Strangers in Company

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  “Yes.” The disastrous affair? She smiled wryly to herself, remembering how grateful she had been for Stella’s watching over her while she slept. The courier’s question implied, surely, a considerable number of attempts to make the call. Oh, well, poor Stella.…

  Fatigue was coming over her again, wave on wave of it, in the synthetic air of the plane. She fastened her seat belt, leaned back and closed her eyes.

  “My name’s Cairnthorpe.” The young courier was trying again with Stella. “I’m your courier, heaven help me.”

  “On a Mercury Classical Tour? Shouldn’t you be invoking Zeus?”

  “Oh, well.” He was delighted to have got a real answer out of her. “Strictly speaking, that’s the guide’s job. We pick him up in Athens on Monday. Tomorrow, I mean.” He looked at his watch as if it would tell him the day of the week. “Mind you,” he went on. “The delay was lucky for me. I wouldn’t have made it otherwise. And what a chance!”

  “Why?” Stella sounded so profoundly uninterested that Marian suddenly realised this was the question she had wanted to ask.

  “Oh, didn’t you know?” He was young enough to assume that everyone must be interested in his affairs. “I only took over at the eleventh hour. Literally. The other man was knocked down by a car,” he explained and then added a perfunctory “poor fellow.”

  “Killed?” asked Stella.

  “Oh, I hope not. That would make me feel bad, wouldn’t it? They didn’t know, when they telephoned me. Just that he was badly hurt, and could I take over? Well—it was a rush, but of course I could. It’s the chance I’ve been waiting for. I’ve been on standby for these tours ever since I came down—left the university,” he explained kindly, and Marian, on the far side, was aware of the ripple of irritation that ran through Stella. “I teach, you know.” He was well away now. “Classics, of course. But it doesn’t run to Greek holidays. I’ve not been there since I was up—at Oxford,” he explained again.

  “I’ve heard of it.” Stella closed the conversation.

  After that, it was just the usual, exhausting night flight, with bright-voiced, weary hostesses doling out duty-free goods and cut-price drinks across the furious, semi-recumbent bodies of the passengers who wanted, more than anything, to sleep. There were, at some point, plastic sandwiches and coffee in plastic mugs. Marian, rousing enough to refuse them, heard Stella do the same and heard the courier—Cairngorm was it?—accept his enthusiastically. “Missed my dinner,” he tried to explain to Stella, who ignored him, sleeping ostentatiously.

  Behind them, the group of teachers they had seen at Gatwick were celebrating their reunion by a long, elaborate, whispered conversation about what had happened to whom since they had last met. Listening, because she could not help it, Marian decided that they had been at Teachers’ Training College together; that this was an annual occasion; that they were very nice girls.… Thinking this, at last, she slept.…

  Stella was shaking her again. At least, this time, recognised at once as Stella. “Athens, Mrs. F. Rise and shine.”

  “Oh, God,” said Marian. “Did you sleep at all?”

  “Not much!” She gestured sideways with her head. “Should I wake him, do you think?” Beyond her, Mr. Cairnthorpe slept like a child.

  The NO SMOKING and FASTEN SEAT BELTS signs were on. “Yes, I should think so. He’s to take charge of us, I suppose.”

  “So do I.” Stella met her smile for smile, but her face was grey, as if, Marian thought, she had not slept at all, but had spent all the hours of the flight brooding about the young man who had not been at home. She dug Mr. Cairnthorpe ruthlessly in the ribs. “We’re here.”

  “Oh … thanks.” Struggling up from sleep, he looked younger than ever, and Marian’s heart sank. Certainly Stella, so far, seemed normal enough, but suppose the “nervous exhaustion” were to manifest itself in some drastic way, what use in the world would this very young man be? None, she told herself, and once again Miss Oakland’s voice echoed in her head. “You’ll earn your high pay.”

  The plane touched, bounced just a little, then touched again and was bumpily earthborne. “Not a large airport,” said Stella, unfastening her seat belt.

  A hostess swooped. “Please keep your seat belts fastened, and remain seated until the plane is stationary.”

  “Oh—” Stella bit off the next word, but Marian could feel the rage seething in her as she refastened the belt. Trouble at school.… Trouble with authority? So what would happen when authority was represented by poor Mr. Cairnthorpe?

  But, surprisingly, Stella was laughing. “Don’t look so anxious! At least I didn’t say it.”

  “My imagination’s boggling just the same.”

  “Poor Mrs. F.” Stella delved in her bag, produced a comb and began a rather slapdash attack on her shaggy hair. “Do you wish you were safe in bed in England?”

  “I certainly wish I was in bed.” The plane had stopped at last, and Marian turned resolutely from the thought of the cold little house, the twins’ bedrooms so empty, so unnaturally tidy. “I don’t much care where.”

  “They’ve opened the doors,” said Mr. Cairnthorpe hopefully.

  “Have they?” Stella got out her compact. “Oh, God! My face!” She delved unsuccessfully in her bag for a while, her right shoulder hunched against her restless neighbour, finally producing a pair of tweezers and fastidiously removed one straggling hair from an eyebrow. “That’s better.” The compact again, for a long, considering look.

  Marian had had enough. “Well, I’m on my way.” She stood up, dropped Stella’s red coat in her lap, picked up her own brown one and small bag and inserted herself neatly in a gap in the queue. The twins, she thought, would have been amazed. And, equally amazing, Stella had got all her paraphernalia stowed away and was following close behind.

  “Cruelty to children?” Her voice was at once mocking and, Marian thought, apologetic.

  “Something like that.” Cairnthorpe, she saw, was pushing his way towards the other exit. So much for any hope of him as an ally. But at least, she thought, he had the gumption to resent being baited.

  Outside, the dark, warm air smelled of pines. Stella drew a deep breath. “Retsina,” she said. “Delicious.”

  “You’ve been here before?” Marian was surprised. Nothing Miss Oakland had said had suggested this.

  “Lord, yes. On a cruise. With them. Ghastly, but I loved it. That’s why I held out for this, don’t you see? It takes you to all the places you don’t get to on a cruise.”

  “Yes.” It made sense. And yet— “It’s funny,” she said. “I could have sworn Miss Oakland said.…”

  “Oh, Miss Oakland! Why should she know? All she had to do was hire you, after all. Someone like you,” she amended.

  Marian laughed. “My lucky day. Look! It’s almost dawn.” The faintest suggestion of light in the sky emphasised the dark loom of mountains.

  “Yes. We shan’t see the Acropolis floodlit after all. Have you ever been to Greece, Mrs. Frenche?”

  “No. Never.” She had wanted to come for their honeymoon, but Mark had had an engagement at the last moment, too good a one to be missed, as all Mark’s engagements were, and Marian had found herself simply tagging along, allowed a slightly dubious recognition by Mark’s fan club. It should have warned her, she thought now, looking back on the whole disaster of that time. Too late, of course. Anyway, she had been blinded by the glamour of it all, by the illusory Mark she adored, and who said, when he had a moment to spare, that he adored her, too. “You’re my star,” he would say, with one of those butterfly kisses of his, and she was his slave.

  But they had reached the lighted terminal building, and the smell of pines was lost in the smell of airport. Following the crowd, they found the formalities blessedly swift. “One good thing about travelling at night,” said Stella, as they emerged on the other side of the controls. “They’re all too tired to search you for drugs.” And then, aware of Marian’s swift, anxious glance. “Oh, really, Mrs. Fr
enche, you must know I don’t.” And, with a look Marian would learn to know all too well, “Anyway, what about you? Have you got the prescription for yours?”

  “Oh—” Marian was dumbstruck. The situation was slipping hopelessly out of her control, and she could feel only sympathy for Mr. Cairnthorpe when they came on him, standing helplessly among a red-labelled crowd in the lobby. Other tours seemed to be marching resolutely away in all directions. Only Cairnthorpe, quite evidently, had not the slightest idea what to do.

  “Someone is to meet us here,” he was explaining it, obviously, for the second time, to a large, anxious lady in a floppy hat, presumably acquired in a moment of madness on a previous holiday. Hovering behind her was the only young man of the party, unmistakably her son, though features sullen in her plump face were surprisingly handsome in his young one, even shadowed as it was with lack of sleep and an incipient beard.

  “Fancy!” Stella had noticed him, too, but not, by the sound of it, with approval.

  “Ladies and gentlemen.” Cairnthorpe managed to raise his voice above the growing hubbub of anxious questions. “We’re sure to be met. Let’s all keep together, please, and wait here.”

  They murmured a little, tiredly, but stood around him, exhausted, quiescent. “Insufficiently briefed,” said a brisk Civil Service, female voice behind Marian, and wondering if Mr. Cairnthorpe had heard, she found herself thinking about their fellow tourists. She looked at the tired faces, extra-pale in the garish light of the lobby. Mostly women, of course. A few middle-aged men here and there, most of them very much occupied with wives. A honeymoon couple, and, “poor things” she was thinking, when an unmistakably American voice spoke up from the far side of the group.

  “It looks to me as if everyone else has gone outside.” Marian could not see the speaker, but he sounded as tired as she felt. “Shouldn’t we?”

  “Well?” Cairnthorpe hesitated and was lost. The party moved of its own volition towards the doors and he could only follow, muttering something unintelligible, but, Marian was afraid, with the word “Americans” in it.

  It was good to be out in cool, retsinated air again and better still to see a row of buses lined up with their backs to the airport steps. It was perceptibly lighter now, and Marian could see the immaculate golden coiffure of the uniformed girl who came briskly forward to meet them. “There you are at last.… I was beginning to wonder.… Oh!” She had picked out Cairnthorpe from the crowd.

  “I’m a stand-in, I’m afraid.” Not for the first time, Marian felt sorry for him as he launched into the now-familiar explanation. But beside her, Stella twitched with impatience and muttered something under her breath.

  Chapter Two

  Full dawn broke as the coach hauled its exhausted load of passengers towards the city. There was a sudden, excited babble: “There. There it is.” One clear voice: “It’s just like the postcards.” Marian had missed seeing the Acropolis. She closed her eyes again, beyond caring, then opened them as the microphone at the front of the coach rasped into life. The blonde Greek girl who had taken charge of them was standing up, swaying gracefully to the movement of the coach. She spoke clearly, in her accented, fluent English. There was a small change of plan.… Mercury Tours was so sorry, but the hotel advertised was not yet open.… They were going to a better one, the Alexander, in Alexander Avenue.… Very quiet, very select, very restful.

  “Which means several miles from the city centre.” A voice Marian had heard before, the one that had found Cairnthorpe “insufficiently briefed.”

  “I knew it was a mistake to come on the first tour of the season.” This was the woman across the aisle from Marian, a conspicuous figure in scarlet and black. Beyond her, a harassed-looking husband muttered something soothing.

  Up front, the golden girl took no notice. “Mercury Tours will, naturally, compensate you for any inconvenience,” she went on. “The hotel porter will arrange taxis for anyone wishing to visit the centre of town, and Mercury Tours will be happy to repay the small expense involved. Coming back, of course, you will be in the Hotel Hermes as arranged.” She replaced the microphone in its bracket and sat down, turning her back on a rising tide of weary grumbles. In the seat behind her, Mr. Cairnthorpe was fast asleep.

  “Oh, well.” Marian was resigned now to being awake. “I don’t see that it makes much difference. I know I’m going to sleep all morning, and we’ve got Sounion this afternoon.” Her tone sounded disconcertingly like the one she had used when breaking bad news to the twins. It was odd to be so sure that the silent girl beside her was seething inwardly.

  “Muddle!” was all she said, hunching a shoulder to stare out the window at suburban buildings, strange and ugly in pitiless morning light. The streets were waking up now. A black-clad woman emptied a bucket of water across the pavement; girls in blue uniforms loitered towards an uncompromising modern building that must be a school. A small boy waved vigorously from a window.

  Across the aisle of the bus, the woman in scarlet and black settled an unfortunate hat more firmly over her ears. “Alexander Avenue?” she asked. “Where in heaven’s name’s that?”

  “It’s not too bad.” Her husband had produced a map. “See!”

  “But it’s miles,” she wailed. “Way over beyond Lykabetos. I told you we shouldn’t have booked for the first tour.”

  “And I told you it was the only time I could get away.” It was obviously not the first time he had said it.

  “It’s a bit much.” She leaned across the aisle to address Marian. “You’ve not been here before? Well, the Hermes Hotel’s right in the centre of everything, by Omonia Square. There’s a shop there—I meant to go in this morning and get some espadrilles. For the ruins, you know. It’s as much as your life’s worth to try do to them in heels.” She looked down for a moment from her old-fashioned stilettos to Marian’s neat, light walking shoes. “You’ve been sensible, I can see.” It was more criticism than praise. “I don’t know what in the world I’m going to do. I must have my sleep.” She turned on her husband. “What am I going to do, George?”

  “I told you to bring the old ones.” His voice was weary as he refolded the map. “Sunday morning it would likely be closed anyway.”

  “Oh, nothing closes here.” She sounded uncertain for the first time. “Look!” She leaned forwards. “There’s that temple. The one we never got to see.” It was his fault.

  “The Temple of Zeus.” He unfolded the map again. “We’re going on the other side of it. See. Along King Constantine Street.”

  “I wonder they don’t change the name, now they’ve thrown him out.”

  “I rather think that was a different king,” he said mildly, but she took no notice.

  “Looks like we’re going to be clear over at the wrong end of Alexander Avenue.” She had seized the map. “See!” She turned her back on her husband to pass the map across to Marian. “Miles from anywhere.” And then, momentarily distracted, she peered past Marian and Stella. “Look! There’s the modern stadium. Isn’t it splendid?” And, an obvious connection, “I suppose I’ll just have to wear my heels till I can find some espadrilles.”

  “Would you like to see?” Marian offered to pass the map to Stella, who shrugged it away with daunting rudeness. “At least we’re nearly there.” She unfolded the map and handed it back, reminding herself unhappily that she was not supposed to involve Stella with other people. It looked as if this were going to be a more difficult task than she had understood.

  “Our name’s Hilton,” said the black and scarlet woman, confirming this. “Like the hotels, but not so rich.” She had said it many times before. “What I always say”—she was cheering up as they neared their journey’s end—“is that on these tours you’ve just got to introduce yourselves, or you never get to know a soul.”

  “No. I mean, yes. I’m Marian Frenche, and this is Miss Marten.”

  “I thought she wasn’t your daughter,” said Mrs. Hilton at Stella’s back.

  The bus swerved
formidably across the traffic and turned left. Alexander Avenue. Marian was relieved to see that street names were given in both Roman and Greek lettering. “I wish I could read Greek,” she said as the bus began to slow down.

  “You won’t need to, love,” said Mrs. Hilton comfortably. “It’s all in English, too.”

  The Hotel Alexander, it turned out, was not actually on Alexander Avenue, but tucked away on a side street that led up towards the tree-covered hill that was identified, without enthusiasm, as Lykabetos by Mrs. Hilton. “No chance of a view of the Acropolis from here.” She got up as the bus stopped and began to push her way forward down the aisle. Following, her husband had one quick, apologetic glance for Marian. He was a small, neat man, half a head shorter than his buxom wife, with a face that should have been roundly cheerful, but was scored with deep lines of anxiety. Following in his wife’s ruthless wake, he cast more glances of apology to right and left.

  Feeling sorry for him, Marian turned to see her own companion staring at her with frank dislike. “Honestly!” She reached into her bag, produced cigarettes and a lighter and lit up with one of her quick, cross gestures. Then, belatedly, “Sorry! Have one?”

  It was a challenge and must be accepted. “Thanks. But I think I’ll wait till we get out of here.”

  “You’ll wait some time.” Some sort of blockage had developed up at the front of the bus, and the aisle was crowded with waiting figures, frozen in curious, awkward positions, cluttered with small baggage. “God,” said Stella, “what in the world made me think I’d like a bus tour?”

  Since Marian had been thinking very much the same thing, she did not try to answer, but sat staring out past Stella at the Alexander Hotel. It looked promising, she thought, from what she could see; clean and new-painted in the morning light. There were window boxes along its front, filled with gay, unidentifiable flowers. “It looks nice,” she ventured pacifically.

  “Nice!” Stella’s anger overflowed suddenly. “And this is a nice bus, and what a lot of nice people we are, this nice morning.”