The hungry ladies, taking it in good part, munched their buns and made jokes about not getting Mrs Brett’s goat.
‘Wasn’t that a good party!’ Guy’s voice rang through the empty darkness of the streets as they went home: ‘You wouldn’t have enjoyed the Major’s half so much.’
Blind in the black-out, he clung to Harriet as they slipped on and off the narrow pavement, and slid over the wet and treacherous gutter stones: ‘Isn’t Mrs Brett magnificent? Thanks to her, I have the job in the place where I most want to be.’
Harriet pressed Guy’s arm, happy to rejoice with him, and said: ‘Alan thinks the war might end this year.’
‘It might, I suppose. The Germans have most of Europe. We are alone. We may be forced into some sort of truce.’
‘But could the war end that way?’
‘No; and don’t let us deceive ourselves. It wouldn’t be the end. There would be an interval of shame and misery, then we would have to return to the fight.’
‘In fact, the real enemy is untouched. The real war hasn’t even begun.’
‘It could last another twenty years,’ said Guy.
The excitement of the party was wearing off. The warmth of the wine was passing from them and as they turned into the wet wind blast of the main street, they held to each other. knowing they might never see the end of hostility and confusion. The war could devour their lives.
Next day Yakimov was full of the fact that by leaving the Major’s party, the Pringles had missed ‘no end of a dust up’. Everyone was talking about it. Late in the evening, Phipps, described by Yakimov as a ‘a trifle oiled’, had attacked the Major for supporting Archie Callard’s appointment and deceiving Phipps himself about his chances.
‘Callard’s never done a day’s work in his life,’ he told Cookson and an attentive company. ‘What good did you think he’d be as Director? He’d’ve been a figurehead and a poor one, at that! He’s a playboy and a poseur with nothing but his neuroses to recommend him.’
‘And so on and so on,’ said Yakimov, aghast and delighted by such plain speaking.
Callard, listening, had put up a show of indifference, but the Major had been much upset. He had sniffed and dabbed his nose and tried to hush Phipps, but in the end he had turned and ‘told Ben P. a thing or two’. He had said that Gracey, when asked for his opinion, had cabled the London office to say that Phipps, as a result of his politics, his past association with undesirable persons and his generally facetious attitude towards the reigning authorities, was totally unsuited to be in any sort of authoritative position.
Having revealed this, the Major, in a state near hysteria, had shouted shrilly: ‘And I agree. I agree. I agree.’
‘Then you know what you can do,’ Phipps had told him and raging out of the house, had crashed the front door so violently the glass had fallen out and broken in pieces all over the hall.
Guy said: ‘We were fortunate to miss that.’ An opinion Harriet did not share.
PART THREE
The Romantics
15
In the New Year, when the move to the villa was imminent, Guy was too busy even to discuss it. He had returned to work like a reformed drunkard returning to the bottle. He was exuberantly busy.
Some mornings he would not wait for breakfast. When Harriet asked what he did all day, he said he was arranging schedules, laying out lecture courses, enrolling students and reorganizing the library. And what on earth kept him so late at the School each night? He interviewed students and advised which course of study was more suitable for each. Soon he would be even more busy, for he was about to rehearse the entertainment he had promised the airmen at Tatoi.
‘Is that still going on?’
‘Certainly.’
‘There seems to be no end to it.’
‘Of course there’s no end to it,’ Guy cheerfully replied. ‘That’s what teaching is.’
When she asked if he would help move their stuff to the villa, he could only laugh.
‘Lunch time, or evening, would do,’ Harriet said.
‘Darling, it’s impossible.’
She took the baggage in a taxi. The taxi could not get down the narrow lane to the villa. Kyria Dhiamandopoulou, seeing her carrying the cases to the door, asked playfully: ‘Where is that nice Mr Pringle?’
‘Working.’
‘Ah, the poor man!’
Kyria Dhiamandopoulou was ready to leave but had to wait for her husband who had driven into Athens on some piece of business. She was a small, handsome woman who, in spite of the food shortage, had managed to stay plump. When they first met, she had been off-hand and seemed harassed; now, on the point of departure, she was in high spirits.
She insisted that Harriet must come up to the roof where the mid-day sun was warm. ‘See how nice,’ she said. ‘In spring you will see it is very nice.’ A marble table was set beneath a pergola over which a plant had been trained. Kyria Dhiamandopoulou touched the branches that flaked like an old cigar. ‘My pretty plant,’ she sighed. ‘How sad that I must leave it! Here, here, sit here! It is not so cold, I think? We will take coffee till my husband come.’
She sped off to fetch a tray with cups like egg-cups and a brass beaker of Turkish coffee. While they sipped at the little cups of sweet, black coffee, she pointed out the distant Piraeus road and the rocky hill that protected the roof from the sea wind. ‘On the other side there is a river. Now not much, but when there is more rain there will be more river. It is the Ilissus. You have heard of it? No? The classical writers speak of it. It is a classical site, you know. Before the invasion, they were building here, but now they have stopped. It is quiet like the country,’ she sighed again. ‘How sad that we must leave!’
‘But why are you leaving?’ Harriet asked.
Kyria Dhiamandopoulou gave her a searching glance before deciding to let her know the truth.
‘I dream true.’
‘Do you?’
‘I will tell you. You know, par exemple, that old woman who begs in Stadiou? In black, with fingers bound in such a way?’
Harriet nodded. ‘I’m frightened of her. They say she’s a leper, but I suppose she can’t be?’
‘I don’t know, but I don’t like. Now, I’ll tell you. I had a dream. I dreamt she came running at me in Stadiou. I ran from her … I ran to a shop, a pharmacy; she ran after me. I scream, she scream. What horror! She has turned crazy. Well, next day, I forgot. One forgets, you know! I went to Stadiou and there was the woman and when she saw me, she rush at me … “My dream!” I cry and I run to a shop. It is a pharmacy – the same pharmacy, mind you! The people inside, alarmed that I scream – the same! The very same! “Help me, she’s mad!” I cry and someone slams the door. The proprietor telephones the police. I sit in a chair and shake my body. It was unspeakable!’
‘Yes, indeed! But surely you are not leaving because of that!’
‘No. That was one dream only. I have many. Some I forget, some I remember. I dreamt the Germans came here.’
‘You mean to this house?’
‘Yes, to this house. When I wake, I say to my husband: “Now is the time to leave. I have a brother in Sparta. We will go to him.”’
‘Are you sure they were Germans? They might have been Italians.’
‘They were Germans. I saw the little swastika. They came down the lane. They struck upon the door.’
‘Then what happened?’
‘I saw no more.’
‘But Greece is not at war with Germany.’
‘That is true. Still, we go to Sparta.’
‘If the Germans come here, won’t they go to Sparta?’
‘I have no indication.’
Harriet, easily touched by the supernatural, was dismayed by Kyria Dhiamandopoulou’s dream, but Kyria Dhiamandopoulou, mistaking her fearful immobility for phlegm, said: ‘You English have strong nerfs!’
Before Harriet could disclaim this compliment, a hooting came from the unmade road at the top of the lane and Kyria Dhia
mandopoulou leapt up delightedly, crying: ‘My husband. Now we can go,’ and she ran down to join Kyrios Dhiamandopoulos who had already started loading up the car.
Joining in the bustle and laughter of the departure, Harriet forgot the dream, but then, all in a moment, the Dhiamandopoulaioi were gone and she was alone in the unfamiliar silence.
When she had unpacked the clothing, she went out to look at the Ilissus. The lane led over the hill through the damp, grey clay from which flints protruded like bones. On the other side a trickle of water made its way between high clay banks overhung by a wood of wind-bent pines. It looked a sad little river to have engaged the classical writers and survived so long. Half-built houses stood about amid heaps of cement and sand, but the district seemed deserted.
The memory of Kyria Dhiamandopoulou’s dream came down on her and she knew she had made a mistake. She had brought Guy here against his will. They had no telephone. They were too far away from things. They would be forgotten and one day wake to find the Germans knocking at the door.
Cold with fear, she went back to the villa and found Guy in the living-room. Gleefully, she cried: ‘How wonderful. But why are you here?’
She ran at him and flung her arms round him but he was unresponsive. He had been unpacking his books and had a book in his hand. He stared at it with his lower lip thrust out.
‘What’s the matter?’
He did not answer for a minute, then said: ‘They’ve closed down the School?’
‘Who? Who did it? Cookson?’
‘Cookson? Don’t be silly. The authorities did it. They didn’t realize we intended opening again. When they found we were enrolling students, they ordered an immediate closure.’
‘But why?’
‘Oh, the old fear of provoking the Germans. I suppose British cultural activities could be regarded as provocation!’
‘I’m sorry,’ she held to him but in his despondency he simply waited for her to release him. When she dropped her arms, he returned to his books.
‘What will you do?’
‘Oh,’ he reflected, then began to rouse himself: ‘I’ll find plenty to do. I’m organizing this air-force revue, for one thing. Now I can start rehearsals at once.’ As he arranged his books, he became cheerful and said: ‘Coming here wasn’t such a bad idea, after all.’
‘You think so? You really think so?’ She was relieved, for in the twilight the villa, bare, functional and very cold, had seemed worse than a mistake; it had seemed a disaster.
‘Oh yes. It’s splendid having a bathroom and kitchen, and two rooms of our own. We can give a party.’
‘Yes, we can.’
She had not intended telling Kyria Dhiamandopoulou’s dream but could not suppress it.
Guy said: ‘Surely you don’t believe her?’
‘You mean, you think she made it all up? Why should she?’
‘People will say anything to appear interesting.’
Unable to accept this, Harriet said: ‘You think there’s nothing in the world that can’t be explained in material terms?’
‘Well, don’t you?’
‘I don’t,’ she laughed at him. ‘The trouble is, you’re afraid of what you can’t understand so you say it doesn’t exist.’
As they worked together, putting their possessions straight, Harriet felt a sense of holiday and said: ‘Let’s do something tonight! Let’s go and eat at Babayannis’!’
He said: ‘Well!’ In the face of her excitement, he could not disagree at once but she saw there was an impediment. It turned out that he had arranged to go to Tatoi. Ben Phipps was driving him out and they had been invited to drinks in the Officers’ Mess.
‘We’ve got to discuss arrangements for the revue,’ he said.
Inclined, unreasonably, to blame Phipps for Guy’s engagement, she said crossly: ‘I don’t know what you see in him. He’s taken up with you simply because he’s fallen out with Cookson.’
‘Don’t you want me to have a friend?’
‘Not that friend. Surely you could find someone better. What about Alan Frewen?’
‘Alan? He’s a nice enough fellow, but he’s a hopeless reactionary.’
‘You mean he doesn’t agree with you? At least, he’s honest. He’s not a crook like Phipps.’
‘Ben is a bit of a crook, I suppose,’ Guy laughed. ‘But he’s amusing and intelligent. In a small society like this, if you’re over-critical of the people you know, you’ll soon find you don’t know anyone.’
‘Then why were you so critical of Cookson?’
‘That Fascist! Whatever you may say about Ben, he has always been a progressive. He has the right ideas.’
‘Would he go to the stake for them?’
‘Who knows? Worse men than Ben Phipps have gone to the stake for worse ideas.’
‘You think the occasion makes the man?’
‘Sometimes the man makes the occasion.’
She said bitterly: ‘I’m surprised you bothered to come home at all.’
‘You said you wanted me to help you move in.’
‘Well, don’t let me keep you now.’
Untroubled, he agreed that it was time for him to get the bus into Athens.
Late that night Harriet, tensed by the unfamiliar noiselessness outside, lay awake and listened for him.
Some time after midnight he came down the lane singing contentedly:
‘If your engine cuts out over Hellfire Pass
You can stick your twin Browning guns right up your arse.’
He had been privileged to see a squadron set out on a raid over the Dodecanese ports. Ben Phipps had gone home to write a ‘think piece’ based on this experience and Guy would show his appreciation, too, by putting on the best entertainment the Royal Air Force had ever seen.
Early next morning the Pringles were awakened by the sound of someone moving about in the villa. They found an old woman like a skeleton bird, with body bound up in a black cotton dress, head bound in a black handkerchief, setting the table for breakfast. At the sight of the Pringles, she stood grinning, her mouth open so they saw she did not possess a single tooth. She pointed to her breastbone and said: ‘Anastea.’
Guy did his best to question her in Greek. The master and mistress had forgotten to tell her they were leaving, but she was not much concerned. One employer had gone, another had come. She said that in the mornings she did the house-work and shopping; in the evening she came in to cook a meal. Guy said: ‘Let her stay. We can afford her.’ Harriet was doubtful, but said: ‘We could afford her if I got a job.’
While the Pringles conversed in their strange foreign tongue, Anastea stood with hands modestly clasped before her, confident that the great ones of the world would provide for her. When Guy nodded, she grinned again and continued her work without more ado.
16
The information office, which had once been an unimportant appendage of the Legation, now had independent status within the domain of the Military Mission. Harriet found ‘Information Office (Billiard Room)’ signposted right through the Grande Bretagne but when she came to the Billiard Room, which was at the rear of the hotel, she saw it could have been reached directly by the side entrance. There was no sound behind the Billiard Room door. She imagined Alan Frewen and Yakimov at work there, but when she opened the door she met the stare of two elderly women whom she had never seen before.
The women sat opposite each other at desks placed back to back in a greyish fog of light that fell through a ceiling-dome. There was no other light. The room, with its dark panelling, stretched away into shadow. From where Harriet stood at the door the two old corpse-white faces looked identical, but when she reached them, Harriet saw that one, who looked the elder, was bemused, while the younger had the awareness of a guardian cockatrice.
‘Yes, what is it?’ the younger demanded.
‘I’m looking for Mr Frewen.’
‘Not here.’
‘Prince Yakimov?’
‘No.’
&n
bsp; Both women were paused in their work. The elder hung over a typewriter, her bulbous puce-purple lips wet, tremulous and agape; the brown of her eye had faded until nothing remained but a blur of sepia, lacking comprehension; but the younger sister – they could only be sisters – still had a dark, sharp gaze which she centred on Harriet’s chest.
‘When will Mr Frewen be back?’ Harriet asked.
The younger sister seemed to quiver with rage. ‘I really can’t tell you,’ she said, her quivering sending out such a dispelling force Harriet felt as though she were being thrust out of the room. The women suspected her purpose in coming to the office and would tell her nothing. Defeated, she moved away and as she did so, the elder dropped her head over her machine and began to strike the keys slowly, producing a measured thump like a passing bell.
Alan and Yakimov were often at Zonar’s. When Harriet went there, she found only Yakimov. He was inside and had just been served with some unusual shell-fish which were set out on a silver dish with quarters of lemon and triangles of thin brown bread. When she approached, he looked flustered as though he might have to share this elegant meal, and said: ‘Nearly fainted this morning. Lack of nourishment, y’know All right for you young people, but poor Yaki is feeling his years. Like to try one.’
‘Oh, no, thank you. I’m looking for Alan Frewen.’
‘Gone back to feed his dog.’
‘When can I find him in his office?’
‘Not before five. The dear boy seems upset. If you ask me, Lord Pinkrose upset him. The School’s been closed down – ’spose you know? – so Lord P.s’ landed back on us.’
‘And Alan doesn’t want him?’
‘Don’t quote me, dear girl. Alan’s a discreet chap; soul of discretion, you might say. And I’ve nothing against Lord P. Very distinguished man, doing important work …’
‘What sort of important work?’
‘Secret work, dear girl. And he has influential friends. This morning he said there was need here for a Director of Propaganda, so he’s cabled a friend in Cairo – an extremely influential friend …’
The Balkan Trilogy Page 84