Strangers in Company (5 page)

“Yes.” His smile made it the fullest compliment.

“Inedible,” said a loud voice in the middle of the room.

It caused a small, uncomfortable silence, through which broke another voice from the far side of the room. “The museum,” it was saying. “Did you know that Mercury is Hermes, and Hermes means death?”

“Nonsense.” The American's voice was the loudest of many that hurried into the uneasy silence.

“Of course.” Cairnthorpe agreed gratefully. “Hermes merely guides the dead to the underworld. They must have been looking at funeral steles.”

“How jolly!” Stella was crushing. “Isn't education wonderful?”

After that, not even the bland wine and a savoury dish
of chicken, followed by the best oranges Marian had ever tasted, could revive the conversation at their table. Stella refused an orange, pushed her chair back suddenly and rose. “I've a filthy headache.” She ignored the two men. “I don't think I'll come to Sounion. See you at dinner?” She was gone, threading her way deftly through the crowded room.

“Oh, dear.” Marian looked after her doubtfully.

“Don't.” Edvardson answered the questions she had been asking herself. “We're all tired. She'll be better off on her own.”

“Yes. I'm so sorry.…”

“No need,” he said comfortably. “Let's have some coffee. Will you risk Turkish, Mrs. Frenche, or play safe with the inevitable Nescafé?”

“Oh, I'll try the Turkish.” She was wondering whether she, too, could decently withdraw from the Sounion expedition when Edvardson forestalled her.

“Count me out for this afternoon, by the way,” he told Cairnthorpe. “I'm going to hire me a cab and go out to Marathon. It's a place I've always wanted to visit. Besides, I've an idea I might spot a marsh harrier there.”

“Oh, yes—quite so.” Cairnthorpe looked at once baffled and disappointed, like a hostess confronted by a recalcitrant guest. “You'll be coming?” He turned to Marian.

“Yes, indeed.” She could not find it in her heart to do it to him again. “In fact, I'd better be getting ready. What do Miss Marten and I owe you, Mr. Edvardson?” She dealt firmly with his suggestion that the wine and coffee were “on him,” paid their modest share of drachmae and left the two men together.

A considerably diminished party assembled outside the hotel at two o'clock, and Marian began to put names to faces. The schoolteachers were all there, cheerfully calling each other Pam, Sue, Meg and so on, and so was the Civil Service Mrs. Duncan, recognisable now by her neat grey bun and air of quiet authority. There was a rather odd honeymoon couple, too, whom Marian had noticed earlier because their name was Adams, and they had been
the first to get their keys. A sullen-looking man, he was old enough to be his wife's father, and Marian could only suppose that he had fallen hopelessly for that chocolate-box prettiness of hers. Certainly, there was something paternal as well as devoted about the way he carried the extraordinary collection of cardigan, scarf, camera and even umbrella that she found necessary for this short excursion.

It was not, in fact, so short as Marian had expected, and she found herself wishing passionately that she had not given way to her ridiculous feeling of sympathy for Cairnthorpe. But at least she had a seat on the bus to herself, since a good many of the tour's middle-aged, nameless ladies must be sleeping off their journey. Mr. Hilton was absent, too, but Marian managed to avoid his wife's hopeful eye, and settle herself to doze for a good deal of the long, hot drive, waking from time to time for a breathtaking panorama of cliff and sea or, once, a dreary industrial development that could have been anywhere in the world. At last, a little ripple of excitement through the bus brought her wide awake to see white columns on the promontory ahead and know that it had been worth coming. The sleep had done her good, and as the bus swept up the last incline, she divided her attention between the road ahead, the wide prospect of sea on the right and, nearer, the purple and gold embroidery of small flowers along the rock-strewn hillside.

The bus stopped at last, and Marian, waiting for the first outward rush to be over, saw a dauntingly crowded hillside and remembered that it was Sunday afternoon. Naturally Sounion would be a weekend resort for city-pent Athenians. There were other buses, too, behind and in front, letting out their polyglot complement of tourists. Her own was almost empty now, and she rose, stiff and tired again, to move forward. The rest of the party were strung out up the hillside, and she fixed her attention on Cairnthorpe's light-coloured jacket as he hurried ahead, presumably to buy their tickets at the entrance to the site. It was only after they had all filed through the gate and
started up the hill towards the shining temple that she realised that he was not coming with them.

“We seem to be on our own.” Mrs. Hilton, limping along in her high heels, turned and caught sight of Marian. “No guide, no instructions, nothing!”

“He had no sleep, poor man.” Looking back, Marian saw that Cairnthorpe had settled himself in the shade of a rock. “But it's true. How do we know when to get back to the bus?”

“I asked him.” Mrs. Hilton was pleased with herself. “An hour, he said, and would I tell the others? I ask you! I'm not doing his job for him.”

“We could tell anyone who asks.”

“Well, of course!” She turned her ankle and swore. “Look at the kiddies picking the flowers! They oughtn't to be let.”

Marian had been thinking very much the same thing, but found herself demurring. “There are so many.”

“Kids? Or flowers?”

“Well.” She looked around. “Both, in fact. I say.” She paused and drew a long breath. “Isn't it splendid!”

“Poseidon.” Mrs. Hilton was reading her guidebook. “Is that how you pronounce it? Magnificent temple … twelve standing columns. Pericles had it built.” She pronounced him to rhyme with icicles. “Ooh, I say, Lord Byron—you know, the wicked one—carved his name on one of the pillars. I must see that.”

“I do call that wicked.” Marian bent and pretended to retie a shoelace. It was bad enough to see her first Greek temple in these horribly crowded conditions. She drew the line at Mrs. Hilton's company. Luckily, the schoolmistresses, who had come up by a detour, joined her at this point and stopped to ask if she knew when they were due back at the bus. Telling them, she was relieved to see Mrs. Hilton plunge on ahead, buttonhole a postcard seller on the steps of the temple, then climb purposefully up them.

She herself moved round to the seaward side of the temple and then climbed up from there to gaze, entranced,
through white pillars out across still, blue sea to a distant island. “
Bitte
.” The polite voice roused her, and she moved aside to make way for an eager young photographer. It was no use; the temple was too crowded to be enjoyed. She made her way a little sadly down the steps and followed one of the rambling cliffside paths through beds of yellow and purple vetch. Farther from Athens, she thought, it would be better. And at least, even here, there was the blessing of the hot sun. She found a sheltered corner among the rocks and sat down to bask. When she closed her eyes voices from the temple above blurred into indistinguishable background music; she could almost pretend that she heard the sound of the sea on the rocks below. It would be pleasant to climb down for a closer look. But once again the extraordinary sensation of peace and freedom was stealing over her. Bless you, Poseidon, she thought, and stayed where she was.

Half-sleeping, half-waking, utterly relaxed, she let time ebb by, until the sound of familiar voices roused her. It was the schoolmistresses climbing cheerfully back up from what they described as very nearly sea level. “The flowers are even better down there,” said one. “I wish I'd brought my book.”

“I know. It's maddening. I don't know why one wants to know their names, but one does.” Marian looked at her watch. “Time to be getting back to the bus, I suppose.” She followed them slowly, feeling incredibly older as she listened to their lighthearted nonsense. One last look at the temple, and she turned down the hill towards the gates. But where was the bus? Ahead of her, the schoolmistresses were asking each other the same question. They turned to wait for her. “You did say an hour, Mrs. Frenche?”

“Yes.” How pleasantly characteristic that they had learned her name already. “At least, that's what Mrs. Hilton told me.”

“They
can't
have left us all behind.” It was almost a wail, from a girl who looked young enough to be still at school herself.

“No, of course not.” Marian made it sound more
certain than she felt, horrified visions of getting them all back to Athens dancing in her mind. “Oh, look!” They were out of the gate now, and there was no need to pretend relief as she pointed down to a second car park on their left. “It must have moved down there.”

The found Mr. Cairnthorpe trying anxiously to make sure that they were, in fact, the last. Since he had neglected to count them before they separated, this was no easy matter, but finally they were reasonably certain that no one's neighbour from the ride out was missing. Marian closed her eyes as the bus moved out into the road, grateful that Stella was not there with one of her devastating comments.

She had congratulated herself too soon. Mrs. Hilton, who had dozed peacefully enough across the aisle on the way up, now rose and came swaying across to join her. “Room for little me?” It was all to obviously a rhetorical question. “I don't know about you, but I get sick of being on my own. George has gone back to look for those espadrilles,” she explained. “The shop was actually shut when he went this morning. It's lucky we can charge the taxis up to Mercury Tours.” She giggled. “Funny about it meaning death, wasn't it? You could have heard a pin drop in that dining room.”

“It doesn't really.” Marian repeated Cairnthorpe's explanation, grateful that they were far enough back in the bus so that there was no chance of his hearing. She had already noticed that sound tended to travel backwards on the bus. You heard mainly the conversation of the couple directly in front of you, and even that spasmodically.

She was more grateful still for this when Mrs. Hilton plunged into a ruthless cross-examination. Was she enjoying herself? Was Miss Marten an old friend? And then, inevitably, “No children of your own, love?”

Once again, the wound opened and bled. “Oh, yes.” Marian, who had fended off the previous questions, kept her voice steady. “Twins, in fact But they're grown up now.”

“Grown up!” Amazed. “You don't look nearly old enough!”

“Thank you.” Had there really been a time when she had laughed about that mad seventeen-year-old marriage, convinced that the twins would make up for everything?

“You must have married out of the cradle. I don't know what your mum was thinking of. But come on, love, how old are they really?”

“Eighteen. It's grown up these days. After all, they can vote.” And make up their own minds to live with their father in America.

“Crazy, I think. But weren't you lucky to have twins first off? Two for the price of one, I always say. What are they? Girls or boys? Or one of each?”

“One of each.” If she kept to monosyllables, perhaps the remorseless probing would stop.

Forlorn hope. “Aren't you worried, leaving them on their own? Or are they safe with their dad?” It was a remarkable compendium of questions rolled into one.

But at least it was capable of as comprehensive an answer. “Yes,” said Marian, “that's just where they are.” Thank God the name “Frenche” was a fairly common one, and the publicity about Mark and the twins eighteen years old, like the twins themselves. She shut her eyes, hoping to fend off further questions, and the headlines danced in front of her, as they had through many a sleepless night in the past. “All for love! Pop idol abandons twins. ‘I must follow my star,' says Mark Frenche.” But it was a new star. Marian's thoughts went the old dreary round. Mark and his manager had been clever, no doubt about it, and she had been incredibly stupid. Coming back from the pre-natal clinic, she had actually thought Mark would be pleased with her news.

“Twins?” She would never forget his look of horror or the appalling conversations that followed. Twins, it appeared, would be fatal to his “image.” A teen-age idol with twins? It had a built-in absurdity. He explained it to her, first patiently, then with rising heat, finally calling in his manager to “make her see reason.”

Reason, it appeared, was an abortion or, when she pointed out that it was too late for that, even if she were prepared to consider it, a secret birth and adoption. Curious to think that when she fought for the twins' lives, she had been no older than they were now. The end had been inevitable. When she refused to budge, Mark had left her, as publicly as possible apparently for one of the glossy young females who filled his world. It had been a “Great Romance” in the gossip columns; the unborn twins well lost for love. Interviewed, Mark had bared his heart to a sympathetic press. Naturally, that famous heart was breaking at the thought of leaving his wife and prospective family, but he must follow his star, and she led westwards. Predictably, when he was safely re-established on the other side of the Atlantic, that particular star, having served her purpose, had set. Meanwhile, the twins had been born, and he had been quoted again. All he had was theirs. Was it too much to hope that they would be called Sebastian and Viola?

Mrs. Hilton was asking something. Marian roused herself. “Viola and Sebastian,” she said.

“Ooh, how romantic,” said Mrs. Hilton. The interrogation showed every sign of continuing until Athens, but Marian had had enough and pleaded headache.

“I thought you looked a bit ropey.” Mrs. Hilton's sympathy flowed as freely as her questions, but at last she lapsed into blessed silence, and Marian had time to be grateful that even the twins' names had called up no old association and to wonder, vaguely, who was sitting silently behind them, no doubt hearing everything they said.