The Balkan Trilogy (106 page)

‘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 Dhiamandopoulou 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.’

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 …’

‘Lord Bedlington?’

‘Could be. Bedlington! Sounds familiar. Anyway, it looks
as though Lord P.’ll be promoted. Sad for Alan. He didn’t say a thing, not a thing, but I thought he looked a trifle huffed.’

‘Understandably,’ said Harriet.

‘Ummm.’ Fearful of committing himself, Yakimov made a neutral murmur. In recognition of Harriet’s presence, he had lifted himself a few inches out of his chair but now cried out piteously: ‘
Do
sit down. I’d offer you an ouzo but I’m not even sure I can pay for this little lot.’

Harriet sat and Yakimov relaxed into his chair and squeezed lemon over the shell-fish. ‘Why don’t you order some? Give yourself a treat?’

Harriet, convinced she had only to eat a single shell-fish to be laid out with typhoid, asked: ‘What are they?’

‘Sea-urchins. Used to get them along the front at Naples. Quite a delicacy. I suggested them to the head waiter here and he said: “People wouldn’t eat them.” I said: “Good heavens, dear boy, when you think what people
do
eat these days.”’ Tackling the urchins with avidity, he spoke between sucks and gulps. ‘Try them; try them,’ he urged her, but Harriet, who feared strange meats, ordered a cheese sandwich.

‘Who are those women in the Billiard Room?’ she asked.

‘The Twocurrys. Gladys and Mabel. Mabel’s the batty one. Just a pair of old trouts.’

‘What do they do?’

‘Unsolved mystery, dear girl.’

‘Alan thought he could give me a job in the office.’

‘Why not?’ Yakimov, having downed the urchins as rapidly as Diocletian had downed the squid, mopped the remaining juices with the corners of bread. ‘Excellent idea!’

‘But I wouldn’t want to work for Pinkrose.’

‘War on, dear girl,’ Yakimov dismissed her qualms in a lofty way. ‘Can’t pick and choose who you’ll work for, y’know. Look at me. Must do one’s bit.’

Having eaten, he sat for a while with eyelids drooping, then slipped down inside his great-coat. ‘Time for beddy-byes,’ he said and began to doze.

Harriet, uncertain whether to remain or go, looked round
for the waiter and saw Charles Warden descending from the balcony restaurant. He was looking in a speculative way in her direction and came straight to Yakimov’s side. Yakimov opened an eye and Charles Warden said: ‘I have a permit to visit the Parthenon. Why don’t you come with me?’ He turned to include Harriet: ‘Both of you,’ he added.

Roused out of sleep, Yakimov sighed: ‘Not me, dear boy. Your Yak’s not fit … overwork and underfeeding … the years tell …’ He resettled himself and slept again.

Charles Warden looked to Harriet with a smile that seemed a challenge and she got to her feet.

They walked without a word through the Plaka. While each waited for the other to speak first, Harriet observed him from the corner of her eye, seeing his firm and regular profile lifted slightly, as though he were preoccupied with some solemn matter; but she was aware of his awareness. She wanted to say something that would startle him out of his caution, but could think of nothing.

She noticed as they went through the narrow, confusing streets, that he led her with unhesitating directness to the steps that climbed the Acropolis hill. On the way up, he asked abruptly: ‘Where do you live in Athens?’

‘Beside the Ilissus. It’s a classical site.’

This remark amused him and he said: ‘The Ilissus runs right through Athens.’