‘I’ve heard that before,’ said Ben Phipps.
‘We’ve all heard it before,’ said Alan. ‘After the victory of Marathon the runner Phidipides ran with the news to Athens and, crying “Nenikiamen”, fell dead.’
‘It is possible,’ Guy said, ‘that the Marathon story had no more truth than the Koritza story.’
‘It is possible,’ Alan nodded. ‘But it is not a question of truth. This war, like other wars, is collecting its legends.’
The rain drummed on the slats above their heads, its rhythm breaking every few minutes when an overflow pipe released a gush of water. At last the fall slackened. The light was failing and they had to get to their feet and go.
As they reached the bus stop, a car came hooting behind them.
The car, a Delahaye, slowed down by the kerb and a head covered with wild, straw-coloured hair, shouted: ‘Hello, there!’
The car stopped and Toby Lush jumped out. ‘What brings you all to Phaleron?’ He ran at Guy, slipping on the wet road, almost falling headlong in his eagerness to clinch the meeting. ‘What a bit of luck, meeting you! Come on. Get in. Room for everyone.’
Yakimov and Ben Phipps, needing no second invitation, got themselves into the back seat, but Guy, though he found it impossible to snub Toby, had no wish to be driven by him.
Alan said: ‘There isn’t room for the dog. I’ll take the bus.’ He limped off, and Guy looked after him.
‘Get in. Get in.’ Toby seized Guy’s arm and manoeuvred him into the front seat. ‘Three in front,’ he shouted, then caught Harriet’s elbow: ‘Come along now. In there beside Guy.’
He was more than usually excited and, when under way, told them he had been helping to prepare the villa for the Major’s party. ‘They’re laying out the buffet. Gosh! Wait till you’ve had a dekko! You’re all coming, aren’t you?’ He was hilarious as though he had won a prize which, in a way, he had. The prize was Guy, and Toby had not captured him without reason.
‘Jolly glad you got that job,’ he said. ‘No one better fitted for it. Jolly glad. We’re both jolly glad. I don’t mean the old soul wasn’t put out. He was a bit, you know! Stands to reason; but what he said was: “If it’s not to be me then I’m glad it’s old Pringle.”’
Guy gave an ironical: ‘Oh!’ but it was an amused and good-natured irony, and Toby, encouraged, went on: ‘You’re opening in the new year aren’t you? You’ll be needing teachers? Well, what I wanted to say is: you can rely on the pair of us. We’ll help you out.’ His tone of open-hearted friendliness suggested that all was forgotten and forgiven.
Guy said ‘Oh!’ again and laughed. Harriet thought it likely enough that Dubedat and Toby Lush, when the School reopened, would be installed there as senior teachers.
‘Perhaps you think we behaved like a couple of Bs,’ Toby said. ‘Well, we didn’t. I’d like you to know that. We’d’ve done what we could for you but Gracey was dead against you. So we couldn’t do a thing.’
‘Even though Dubedat was in charge?’ Harriet asked.
‘That was all my eye.’ Toby blew out his moustache in disgust: ‘The old soul was hamstrung. He daren’t make a move without consulting Gracey.’
‘And why was Gracey dead against Guy? Because somebody told him that Guy neglected his work in order to produce a play?’
‘Look here!’ Toby Lush exploded in an injured way. ‘We told him the play was a smash hit. We said H.E. was in the royal box and every seat was sold. It was Gracey who disapproved – and I can tell you why! He was jealous. He couldn’t bear someone to do something he hadn’t done himself.’
‘Couldn’t he produce a play?’ Guy asked.
‘He’d be terrified to take the risk. Suppose it didn’t succeed! Besides, he was too damned lazy.’
‘Why didn’t you tell us this before?’ Harriet asked.
‘There’s such a thing as loyalty.’
‘Then why mention it now?’
‘Oh, I say!’ Toby now was both injured and indignant. ‘You can’t blame us. Look how the old soul’s been treated. He worked like a black doing Gracey’s job for him and what’s he got to show? We’re loyal. We’re loyal all right but …’
‘You weren’t loyal to Guy.’ Harriet broke in but Guy had had enough enmity and he talked her down, assuring Toby that both he and Dubedat would get all the work they wanted when the School re-opened.
When he dropped Guy and Harriet at their hotel, Toby shot out his hand in a large liberal gesture that bestrode all the disagreements of the past. ‘See you tonight,’ he said.
Guy explained that they could not go to the Major’s party because they had committed themselves to Mrs Brett.
‘Why not go to both?’ said Toby and as Ben Phipps and Yakimov joined in persuading him, Guy said: ‘I suppose we could.’
‘Right. I’ll pick you up,’ Toby said, gasping with importance. ‘’Fraid I won’t be able to take you to old Ma Brett’s. This is the Major’s car. Got the loan of it to run a few errands for him. See you later, then.’
Guy was surprised that Harriet showed no particular pleasure at this change of plan.
‘You’re not going to please me,’ she said. ‘You’re going to please Toby Lush and horrid little Phipps.’
He had to laugh: ‘Darling,’ he pleaded: ‘Don’t be so unreasonable.’
When Toby returned for the Pringles, Dubedat was sitting in the front seat. Guy, to reassure him, greeted him affably, but Dubedat sat with his shoulders hunched and did not even grunt. He had renounced his fine social manner and was as sullen as he had ever been. He made no attempt to talk in the car and the Pringles, when they came into the lighted hall at Phaleron, saw his face set again in lines of discontent. Toby, who had been chatting happily with Guy, wanted to stay with the Pringles but Dubedat was having none of that. Calling Toby to heel, he marched him off to another room and Harriet said: ‘You didn’t get much change out of that one.’
‘I certainly didn’t. I’m afraid he thinks I’ve somehow done him out of a job.’
‘He probably thought it was his by rights. He thinks everything is his by rights. If he doesn’t get it, he’s been done out of it. That accounts for his resentful expression.’
Guy laughed and squeezed her arm. ‘You’re a terrible girl!’ he said.
The Pringles were early but the rooms were already crowded. Yakimov came pushing through to them with a dejected air. ‘Nice state of affairs,’ he complained. ‘First here, I was. First on the green, and the butler said no one’s to touch a sliver till the Major gives the word. He’s standing guard over the grub. Not like the Major at all. If we wait for the whole mob to arrive, there won’t be enough to go round.’ He had left the dining-room in disgust but could not stay away for long. ‘Come and have a look,’ he said to Harriet. ‘Must say, it’s a splendid spread.’
Guy had found Ben Phipps, so Harriet went willingly to the dining-room where the hungry guests, packed about the buffet, were doing their best to hide their hunger.
Yakimov, crushed against Harriet, whispered: ‘Most of them were here on the dot. Usually it’s a case of first come, first served, but last time they’d wolfed the lot in the first fifteen minutes. S’pose there’ve been complaints. I recommend standing here beside the plates. Soon as we get the nod, grab one and lay about you.’
‘Where does it all come from?’ Harriet asked in wonder.
‘Mustn’t ask that, dear girl. Eat and be thankful. My God, look at that! Cream.’
As more people came in, those at the centre were so pressed against the buffet they could scarcely keep their feet.
Trembling in an agony of anticipation, Yakimov said to the butler: ‘Dear boy, there’ll be a riot soon.’ The butler began to look for the Major.
Harriet noticed Guy beckoning her to join him in the doorway. As she moved, Yakimov said: ‘Don’t go. Don’t go. They’re just about to give the word.’
‘I’ll come straight back.’
Guy gripped her wrist and said in fie
rce indignation: ‘Who do you think is here?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘The Japanese consul.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Ben pointed him out.’
Ben Phipps, standing behind Guy, looking more amused than indignant, said: ‘Last Christmas the Major invited the German minister, an old pal of his. He went round saying “What’s a war between friends?” The British diplomats were furious and Cookson got his knuckles rapped.’
Pulling Harriet from the room, Guy said: ‘Come on. We’re going.’
‘Not yet. Let’s eat first. And we haven’t seen anything.’ She looked round at the sumptuous dresses of the rich Greek women, the hot-house flowers, the laurel swags decorating the marble pillars and said: ‘I don’t want to go yet.’ As she spoke, she saw Charles Warden. He was looking at her and, catching her eye, took a step towards her. Impulsively, she moved away from Guy, who held to her, saying: ‘Get your coat. I’m not staying here.’
‘But we’re not at war with Japan.’
‘I won’t remain in the room with the representative of a Fascist Government. Besides, we’re due at Mrs Brett’s.’
Ben Phipps was looking the other way. Before Harriet could say more, Guy led her firmly to the alcove where she had left her coat. The Major, still welcoming the incoming guests, looked perplexed by the departure of the Pringles. ‘Surely you are not going so soon?’ he protested.
‘I am afraid we must,’ said Guy. ‘Mrs Brett has invited us to supper.’
‘Oh!’ The Major caught his breath in a snigger at the mention of Mrs Brett, but it was a peevish snigger. He could not bear that anyone, not even young people like Guy and Harriet, should leave his party to go to another.
They had scarcely entered the house when they were outside it again. Harriet, feeling as peevish as the Major, said: ‘Mr Facing-both-ways stayed on.’
‘Who?’
‘Your friend Phipps.’
‘You’re always wrong about people.’
‘I don’t think so. I never liked Dubedat and I was right. I was doubtful of Toby Lush …’
‘You’re doubtful of everyone.’
‘Well, you do pick up with the most doubtful sort of people.’
Guy made no reply to this but, keeping his hold on her, hurried her to the bus stop where a bus was preparing to depart. The bus carried them away but Harriet’s thoughts remained with the radiant dresses, the splendid villa – and with Charles Warden.
Mrs Brett’s flat on the slopes of Lycabettos was equipped with two small electric fires. Electric fires had become valuable possessions, not to be bought at any price now. The guests, delighted to find the rooms warm, were still discussing the fires when the Pringles arrived.
Mrs Brett was shouting in self-congratulation: ‘Aren’t I lucky! Yes, aren’t I lucky! The girls left them behind. I opened a cupboard and there they were. I thought: “What sensible girls to spend their pennies on things like this instead of silly fripperies.”’
Spreading her large-boned hands in front of one of the fires, she was shaking all over and nearly deranged at being the centre of so much attention. When the Pringles tried to speak to her, she pushed them aside and went to the kitchen where something was cooking.
The room was full of middle-aged and elderly guests, mostly women who had remained in Athens because they had no reason to go anywhere else. Harriet, seeing no one she knew, thought: ‘If we hadn’t come, we would not have been missed.’ They remained unwelcomed until Mrs Brett returned to the room. Becoming aware of them, she seized hold of Guy as though his arrival were a long-awaited event. ‘Attention,’ she called. ‘Attention. Now! I want you all to meet the new Chief Instructor at the English School: Mr Guy Pringle.’ This announcement was made with such impressement that there was a flutter of clapping before anyone had time to reflect and ask what it was all about. Mrs Brett, hand raised, stood for some moments rejoicing in their bewilderment, then decided to enlighten them. She said:
‘You all saw the announcement that Archie Callard was to be the new Director at the School! Perhaps you don’t all know that he isn’t the new Director after all? The appointment wasn’t confirmed. No. Lord Bedlington decided that Lord Pinkrose was better fitted to take charge in an important cultural centre like this, and I’m sure you all agree with him. Lord Pinkrose is somebody, not like … well, naming no names. Anyway, Lord Pinkrose was told to appoint Guy Pringle here as Chief Instructor; and do you know why?’ She grinned at the circle of blank faces, then turned on Guy: ‘Do you know why?’ Guy shook his head.
‘Does Lord Pinkrose know why?’
‘I don’t think he does,’ Guy said.
‘I’ll tell you why. I’ll tell you all why. I had a hand in it. Oh, yes, I had. My Percy had friends in high places. We knew a lot of people. The poor old widow’s still got influence. We knew Lord Bedlington years ago when he was just young Bobby Fisher, travelling around, and he used to stay with us at Kotor. He’s just been made Chairman of the Organization, and when I heard he was in Cairo, I sent him a letter. It was a strong letter, I can tell you. I let him know what’s been going on here. I let him know about Gracey and Callard and Cookson. I said we were all disgusted at the way the School had gone down; and I said things would be no better under Callard. I said Callard couldn’t run a whelk-stall. Yes, I said that. I don’t mince matters. And I said there was this nice young chap here, this Guy Pringle, and he was being discriminated against. I opened Bobby Fisher’s eyes, I can tell you. And the long and the short of it is, our friend Guy Pringle’s got the job he deserves.’ She lifted her hands above her head and applauded herself.
‘What an éclaircissement!’ said Miss Jay acidly. ‘Just like the last act of a pantomime.’ But whatever doubts she raised were dispelled by Guy who flung his arms round Mrs Brett saying: ‘Thank you. Thank you. You’re a great woman!’ He kissed her resolutely on either cheek.
Flushed, bright-eyed, gasping from her oration, Mrs Brett, not a little drunk, danced up and down in his arms, snapping her fingers to right and left, and shouting: ‘That for Gracey; and that for Callard! And that for the hidden hand of Phaleron! You can go and tell Cookson there’s life in the old girl yet!’
If she had caused embarrassment, Guy’s spontaneous and artless good nature had won the guests and the embarrassment went down in laughter. Everyone, even Miss Jay, joined Mrs Brett as she banged her hands together. Harriet, observant in the background watched the room converge round Guy while he looked to her, smiling, and held out his hand. He might have said: ‘You see how right I was to come here,’ but he said nothing. He merely wanted to include her in the fun.
The rumpus subsided when Mrs Brett shouted: ‘The hot-pot! The hot-pot!’ and ran back to the kitchen.
‘About time,’ said Miss Jay whose heavy cream wool dress with all its fringes hung lank upon her.
The lean times were telling on Miss Jay and her monstrous face had drooped into the sad, dew-lapped muzzle of a blood-hound. It was not only her flesh that had collapsed. Her malicious self-assertion had lost its force and her remarks made no impact at all.
Harriet knew now she could, if she wished, say anything she liked about English society in Athens. Miss Jay counted for little. Local society had shrunk like a balloon losing air and Miss Jay had shrunk with it. Harriet was free to speak as she pleased.
During the excitement of Mrs Brett’s speech, she had noticed Alan Frewen among the guests. Moving over to him, she asked: ‘Is Miss Jay a rich woman?’
Amused by this direct question, Alan said: ‘I believe she has a modest competence, as Miss Austen would say.’
‘A modest competence’ seemed to disclose Miss Jay. Harriet saw her with her modest competence, tackling the world and getting it under control; but the world had changed about her and now, an obsolete fortress, with weapons all out of date, there was not much due to her but pity.
Alan suggested that Harriet meet the painter Papazoglou who, young and bearded, in a
private’s uniform, was spread against the wall as though he would, if he could, sink through it and out of sight. Alan said that as everyone was doing something to enhance the Greek cause, Mrs Brett had proclaimed herself a patron of the arts and had placed the young man’s canvases round the room, calling attention to them with such vehemence that several people present were still under the impression she had painted them herself.
Papazoglou spoke no English so Harriet went round peering into the little paintings of red earth, dark foliage and figures scattered among the pillars and capitals of fallen temples. Much moved, she came back and said to Alan: ‘What can I do? Isn’t there any work for me?’
‘We’ve been given an office in the Grande Bretagne,’ he told her. ‘Now that we have more room, I’ll find you a job.’
A scent of stewed meat drifted out from the kitchen where Mrs Brett had been unpacking a case of borrowed plates. She came out shouting: ‘Supper’s ready,’ then explained how she had hired a taxi the day before and gone to Kifissia, having heard that a small landowner, taking advantage of the high prices, was killing off his goats for the festival. She could not find the landowner but she had been passed from one person to another and in the end had managed to buy a whole leg of kid. ‘And what do you think I’ve made? A real Lancashire hot-pot. I come from Lancashire, you know …’
While Mrs Brett talked, the smell of the hot-pot grew richer until Miss Jay broke in with: ‘Cut it short, Bretty. I’ll help you dish up.’
Miss Jay’s expression was avid as she spooned out the hot-pot. The plates were quickly emptied and Mrs Brett went round urging everyone to eat, saying: ‘Who’s for second helpings? Plenty more in the pot.’
Miss Jay was catching the last of the gravy in the spoon when a ring came at the front-door. Three women who had been detained at the bandage-rolling circle, walked in bright-faced, cold, hungry and ready to eat.
‘I forgot all about you,’ Mrs Brett said, ‘But never mind! There are some jolly nice buns for afters.’
Guy, appreciative of everything, handed back his plate with the remark that the hot-pot had been the best he had ever eaten.
The Balkan Trilogy Page 83
