he looked exactly as Nikos imagined a pirate would.

  Leon turned to Nikos. ‘Yannis works with me from time to time in Greece.’ He turned back to the newcomer. ‘What news?’

  There was a sudden, slightly precarious silence.

  ‘Nikos —’ Leon covered it with easy charm, slipping now back into English ‘- do me a favour. Ouzo. Go get us another bottle of ouzo. This deserves something stronger than coffee.’

  Nikos hesitated for a moment, trying to suppress resentment. This was not the first time his father had treated him like an office boy, at beck and call to run errands and not to be included in the real business of the office. ‘There’s a bottle in the drawer, isn’t there?’

  His father, who had turned back to Yannis did not even look at him. ‘The usual Off Licence, on the corner. He gets it in for me.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘You’d better hurry. He closes in fifteen minutes, thanks to the ridiculous Anglo-Saxon licensing laws.’ He laughed a little, talking now directly to Yannis, ‘I tell the man often; no Greek would stand for it! Now — tell me — how is the family?’

  Tight-lipped Nikos reached for his coat, which hung on a hook on the back of the door. He had already worked with his father for long enough to know that argument would serve for nothing. As he closed the door he heard them take up the conversation once more in Greek. ‘There’s news?’ his father asked. Nikos did not hear the reply. Throwing his coat on as he went he crossed Miss Hooper’s little office without so much as a glance at her — which raised a pair of thin, caustic eyebrows — and ran down the narrow, rubber-covered, dark stairs and out into the street.

  By the time he returned with the ouzo he had regained some equanimity. As Cathy herself had pointed out, Leon’s instinct always was to secrecy. He had spent too much time in a dangerous world at war where trust, even between father and son, had to be earned and respected. It would come. In time, it would come. He pushed open the door to the office.

  ‘— the others — they aren’t far behind us, I think — we should hurry,’ Yannis was saying. As Nikos entered he looked up sharply, slid from the desk where he had been perched and smiled broadly. Both men already held a glass,
half-full of the water-clouded spirit so beloved of Greeks. An almost full bottle stood on the desk. The air was thick with cigarette smoke. Nikos crossed the room and pointedly stood the bottle he carried beside the one already there. He slipped out of his coat.

  ‘Well done.’ Leon reached beneath the desk, produced a glass. ‘One for you, my boy. The rest we’ll take home to finish tonight, the three of us.’

  Nikos blinked. Looked from one to the other.

  Leon, in characteristic gesture, spread his hands innocently. ‘Well, of course, our good friend must stay with us?’

  Nikos took a long-suffering breath. ‘Of course.’

  ‘And then — tomorrow —’ Leon was pouring the drink with suspicious care, not looking at his son, ‘— tomorrow, there is a small change of plan.’

  Nikos waited.

  His father came around the desk, handed him the glass. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said, ‘Yannis and I must fly to Athens.’

  The younger man stared at him.

  Leon smiled blithely and lifted his glass in a toast before swallowing its contents in one go.

  ‘You can’t,’ Nikos said, flatly.

  Leon’s huge head turned to him. The smile had gone.

  ‘Pa, you can’t! It’s Christmas! Cathy’s expecting us the day after tomorrow! You promised her we’d go down early in the car to help with the shopping!’

  ‘I told you. A small change of plan. It is important. It is business. It cannot be helped.’

  Nikos said the first thing that came into his head: ‘Cathy will kill you.’

  Leon let out one of his roars of laughter. ‘No, my boy. You forget it is the messenger, the bringer of bad news, that suffers. Kati will kill you!’

  ‘Well, thanks.’ The words were grim.

  ‘Now, now.’ His father laid a conciliatory hand on his arm. ‘I’m joking. Kati will understand. And — I tell you what — I give her you instead.’

  Nikos’ head came up sharply. ‘What the hell do you mean?’