The Balkan Trilogy

by Olivia Manning

  ‘Someone has to fight,’ she said. Repeating a remark she had heard as a child, she added: ‘If you don’t fight, they’ll trample you into the ground.’

  Guy laughed at her: ‘Who are “they”?’

  ‘People. Life. The world.’

  ‘You don’t really believe that?’

  She did not reply. She was more hurt for him than he was for himself. She had imagined because he was amiable, he must be fortunate, and now she saw others, neither able nor amiable, put in front of him. She felt cheated but tried to reconcile herself to things. ‘I suppose we are lucky to be here; and we’re lucky to be together. If you’re prepared to work under Dubedat, well, there’s no more to be said.’

  ‘I’m prepared to work. It doesn’t matter whom I work under. I’m lucky to be employed. My father was unemployed half his life and I saw what it did to him. We’ve nothing to complain of. Other men are fighting and getting killed for people like us.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said and embraced him because he was with her and alive.

  An announcement in the English newspaper stated that the School would open under the Directorship of Mr Archibald Callard. Mr Dubedat was to be Chief Instructor and Mr Lush would assist him. But, for some reason, there was a delay.

  The students returned to the School and waited about in the library and the lecture-room but Mr Callard, Mr Dubedat and Mr Lush did not appear. The librarian-secretary said they were not in the building. There was no one to enrol students. The offices were locked and remained locked for the next couple of weeks.

  12

  It was a dull December. The Greek advance had come to a stop. The papers explained that this was a necessary remission: the supply line must be strengthened, supplies brought up and forces rearranged. There was no cause to be downcast. But the victories, the bell-ringing, the dancing, the comradeship of triumph – these things were missing, and the city became limp in anti-climax. Even the spectacle of the Italian prisoners did little to distract people in a hard winter when it was as cold indoors as out and food was disappearing from the shops.

  The prisoners were marshalled through the main streets: a straggle of men in tattered uniforms, hatless, heads bent so that the rain could drip from their hair. They were defeated men yet in every batch there were some who seemed untroubled by their plight, or who glanced at the bystanders with furtive and conciliatory smiles, or gave the impression that the whole thing was a farce.

  ‘Where are they going?’ people asked, fearful that there would be more mouths to feed, but the prisoners were not to stay in Greece. They were taken to the Piraeus and shipped to camps in the western desert.

  No wonder there were some who smiled. They would eat better than the Greeks and a camp in the sun was more comfortable than the Albanian mountains where men bivouacked waist deep in the snow.

  At the canteen started for British servicemen, Guy washed dishes and Harriet worked as a waitress. The men were mostly airmen, but a few sappers and members of the R.A.S.C. had arrived. Food and fuel were supplied by the Naafi and the civilians were thankful these winter nights not only for occupation, but for warmth.

  The wives of the English diplomats organized the work and agreed among themselves that the food should be for the servicemen and only for them. They were honour bound not to touch a mouthful themselves. In the first throes of unaccustomed hunger, the women fried bacon, sausages, eggs and tomatoes and served men who accepted their plates casually and took it for granted that the civilians ate as much as they did.

  One night, Harriet, carrying two fried sausages to a table, nearly burst into tears. A soldier, observing her with an experienced eye, said: ‘You look fair clemmed. Don’t she look clemmed?’ he asked his friends: ‘Ev’nt seen no one so clemmed since my old man mowed a grass-pitch for a tanner and lost his sick benefit.’

  Harriet laughed, but the men were concerned for her and asked: ‘You get your grub here, don’t you?’

  She explained the rules of the canteen and the first man said: ‘That’s fair silly. There’s lashings more where this comes from. Here,’ he pushed his plate at her, ‘have a good tuck-in.’

  She laughed again and shook her head and made off for fear she might succumb. The rule had been made and no one had the courage to break it, least of all Harriet who was shy among the diplomatic set.

  A few nights later the same group of sappers arrived with a parcel which they put into Harriet’s arms: ‘We won it,’ they said. ‘It’s for you.’

  When she opened it in the kitchen, she found a leg of Canterbury lamb. The other women looked at it with some disapproval, and Harriet explained: ‘They won it.’

  Only Mrs Brett, on duty at the gas-stove, had anything to say: ‘And I expect they did,’ she said. ‘There’s always a raffle or a draw or some game of that sort going on in these camps.’ Eyeing the meat, she remarked confidentially to Harriet: ‘That’s a nice piece of lamb.’

  ‘Yes, but what can I do with it?’

  ‘Not much use to you, is it? Where could you cook it? I should have been the one to get it.’

  Presented with the meat, Mrs Brett parcelled it up in a businesslike way and put it with her outdoor clothing. When she came back, she nudged against Harriet and said with fiercely threatening sympathy: ‘So that Archie Callard’s the new Director? What’s he going to do for Guy?’

  ‘Very little. He says he promised Gracey he’d put Dubedat in charge.’

  ‘It’s sickening.’ Mrs Brett stared for some moments at Harriet, then seemed to come to a decision: ‘You want to get away from the hotel, don’t you? Well, I know a Greek couple who are thinking of letting their villa. It’s not much of a place, mind you, but you’ve got to be glad of anything these days.’

  When Harriet began to thank her, Mrs Brett interrupted sternly: ‘Don’t thank me. You gave me the joint, didn’t you? You go and see about the villa before someone else gets wind of it.’

  The villa was on the outskirts, between the Piraeus and Phaleron roads, and so likely to be cheap. Guy let himself be taken to see it but would make no comment on the two rooms and their bare functional furniture. The hotel was enough for him. Before he married he had lived for months at a time with no room of any sort, keeping his possessions in a rucksack and sleeping in the houses of friends, often on the floor. He resisted the extravagance of the villa, but resisted more the bus or metro journeys in which it would involve him.

  The owner of the villa, Kyrios Dhiamandopoulos, was an artist – très moderne, said his wife – and had designed the villa himself. Kyria Dhiamandopoulou went up on to the roof-terrace and left the Pringles alone to make their decision.

  ‘Can we take it?’ Harriet asked.

  ‘Do you really want to take it?’

  ‘It’s the best we’re likely to get.’

  ‘Why not stay where we are?’

  ‘Because we can have a house of our own. A home. In fact, our first home.’

  ‘Our first home? What about the flat in Bucharest?’

  ‘That was different. A house is a home, a flat isn’t.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘A house is good for the soul.’ She was excited by the thought of their own house, even this house, and Guy said: ‘Very well; take it.’ He accepted Harriet’s eccentricities as symptoms of immaturity. He usually ignored them but this was one he felt he must indulge.

  13

  As Christmas approached Guy said: ‘I’ve been unemployed for three months. I’m beginning to deteriorate.’ All unemployment, even unemployment with pay, seemed to him a rebuttal of a basic human right. In desperation, he called at the School library, hoping the sight of him would remind Archie Callard of his need for work. But Archie Callard was not at the School. The secretaries said they had never seen Mr Callard. The students had given up and gone away. The librarian, won to sympathy by Guy’s mildness of manner, admitted that it was ‘all very odd’. In fact, if things went on like this, there would be un scandale.

  When another letter
came for Guy, it was not from Archie Callard or Dubedat but from Professor Lord Pinkrose. Pinkrose, describing himself as Director of the English School, summoned Guy to appear at the Academy. Harriet telephoned Alan and asked: ‘What has happened now?’

  He said: ‘All I know is: Archie’s out and Pinkrose is in. As to how it happened, I’d be glad if you could tell me.’

  The Pringles were not cheered by the change. Archie had shown some goodwill but they could expect nothing from Pinkrose who, whenever he met them, behaved as though they did not exist.

  They walked up to the Academy between the rain showers. As the Academy building appeared, flashing its ochre colour beneath the heavy sky, they saw a Greek soldier moving painfully towards them. His left foot was bandaged but fitted into an unlaced boot, the right was too heavily bandaged to wear anything. He had a crutch under his right arm and paused every few yards to rest with his free hand against the wall.

  Everyone had heard of the glory of the Greek advance, but it was not all glory. The truth was coming out now. There were terrible stories of the suffering that had been caused by unpreparedness. Many of the men had been crippled by long marches in boots that did not fit, while others, who had no boots at all, fought barefoot in the snow. Struggling through the mountain blizzards, they were soaked for days. Their ragged uniforms froze upon them. Their hands and feet became frost-bitten and infected for lack of sulpha drugs. Their wounds were neglected. There were thousands of cases of gangrene and thousands of amputations.

  The Pringles, as they approached the soldier, gazed at him with awe and compassion. He met their pity with indifference. His gaunt face was morose with pain. He was intent on nothing but making the next move.

  On the other side of the road there was a hospital. Other wounded were making their way round the tarmac quadrangle.

  As they looked across, Guy raged against the pro-German ministers who, knowing the war would come, had prevented the stock-piling of medical supplies, but Harriet said nothing, knowing if she tried to speak she would burst into tears.

  The Academy door stood ajar. They went through to the common-room where the air was dank with cold. There was no one to meet them. At that hour the inmates were at work and the whole building was silent. Not knowing what else to do, they sat down to wait. Pinkrose must have been watching for them. He let them linger in suspense for ten minutes, then they heard the trip of his little feet coming down the stairs and along the tiled passage.

  ‘Ah, there you are!’ he said. His tone surprised them. It was not a friendly tone but it suggested he might have something to offer.

  Guy stood up. Pinkrose gave him a rapid, oblique glance then gazed at the empty fireplace. He was wearing his greatcoat and scarves and though he had no hat, his flattened dog-brown hair showed a ring where his hat had been.

  He took a letter from his coat pocket and slowly unfolded it, saying: ‘I sent for you … Yes, I sent for you. Lord Bedlington … by the way, are you known to him?’

  Guy said: ‘No.’

  ‘Well, strangely enough … he’s chosen you to be Chief Instructor. You’re to be appointed. It’s a definite order. I could say, you’ve already been appointed. It’s in this letter here. You may read it, if you wish. Yes, yes, if you wish, you may read it.’ He pushed the letter at Guy as though disclaiming any part in it.

  Embarrassed by his discourtesy, Guy said: ‘May I ask what has happened? I was recently called out to Phaleron to see Mr Callard.’

  ‘I know you were. Yes, I know you were. Mr Callard heard from the Cairo office that he was to be Director, but the appointment was not confirmed. No, it was not confirmed. In fact, it was rescinded. Mr Callard’s announcement was premature and a trifle unwise, I think. Lord Bedlington decided that the position called for an older man. I am to be Director and have asked Mr Callard to act as Social Secretary, a position more suited to his particular gifts.’

  Guy extruded unspoken inquiry as to how this had come about. Pinkrose, after a reflective pause, chose to explain: ‘I contacted Lord Bedlington … I made it my business to contact him. We were at Cambridge together. He was unaware that I was in Athens. I fear that Mr Gracey had failed … had failed to mention me. An oversight, I have no doubt. Never mind, the matter has been put right; and in accordance with Bedlington’s wishes, I am appointing you Chief Instructor.’

  ‘May I ask if you were kind enough to recommend me?’

  ‘No. No, I can’t say that I did. I recommended no one. You are Lord Bedlington’s choice.’

  ‘And what about Dubedat and Toby Lush? Am I to employ them?’

  Pinkrose gave no sign that he had ever heard of Dubedat and Lush. ‘You may employ whom you please,’ he said.

  ‘When will the school reopen?’

  ‘I suggest the first of January. Yes, the first of January will be an excellent date.’

  ‘And may I start enrolments?’

  ‘You may do what you like.’ Pinkrose walked out of the room without a good-day and Guy and Harriet were left to find their way out. They took the steps down to the garden where the new green was pushing through the straw tangle of dead plants. Once they were safely away from the house, Harriet said: ‘That was interesting. It looks as though Pinkrose, when pushed, is tougher than we thought.’

  Grinning in exultation, Guy said: ‘We know how he got his job; but heaven knows how I got mine.’

  ‘You’ve got it. That’s all that matters.’ Harriet was as exultant as he: ‘In spite of your follies, luck is on your side.’

  14

  Two days before Christmas, the bells started up again. The Greeks on the Albanian coast road had taken Himarra. So the advance continued and the hope of a conclusive victory lightened the winter. Everyone was certain that in a few weeks, in a month or less, the enemy would be asking for terms. The war was as good as over.

  Still, it was a sparse Christmas. There was little enough for sale in the shops that did their best, decking the windows with palm and bay in honour of the Greek heroes, and olive for the expected peace.

  There were candles and ribbons – blue and white ribbons, and red, white and blue ribbons – and, for the short space of twilight, the shops were allowed to shine for the festival. Everyone came out to see the brilliance of the streets, but when darkness was complete, the black-out came down and those who could afford it crowded into the cafés. The others went home.

  Harriet went shopping to celebrate another victory: the conquest of a city that was on no map but their own. Guy was employed. They had found a home. They could remain where they most wanted to be. She bought Guy a length of raw silk to be made into a summer jacket, one of the last silk lengths left in a shop which had been opened by an Englishwoman to encourage the arts of Greece. The woman had gone back to England, and no one had time now to weave silk or make goatskin rugs or pottery jars for honey.

  The Pringles were asked to two Christmas parties, one to be given by Mrs Brett and one by Major Cookson. The Major’s invitation came in first but Guy thought they should accept Mrs Brett’s. ‘We owe it to her,’ he said. ‘She would never forgive us if we went to Cookson.’

  ‘Why do we owe it to her?’ asked Harriet, who was drawn to the idea of the Phaleron party.

  ‘She’s been so badly treated.’

  ‘She probably deserved it. I would much rather go to Cookson’s.’

  ‘It’s out of the question. She’d be deeply hurt.’

  In the end Harriet was over-ridden, as she always seemed to be, and the argument came to an end.

  On Christmas Day the sky was overcast. The parties did not begin until 8 o’clock and they had to get through the day that was a sad and empty day of the homeless.

  When they went out to walk in the shuttered streets, the Pringles met Alan Frewen who was wandering about with his dog. He joined them and they went together towards Zonar’s where Ben Phipps sat staring into vacancy. At the sight of them, he jumped up, asking eagerly: ‘Where are you off to?’ They did not know.

/>   University Street stretched away, long, straight and harshly grey, with only one figure in sight – Yakimov, his tall, fragile body stooped beneath the weight of his fur-lined coat. Seeing four persons known to him, he began to hurry, several times tripping over his fallen hem, and came to them smiling a smile of great sweetness, and singing out:

  ‘How heartwarming to see your nice familiar faces! What can one do on this day of comfort and joy? Where, oh where, can poor Yaki get a bite to eat?’

  Alan said he had promised to give Diocletian a Christmas present of a real walk. Why should they not take the bus down to the sea-front and stroll along the beach?

  Yakimov looked discouraged by this suggestion but when the others moved towards the bus stop, he followed with a sigh.

  They were alone on the shore. The air was moist but there was no wind, and the cold, instead of blowing into their faces, seeped down from the yellowish folds of cloud above their heads.

  The sea was fixed like a jelly in bands of sombre colour: neutral at the edge, a heavy violet in mid-distance, indigo where it touched the horizon.

  In the jaundiced light the esplanade was grey but the pink and yellow houses shone with an unnatural clarity, while the Major’s villa was as white as a skull within a circlet of palms and fur-dark pines.

  The dog, released, had taken off like a projectile and now dashed back and forwards, sending up flurries of sand and barking its joy in freedom. Alan, chiding it with a doting smile, made matters worse by throwing stones for it.

  Ben Phipps, who on the bus had been silent as though unsure of his welcome in this company, frowned as the dog chased about him. When the uproar tailed off, he said: ‘I heard a bit of news yesterday evening.’

  ‘Good news, I hope,’ Guy said.

  ‘Not very. It might even be bloody bad news.’

  That put a stop to Alan’s activity and when everyone was attending him, Phipps went on: ‘One of our chaps, out on a reccy over the Bulgarian front, thought he saw something in the snow. Something fishy. He dropped down to have a dekko and nearly had kittens. What d’you think? Jerry’s got a mass of stuff there – tanks, guns, lorries, every sort of heavy armament. All camouflaged. White.’