Strangers in Company (16 page)

“Nor mine.” Marian was delighted at this outbreak of unsociability on Stella's part. The professor had already announced his intention of going right up to the fortress at the very top. “After all,” he had explained from behind them, “it's a foothill of Taygetus. My first chance at the mountain birds. Who knows? If I'm as lucky as you, Miss Marten, I may even see a bearded vulture.” He had not
suggested that they accompany him, however, and had gone off with the long, loping stride of the practised walker.

“It looks as if we must have held him up a bit yesterday, poor man,” said Stella. “He travels the fastest who travels alone, and all that.”

“Yes,” said Marian irritably, surprised at her own sense of abandonment. “Let's go.” The Esmonds were on the other side of the group round Cairnthorpe, who was doling out tickets. “Get ours, would you, and let's get on ahead.”

“OK.”

Marian watched with amusement as Stella made her ruthless way through the crowd and collected the tickets. Charles Esmond, she could see, was watching, too, but helplessly. His mother was leaning heavily on his arm this morning.

“Mrs. Esmond's afraid of turning an ankle.” Stella returned with two tickets and a mischievous grin. “Onwards and upwards.”

They were quite high already, since the bus had been climbing steadily since they passed the small, comparatively modern village of Mistra, the Marian paused to admire the view across the olive-studden plain below. “Heavenly day,” she said.

“Yes, but do come
on
, Mrs. F.” The impatience in Stella's tone was so out of proportion that Marian gave her a quick glance. “Well,” said Stella in explanation, “you don't want one of the old tabbies for the day, do you?”

“I'm an old tabby.” Marian fell into step beside Stella on the rocky path.

“You're a honey,” said Stella, and then, “Oh, damnation.”

“Hullo there.” Mrs. Duncan was waiting for them at a turn in the street of grey, ruined stone houses. “Did you decide to go it alone, too? But you'll never get anywhere without the guide.” She held out her own. “We mustn't miss the frescoes in the Perivleptos.” She turned to lead the way, making it impossible for them to do anything but follow.

Aware of Stella simmering beside her, Marian found it hard to listen to Mrs. Duncan's competent readings from the local guide. She did notice the double-headed eagle in the Metropolis, where, it appeared, the last Byzantine emperor might or might not have been crowned, and she could not help enjoying the constant views out over the valley. The churches, Mrs. Duncan told them, had been carefully built so that in most cases a cloister or arcade would take advantage of this extraordinary vista.

“A vista from Mistra,” said Stella, and got quick looks from both the older women for her bitter tone. But of course, Marian reminded herself, she must be remembering the bloody history of the place. She was broodingly silent for a while, and when they got up, at last, to the palace that loomed above the ruined streets of the town, she broke rudely into Mrs. Duncan's remarks about the unusual oriel windows. “I've had it! I'm going to pass out here in the sun.”

“Not going on to the top?” Mrs. Duncan's voice was shocked. “Think of the views across to the heart of Taygetus.”

“This is near enough its heart for me.” Stella had found a patch of short grass among the high, grey-pink flowers that filled the palace yard, almost like sea in a bay. “We'll wait for you here. Right, Mrs. F.?”

“Right,” said Marian, with relief. “It's so beautiful.…” She sat down on the grass beside Stella. “What's this extraordinary flower?”

“You don't know asphodel?” Mrs. Duncan sounded as if it were a crime of the first water.

“
The Common Asphodel
,” said Stella.

“There's nothing common about it.” Marian lay down so that she could look through delicate flowers towards blue sky. “Now I know what the blessed spirits felt like.”

“You're lucky.” Once again, Stella's tone reminded Marian of the Communists who had hidden here, among these bleak, waterless, ruined houses, and been hunted down. “Like animals,” Stella had said. Horrible. Had they
come up here, higher and higher, in panic-stricken flight, to plunge, at last, over the cliff edge beyond the palace?

She shivered in the hot sun but was silent. No need to remind Stella of this, if she was merely in one of the sullen fits Miss Oakland had predicted. They lay there silent and apparently peaceful for a while until the rising babble of sound warned them of the approach of the rest of the party.

“Oh, damn!” Stella sat up with a jerk. “What now?”

“Nothing,” said Marian. “Just let them wash over us.”

“Like this sea of flowers?” It was not the first time that Stella had surprised Marian by the almost psychic sharing of an idea. She lay down again. “Very well then. Let's lie doggo.”

“Eternal sleep,” Marian closed her eyes. “Like Cleobis and Biton.”

“Horrible story.” Mike had told it to them the day before. “Think of asking for the best thing for your children and having them killed. Honestly, Mrs. F., don't you think those Greek gods were a nasty lot?”

“Very.” The story of the mother who had asked for the best thing for her sons had shocked Marian too.

“‘As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods,'” quoted Stella surprisingly. “‘They kill us for their sport.'” And then, “Have you ever wished you were dead, Mrs. F.?”

“No.” And then, “Yes.” Impossible to lie about this.

“The sin against the Holy Ghost. If you believe in all that.” And then, “Here they come. I'm asleep.” She rolled over on her face, burying it in the short, sweet grass, and Marian, feeling like a middle-aged fool, did likewise. They were a little way from the path, in a clear patch among the glimmering asphodel. No reason why anyone should disturb them.

Voices passed. Cairnthorpe, talking earnestly, and the schoolmistresses plying him with questions. As they moved away, a new group of voices took up the theme.

“… Higher up.” That must be Mrs. Spencer, but for a moment Marian could not think who the man was who answered her.

“Better spread out,” he said.

“My feet hurt.” That was Mrs. Adams, so presumably the man had been her husband.

“Fuck your feet,” he said.

And, “Hush,” said Mrs. Spencer.

As well she might, thought Marian, looking down a whole depressing new vista of the Adamses' honeymoon. “A vista from Mistra.” Stella was very still and quiet beside her. Well, it was embarrassing to have put themselves in this position of unintentional eavesdroppers. They must be less visible from the path than she had realised; probably some piece of fallen masonry was just high enough to hide them. More voices: Charles Esmond, angry. “I tell you, I mean to go on to the top. You sit here, if you like, and I'll pick you up on the way down. And, by the way, you've been limping on the wrong foot ever since we stopped to look at that blasted Pantokrator.”

“Fancy your noticing,” said his mother imperturbably. “Very well, go off on your wild-goose chase if you must. I just hope you find the little bitch and she spits in your eye.” Alone with her son, Mrs. Esmond let her voice slip several degrees down the social scale.

“Good-bye.” Charles's voice was both angry and farther off.

Now what? thought Marian. How intensely uncomfortable it would be for them all if Mrs. Esmond were to look about her for somewhere to await her son and happen on them. But, thank goodness, here must be Cairnthorpe and the schoolmistresses returning to join her.

“You're not going up to the top?” Cairnthorpe's voice.

“Not likely.”

“Then come up to the chapel with us. It's only a step, and I believe there's another Pantokrator you might like to see. Extraordinary place, isn't it?” His voice was dwindling as he led his little party off in a new direction.

Silence again for a while, and then two men's voices speaking, by the sound of it, in Greek. Beside Marian, Stella stirred restlessly for a moment, then was still again. There were plenty more of their party still to come. Or
had the others boggled at even this much of a climb? It was possible. There was a large, indeterminate group of middle-aged ladies given to soft shoes and plastic macs and a habit of opting out and sitting on them at a fairly early stage of any climb. Marian rolled over and sat up cautiously.

“They've all gone.” Instinctively, she spoke low. “Shall we move on a little? I wouldn't mind seeing that chapel David was talking about. If there really is another Pantokrator. I think they're magnificent. Why, Stella!” She looked down in amazement at her companion. “What's the matter?”

For a moment, she had thought that Stella's shoulders were shaking with laughter; now, horrified, she realised that it was silent tears that wracked her. She put a tentative hand on the shaking shoulder. “Do you want to talk about it, pet?” How strange to use Viola's endearment.

“No!” The voice came, muffled from between Stella's arms, which encircled her head. “No! But—please—you won't leave me, Mrs. F.?”

“Of course not. Gently now; gently.…” She kept her hand, comfortingly, she hoped, on the still-shaking shoulders and felt them gradually quieten. “Handkerchief?” She felt in her bag with her left hand and produced one of the large ones she found invaluable when travelling.

“Thanks.” One of Stella's hands groped for it. Her voice sounded steadier. She raised herself just enough to use the handkerchief on her invisible face, then subsided again with a long sigh. “I'm so sorry, Mrs. F. I haven't done that for ages. The ghoulies and ghosties got me, after all. Didn't you feel it?”

“A little,” Marian admitted. The trouble was, she felt so many things. Stella's hysteria had brought on a bout of her own horrors, and she could feel the cold sweat that meant the onset of one of her worst attacks, doubly unpleasant, somehow, in the hot sun. Passionately, desperately, she wished she was at home, safe in the London house, with Dr. Brown round the corner to tell her it was all nothing, all nerves…

But she was here, on a Greek hillside, gold with sunshine, silver with asphodel, and the girl beside her needed help more than she did. No doubt Stella's explanation of her tears was part the truth, but it was most certainly not the whole. But best, perhaps, to accept it for the time being? Thinking of Stella helped her own trouble. She was less certain, now, that hateful eyes were watching her from behind that gaping oriel window, that door opening on vacancy. All absurd. The sun was comforting; the cold sweat had passed. And Stella's shoulders had stopped shaking. Marian took her hand off her shoulder to open her bag. “I think Cairnthorpe and Co. are coming back.” She could hear voices from above. “I don't know about you, but I feel a wreck.”

Stella turned over and sat up, showing a surprisingly calm face. “Thanks, Mrs. F. I said you were a honey.” She gave back the crumpled handkerchief and pulled a mirror out of her bag. “You're fine, you always are, but I look like hell.” She began an expert elaborate rescue operation on her face.

“You don't, you know.” Marian was surprised at how little damage that dreadful crying bout had done to Stella's eye makeup.

“Hysterics,” said Stella angrily. “I'm ashamed. You won't tell anyone.… No”—with apology—“of course you won't. Hullo, here comes the professor. I say! What's the matter?”

They both jumped to their feet, as Professor Edvardson came hurrying down the hill towards them. He had lost his hat and was carrying his binoculars by their broken strap. Everything about him spoke of crisis. “Where's Cairnthorpe?” he shouted as he approached. “I've been attacked.”

“Attacked?” said Marian.

“Who?” said Stella.

“I don't know. I was quite close to the edge. I'd seen a blue rock thrush and thought I might even find its nest. I didn't hear a thing, but suddenly someone was trying to push me over. And, boy, was there some over to go.” Telling
it seemed to make him feel better. “I'd have been clear down in the valley by now.”

“But what happened?” asked Marian.

“I guess I surprised him.” The professor was pleased with himself. “I was in the army once. I still remember a trick or two they taught us. And he thought he had a pushover.” It had shaken him more, Marian thought, than he would admit. “Very literally a pushover,” he went on. “A long, long way down. Only I didn't want to go, so I walloped him one with my binoculars—broke the strap, dammit. Excuse me—” To Marian.

“Him?” asked Stella.

“I think so. Can't be sure, though; not when you girls all wear trousers, and the young men grow their hair. But if he was a girl, he sure had some muscles. We had quite a tussle there, for a minute. Then I guess he gave up. He got out. of there so quickly that I never did see more than lots of dark hair and blue jeans.”

Instinctively, Marian looked at Stella. Dark hair and blue jeans. Absurd to be grateful they had been together all the time. But the professor was speaking again. “Where's young Cairnthorpe?” he asked. “I have to warn him, round up the party. It has to be a maniac,” he explained. “No chance of robbery; not with me a goner down in the valley. We ought to get the hell out of here and report it.”

“Here he comes.” But Marian's heart sank at the thought of Mrs. Duncan, Mrs. Spencer and the Adamses, all, so far as she knew, wandering about on the upper reaches of the mountain. And Charles Esmond. Who had dark hair and was wearing blue jeans. Horrible. She listened quietly while Edvardson retold his story to Cairnthorpe and his horrified party.

“A madman,” Edvardson summed it up. “It can't be anything else. I mean, why me? Not robbery. No reason. Don't you have any way of calling the others back?”