‘Really!’ Harriet was appalled at such a question. An unanswerable question at that! ‘It’s out of the question. As though one could, anyway – life being what it is! The impermanence of things; and the fact one has no time, no opportunity! But there never was any question … It was simply that I was lonely.’
‘You’re not lonely now. You’re always out with Ben and me.’
‘Ben bores me.’
‘Darling, you know I don’t want to deprive you of anything.’
‘What is there to deprive me of? Charles isn’t here for long. It’s just that I would like to see him.’
‘Very well. But come back to the table. Be nice to Ben. He knows he’s ugly. No need to rub it in. Tell him you’re sorry, there’s a good girl?’
‘I am sorry. I didn’t want to hurt him.’
‘Come along, then.’ Guy took her hand and led her back into the restaurant.
22
The raids were more frequent now: a sign, Ben Phipps said, of impending events. Some mornings it was scarcely possible to get into Athens between the alerts. On one of these mornings, walking from the metro station at Monastiraki, Harriet came upon two British tanks. They had stopped just inside Hermes Street and the men were standing together in the road.
There had been snow during the night. The pavements were wet; the light, coming from the dark, wet sky had the blue fluorescence of snow-light, yet a tree overhanging a garden wall was in full blossom.
Harriet was not the only one who stopped to look at the tanks. Some of the people seemed mystified by their sand-coloured camouflage and the insignia of camels and palms. To Harriet they were familiar, but in a recondite, disturbing way as though they belonged to some life she had lived long ago. The young Englishmen also came out of the past. They all looked alike: not tall, as she remembered the English, but strongly built, with sun-reddened faces and hair bleached blond. When they became aware of her, they stopped talking. They looked at her, rapt, and she looked back, each remembering the world from which they had come, too shy to speak.
She made off suddenly. In the office the atmosphere was emotional and even Miss Gladys was moved to speech. To Harriet and to anyone who entered, she said: ‘Our lads are arriving. Our lads are arriving. Isn’t it great! I was in the know, of course. Oh yes, I’ve known all along. Lord Pinkrose let something drop, but not accidentally. Oh, no, not accidentally! He often says something to show that he trusts me.’
Ben Phipps, when he came in, did not wait to hear the whole of this speech but hurried through to the News Room, leaving all the doors open so, noisy and voluble, he could be heard shouting: ‘We’ve had it now. We’ve issued a direct challenge to the Boche.’
He had just come from the Piraeus where he said troops were disembarking and supplies were being off-loaded on to the very steps of the German consulate.
‘Does the Legation know this?’ Alan asked.
‘I telephoned them, but what can they do? The Greeks aren’t at war with the Germans; at least, not yet. And there the stuff is, for all to see. The Italians are bombing it and the German Military Attaché is making notes. When I arrived, he was counting the guns. He gave me a nod and said: “Wie gewöhnlich – zu wenig und zu spät!”’
‘Is this true?’ Alan asked.
‘It would be damned funny if it were.’
‘I mean, is it true the Germans are watching the disembarkation?’
‘It certainly is. Go and see for yourself.’
Alan put his hand to the telephone, paused and took it away again.
‘Nothing to be done,’ Phipps said. ‘The usual army cock-up. But what does it matter? We don’t stand a chance.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ Alan said. ‘It’s amazing what we can do in a tight corner. But whatever happens, it’s better to suffer with the Greeks than leave them to struggle on alone.’
In the exhilaration of expectation and preparation for action that might, after all, succeed, Harriet felt justified in contacting Charles. She wrote: ‘I want to see you. Meet me at one o’clock,’ and gave the note to a military messenger in the hall.
Charles, waiting, unsmiling, at the side entrance, met her with a strained and guarded look of inquiry.
Fearing she had behaved unwisely, she said: ‘I am going to the Plaka. Will you come with me?’
He did not reply but followed her through the crowds that were out to see the British lorries and guns coming into the town. ‘This is exciting, isn’t it?’ she said.
‘I suppose it is exciting for you.’
‘But not for you?’
‘To me, it means I won’t be here much longer.’
They came into the square where Byron had lived. Tables and chairs had been placed outside the little café but no one could sit in the bitter wind that cut the tender, drifting branches of the pepper trees. Having come so far, Charles suddenly asked: ‘Where are you going?’
‘To the dressmaker. I hoped you’d translate for me; my Greek isn’t very good.’
He grew pale and stared at her in resentful accusation: ‘Is that why you wanted to see me? You simply wanted to make use of me?’
‘No.’ She was wounded by his reaction. She had supposed he would see the request as a gesture of intimacy, would know at once that it was an excuse for summoning him: ‘Don’t you want to do something for me?’
His expression did not change. For some minutes he was silent as though he could not bring himself to speak, then burst out: ‘Where is this dressmaker?’
‘Here. But it doesn’t matter. Let’s go to Zonar’s and see if we can get a sandwich.’
He neither agreed nor disagreed but turned when she turned and walked back with her towards University Street. Because she had been misunderstood, she did not try to speak but, glancing once or twice at his severe profile, she wondered what attached her to this cold, distant and angry stranger. This of course was the moment to break away, and yet the attraction remained. Even seeing him detached and unaccountable, she still had no real will to leave him.
Half a dozen Australian lorries had parked on Zonar’s corner and the men had climbed down. Some were drinking with newly made Greek friends: others were lurching about between the outdoor tables, occasionally knocking down a chair, but still sober and reasonable enough. The Greeks seemed delighted with them but Charles came to a stop and, shaken out of his sulks, said: ‘We’d better not go there.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘It’s out of bounds to other ranks, which makes things awkward for me. But, worse than that, they’re drinking, so there’s likely to be trouble. I don’t want you mixed up in it.’
‘Really! How ridiculous!’
He caught her arm and led her away protesting. Laughing at him and refusing any longer to be restrained by his ill-humour, she said: ‘If you won’t go there, we’ll go to the dressmaker!’
She walked him back to the Plaka where a young Greek woman was making her two summer dresses. Charles translated her instructions with a poor grace, then said: ‘I’ll wait for you outside.’ She half expected when she left to find he had gone, but he stood in the lane beside a flower-shop. He had been buying violets and, seeing her, he held the bunch out to her. She took it and put it to her mouth.
She spoke through the sweetness of the petals: ‘We mustn’t quarrel. There isn’t time.’
‘No, there certainly isn’t.’ Giving his ironical laugh, he asked: ‘Now where do you want to go?’
‘I don’t mind where we go, but don’t be cross.’
‘We might get something to eat. It’s too late for luncheon but, if we go to the Corinthian, I know one of the waiters. He’ll find something for us.’
Racing back to the square, dodging the crowds on the pavements, Charles held to her, pulling her along, caught up in the inspirited air of the city centre where so much was happening. They were both elated as the enchantment of their companionship renewed itself.
How much longer was he likely to stay in Athens? He did not
know. The Mission was to be absorbed into the Expeditionary Force, but he still had his work at the Military Attaché’s office and would remain until his detachment arrived. That could be within a few days, or not for two or three weeks. No one seemed to know when the different units would turn up. Hurriedly organized, its contingents mixed and withdrawn from different sectors, the campaign was in some confusion.
One thing only was certain – there was no certainty and very little time.
The lorries, crowding in now from the Piraeus, were trying to find their way to camps outside Athens. Several, having gone astray, had made their way into Stadium Street and one after another stopped to get directions from Charles. Each time, as the Englishmen talked, a little crowd gathered to watch. A girl threw a bunch of cyclamen up to the men who leant over the lorry side. At this the men began to call to the passers-by and more flowers were thrown, and a fête-day atmosphere came into the streets. Suddenly everyone was throwing flowers to the men and calling a welcome in Greek and English. All in a moment, it seemed, fear had broken down. British intervention might indeed mean that Greece was lost, but these men were guests in the country and must be treated as such. Then the men, who had been bewildered by the suspicion, the unexpected winter weather, the fact the girls would not look at them, were reassured and began good-naturedly to respond.
Amidst all the shouting and waving and throwing of flowers, Harriet held on to Charles and said: ‘It’s fun not to be alone.’
Charles smiled down on her, in quizzical disbelief: ‘But are you ever alone?’ he asked.
‘Quite often. Guy is always busy on something. He’s …’ She was about to say ‘He’s too busy to live,’ but checked herself. It was, after all, a question of what one meant by living. She said instead: ‘He has his own interests.’
‘Interests that you don’t share?’
‘Often they’re interests I can’t share. These productions, for instance: he enjoys putting them on but he prefers not to have me there. It’s quite understandable, of course. The production is his world; he’s the dominating influence – and he feels I don’t take him seriously. When I’m there, I spoil it for him. And he does much too much. In Bucharest, when he staged Troilus and Cressida, he worked on it day and night. The Germans were advancing into Paris at the time. I never saw him. He simply disappeared.’
‘What did you do? Were you alone?’
‘Usually, yes.’
Charles watched her gravely, awaiting some conclusive revelation satisfactory to himself, but she said no more. After a moment he encouraged her: ‘You must have been lonely, in a strange country at a time like that?’
‘Yes.’
‘You married a stranger, and went to live among strangers. What did you expect?’
‘Nothing. We did not expect to survive. It’s our survival that’s thrown us out. However, as a potential, Guy seemed remarkable. Now I’m not so sure about him. As a potential, he probably is remarkable, but all he does is dissipate himself. And why? Do you think he’s afraid to put himself to the test?’
Charles did not know the answer to this question, but said: ‘He seems confident enough.’
‘Guy’s confidence really comes from a lack of contact with reality. He’s stuck in unreality. He’s afraid to come out.’
Trying himself to gain more contact with reality, Charles asked: ‘What’s he doing at the moment?’
‘Rehearsing the revue again. They’ve all decided to defy Pinkrose, and the padre’s letting them use the church hall. He’s probably over there now.’
In this she was wrong, as she soon discovered. They passed a café. The day had brightened and sitting outside in the sun was Guy with a British army officer. ‘See who’s here,’ he called out to her.
Harriet had already seen who was there. The officer was Clarence Lawson, one of their Bucharest friends, now dressed up as a lieutenant-colonel. Grinning, Clarence rose up, tall and thinner than ever, keeping his long, narrow head on one side as though seeking to efface himself. In fact, Harriet knew, he was not only aware but disapproving. He had given her a swift, appraising glance, and she saw him sum up the situation.
Clarence was not successful with women but he was a man whose life was lived in acute consciousness of the opposite sex, passing from love to love, preferring an unhappy passion to no passion at all.
She said: ‘Why, hello!’ hoping by her tone of hearty interest to distract him from the intimacy he observed between her and Charles. She held out her hand. He took it, but his eyes were on the hand that held the violets.
She rallied him on the rank he had reached since they last saw him. His grin became rueful and he mumbled:
‘Doesn’t mean much.’
Guy said gleefully: ‘You could not have come past at a better time. Clarence is only here for a few hours. He’s just arrived. I was on my way to the rehearsal when I bumped into him. Wasn’t it an amazing bit of luck? Here.’ Guy pulled up two chairs. ‘Sit down, both of you. What will you have? Coffee?’
‘We haven’t eaten yet.’
‘You won’t get anything now, but they might make a sandwich.’
Harriet, glancing at Charles, saw his face shut against her. He did not meet her eyes but spoke to Guy as though she were not present.
‘I’m afraid I can’t stay. There’s a lot going on at the moment. I ought to be at the office.’ Giving no one a chance to detain him, he turned abruptly and crossed the road.
Watching him as he went, Harriet’s sense of loss was so acute, she could not keep quiet: ‘I must go after him. I can’t let him go like that. I must explain …’
‘Of course,’ Guy said, voice and face expressionless: ‘If you feel …’
‘Yes. I do. I’ll come back. I won’t be long.’ She sped off and managed to catch sight of Charles among the crowd on the opposite pavement. He went into a shop that sold newspapers and cigarettes. She slowed to regain her breath and reaching him, was able to speak calmly: ‘Charles, I’m sorry.’
He swung round, startled to see her there beside him.
‘Clarence is here for so short a time. I’ll have to stay with them. I’ve no choice.’
‘Part of your past, I presume?’
‘No. At least, not as you mean it. Why do you say that?’
‘He looked pretty sick when he saw I was with you.’
‘He’s only a friend; as much Guy’s friend as mine.’
‘You’ll be saying that about me one day.’
She laughed and slid her fingers into his hand. He was still annoyed but let her hand rest with his. She said: ‘I’ll see you tomorrow?’
‘Will you have luncheon with me?’
‘Yes.’
She made to pull her fingers away; he held to them a moment, then let them go. The meeting arranged, they could part with composure. Harriet went back to join Guy and Clarence. Clarence was restrained, making his disapproval evident and she tried to rally him: ‘I thought you were a conscientious objector?’ she said.
‘I still am a conscientious objector.’
‘But you’ve joined the army.’
‘Well … in a manner of speaking, yes.’ Clarence, lolling as he used to loll, hiding his discomfort beneath an appearance of ease and indifference, would not respond to her raillery. Despite his disapproval, he was, as he always had been, on the defensive.
‘Are you in the army or aren’t you?’
Clarence shrugged, leaving it to Guy to explain that Clarence was not a real lieutenant-colonel. He merely belonged to a para-military organization intended to protect British business interests in the war zones. He was on his way to Salonika to keep an eye on the tobacco combines.
‘Really! What a shocking come-down! Just an agent of the Bund, Wall Street and Zoippus Bank! He’d better not meet Ben Phipps.’
Clarence shrugged again, refusing to protect himself; and Harriet went on to ask what he had done since leaving Bucharest in the company of Sophie, the half-Jewish Rumanian girl who had once hope
d to marry Guy. He had been on his way to Ankara to take up a British Council appointment but Sophie had deflected him. She had decided that Ankara was not for her. When they left the express at Istanbul, she demanded that they take the boat to Haifa and from there make their way to Cairo.
‘So that’s where you ended up?’
‘Yep.’
‘What about the Council? Couldn’t they hold you?’
‘No. I was only on contract. They let me go.’
‘And now you’re a colonel! That’s pretty quick promotion.’
‘Yep. Lieutenant one day: major by the end of the week: lieutenant-colonel the week after. That’s what it’s like.’ He snuffed down his nose in self-contempt. ‘The office in Cairo is full of bogus half-colonels like me.’
‘And what about Sophie?’
‘She’s all right.’
‘Did you get married?’
‘Yep.’
‘Good for Sophie. And now she’s the wife of a lieutenant-colonel! I bet she likes that?’
Clarence hung his head and did not reply.
Taking this for a happy conversation, Guy decided he could safely go. He handed Clarence over to Harriet, saying he had been due at his rehearsal at 2.30 and he could not keep the cast waiting any longer. ‘I’ll be back at seven,’ he said. ‘I’ll meet you here. Think where you’d like to go for supper. Anyway we’ll spend the evening together,’ and, gathering together his papers and books, he was gone.
‘Guy hasn’t changed much,’ Clarence said.
‘Did you expect him to change?’
Harriet put the violets on the table in front of her and Clarence frowned on them. ‘Guy’s a great man,’ he said.
‘Well … yes.’
They had had this conversation before and Harriet could think of nothing new to say. She had seen a great deal of Clarence, who in Bucharest had been her companion when, as usually happened, Guy was not to be found. She had accepted his generosity and given him nothing, but her chief emotion at the sight of him was irritation. Clarence, it seemed, was born to suffer. He wanted to suffer. If she had not ill-treated him, someone else would. But Clarence could take his revenge. He encouraged confidence and often gave sympathy, but was just as liable to snap back with: ‘Don’t complain to me. You married him,’ or: ‘If you didn’t let him play on your weakness, he wouldn’t impose these lame dogs on you.’
The Balkan Trilogy Page 91