The Balkan Trilogy (97 page)

Harriet said: ‘I’m sorry.’

‘You could have done nothing more fitting,’ Alan assured her. ‘The Greeks love gestures of that sort,’ and added: ‘As this is our first meeting since the ship sailed, let’s drink to the fact you’ve stayed in spite of everything. And, I think, wisely. It’s my belief we’ll see the weak overcome the strong, the victims overcome the despoilers.’

They drank and Harriet said: ‘Now, I suppose, Dubedat really is in charge?’

‘No,’ said Alan. ‘There was an interesting little incident at the party. With everyone watching, Gracey required Dubedat to return the letter that appointed him Acting-Director, having decided the School should close until a new Director be appointed.’

‘Still, Dubedat might be appointed Director.’

‘He might. Who can say? And here’s another contender for the title. Guy said he would like to meet him again.’

Ben Phipps, crossing University Street, had lost his cheerful air but, seeing Alan, he waved and hurried to the table. He looked over the company with an alert gaiety, but the disguise was carelessly assumed and the man himself seemed to be a long way behind his manner.

He said: ‘’Fraid I can’t stay long. I’m dining at Phaleron and I’ve had trouble with the car. Had to leave it at Psychico.’

‘I suppose you’ll have time for a drink,’ Alan said with an ironical sharpness that caused Phipps to try to connect with his genial mask. ‘Hey,’ he said, ‘don’t get shirty. I’m none too bright. I’ve still got a bit of a hangover as a result of the great Farewell.’

The two men were talking about Cookson’s party when Mrs Brett passed on her way into the café with her friend Miss Jay. She stopped to say she had just moved from the hotel.

‘I’ve a flat of my own now. I’ll be giving parties, you wait and see! Splendid parties. You’ll come, won’t you?’ she demanded of Alan, then jerked her head round to the Pringles: ‘And you two?’ She ignored Ben Phipps, who gazed over her head as though she were unknown to him. When she had finished describing the wonders of the new flat, she gave him a venomous glance and said: ‘So we’ve got rid of Gracey! I hear there were great rejoicings down at Phaleron! Obviously I wasn’t the only one glad to see the back of him.’

Taking this to himself, Phipps now turned to Miss Jay and asked smoothly: ‘How did you enjoy the Major’s party? I saw you having a good tuck-in at the buffet.’

For answer, Miss Jay and her white spinnaker swept ahead into the café, but Mrs Brett stood her ground and, stimulated by the presence of an enemy, talked with more than her usual excitement. ‘What about Lord Pinkrose?’ she asked. ‘I hope he didn’t go?’

Alan, standing unsteadily on his gouty foot, smiled in pain and embarrassment. ‘No, he didn’t go. He was a doubtful starter right up to the last, then he decided to stay in Athens. I think the news from the front was a deciding factor.’

‘Good for him.’ Mrs Brett spoke as though Pinkrose had shown some unusual courage in staying. ‘I’m told he’s in the running for the Directorship, and I hope he gets it. A scholar and a gentleman, that’s what’s needed here. There aren’t many of them. It’ll be a nice change to get one.’

She went at last and as the other men sat down, Phipps sank as though winded into his chair. His voice had grown weak. ‘I didn’t know Pinkrose was a candidate?’

‘He is, indeed.’

‘A
likely
candidate?’

‘Who knows? But he certainly courted Gracey. I was always seeing him slipping into the room with little gifts: a bottle of sherry, chocolates, a few flowers …’

‘Good heavens,’ said Harriet.

Alan laughed. ‘I shall never forget the sight of Pinkrose, smirking like a lover, with two tuberoses in his hand.’

Ben Phipps did not laugh, but looked at his watch.

Alan said: ‘I really asked you along because Pringle here would like to meet some of your young Greek friends: the left-wing group.’

‘Oh?’ Ben Phipps did not look at Guy. His black eye-dots dodged about behind his glasses as he said, with a glance at Alan: ‘I don’t see much of them nowadays.’

Eager for information, Guy asked: ‘I suppose they’re mostly students?’

‘Mostly, yes,’ Phipps said. ‘The older chaps’ll be in the army now.’ There was a pause while Guy looked expectant and Phipps, forced to make some concession, lifted a brow at Alan. He said: ‘You could take him to Aleko’s. They’re always there. Introduce him to Spiro, the fellow behind the bar; he’ll put him in touch.’

‘I could, I suppose,’ Alan reluctantly agreed.

Phipps looked at Guy for the first time and said by way
of explanation: ‘I haven’t been there for some time,’ then seeing a bus draw up, he jumped to his feet saying: ‘My bus. Goodbye for now,’ and hastened to catch it.

Looking after him, Alan said: ‘The Major usually sends his Delahaye in for favoured friends. I think poor Ben has reason to be nervous. And he seems to be shuffling off his left-wing affiliations.’

Turning on Guy, Harriet said suddenly: ‘Why shouldn’t you be Director?’

He looked at her in astonishment, then laughed as though she had made a joke.

‘Well, why not? You’re the only member of the Organization left in Athens. Pinkrose is a Cambridge don. He has no knowledge of Organization work.’

‘Darling, it’s out of the question.’ Guy spoke firmly, hoping to crush the suggestion at its inception.

‘But why?’

He explained impatiently: ‘I have not had the experience to be a Director. I was appointed as a junior lecturer. If I can get a lectureship here, I’ll be doing very well.’

‘You’ve had more experience than Phipps or Dubedat.’

‘If either were appointed – and I’m pretty sure neither will be – it would be a piece of disgraceful log-rolling. I’m having no part in it. I’m certainly not using this situation to get more than my due.’ Turning away from her, Guy spoke to Alan: ‘I’d like to go to that place Phipps mentioned.’

‘Aleko’s? We might go later, but …’ Alan looked for the waiter.

Twilight was falling; a cold wind had sprung up and people were leaving the outdoor tables. Alan said: ‘I was hoping you’d take supper with me?’ When Harriet smiled her agreement, he asked: ‘Is there any place you would like to go?’

‘Could we go to the Russian Club?’

Alan laughed. This, apparently, was a modest request and he said: ‘I’m sure we can. It’s called a club but no one is ever turned away.’

The club, a single room, had been decorated early in the
’twenties and never redecorated. As they entered, Alan said: ‘We might see Yakimov,’ and they saw him at once, seated at a small table, a plate of pancakes in front of him.

He lifted an eye and murmured affectionately: ‘Dear girl! Dear boys! Lovely to see you,’ but he did not really want to see them. While they stood beside him, he spread red caviare between the pancakes then gazed at the great sandwich with an absorbed and dedicated smile before pouring over it a jugful of sour cream.

‘You’re doing yourself proud,’ Alan said.

‘A little celebration!’ Yakimov explained. ‘Sold m’car, m’dear old Hispano-Suiza. German officer bought it in Bucharest. Thought I’d never get the money, but m’old friend Dobson brought me down a bundle of notes. Your Yak’s in funds, for once. Small funds, of course. Just a bit of Ready. Have to make it last a long time.’ He waited for them to move on. In funds, he had no need of friends. When he could buy his own food, he ate well and ate alone.

Alan and the Pringles sat in a bay window, looking out at the Acropolis fading into the last shadowy purple of twilight. They, too, had pancakes with red caviare and cream, and Harriet said: ‘Delicious.’

Guy was tolerant of the Russian Club. He was also tolerant of Alan Frewen. He could accept the fact that some of his friends were what he called ‘a-political’ just as some might be colour-blind. He would not blame Alan for his disability, but his slightly distracted manner made it clear that his mind was elsewhere. Harriet knew he was simply marking time until he could get to Aleko’s and meet those who thought as he did, but Alan had forgotten Aleko’s. Having invited them here, he was relaxed happily in his chair and wanted to make much of the meal. He looked as though he were settled there for the evening.

Guy, on edge to be gone, took it all patiently. Harriet took it with pleasure. Something about the place stirred an old, buried dream of security, a dream she had despised when she went to earn her living with the other unconventional
young in London. Then she would have repudiated with derision the idea of an orderly married life. She married for adventure.

In Bucharest once she had been amused when Yakimov said: ‘We’re in a nice little backwater here. We should get through the war here very comfortably,’ for she and Guy had set out expecting danger and not unprepared to die. Now after the perturbed months, the subterfuges and the long uncertainty, she knew she would be thankful to find a refuge anywhere. But the uncertainty was not over yet.

She said: ‘
Are
the Italians going to break through?’

‘Why?’ Alan laughed. ‘Do you want them to break through?’

‘No, but if we’re going to spend the winter here, we’ll have to get some heavy clothing. I left all mine in Bucharest and Guy brought nothing but books.’

‘You’ll certainly need a coat of some sort.’

Guy said: ‘Harriet can get a coat if she wants one, but I never feel the cold.’

‘
And
,’ said Harriet, ‘we’ll have to find somewhere to live.’

‘Nonsense,’ Guy said: ‘The hotel’s cheap and convenient.’ He would not waste time discussing clothes and homes; the important thing was to get the meal over. As Alan lifted the menu again, he said: ‘I don’t want anything more. If we’re going to Aleko’s, I think we ought to go.’

Still resistant, Alan looked at Harriet: ‘How would you like some baklava? I’m sure you would. I must say, I’d like some myself.’

Guy smiled while they ate their baklava, but Harriet, aware of his hidden longing to be gone, could not enjoy it. When Alan suggested coffee, she said: ‘Perhaps we ought to go. It’s getting late.’

‘Oh, very well.’ Alan eased himself up, groaning, and as he balanced on his feet, he gave a slow, dejected salute to the sideboard on which the coffee cona stood. Seeing the disappointment beneath the humour, Harriet, who had felt the need to indulge Guy, now felt resentful of his impatience
to be elsewhere. She decided she would not go to Aleko’s. Bored by politics, she was becoming less willing to accept Guy’s chosen companions in order to gain Guy’s company.

Yakimov had also finished supper. Lounging in an old basket-chair, over which he had spread his sable-lined greatcoat, he was sipping a glass of Kümmel.

‘Whither away?’ he asked, more alive to their departure than he had been to their arrival.

Alan said: ‘We’re going to Aleko’s.’

‘Indeed, dear boy! And where is that?’

‘Behind Omonia Square. A little café, patronized by progressives. Like to come?’

‘Think not. Not quite
simpatico
. Not quite the place for your poor old Yak.’

They had to walk to Constitution Square in search of a taxi and, as he limped along, Alan suggested more than once that Aleko’s might be left for another night. Guy would not hear of it. Seeing a taxi pass the top of the square, he pursued and caught it and brought it back.

Giving him no time to over-persuade her, Harriet now said: ‘I won’t come. I’m going back to the hotel to bed.’

‘Just as you like. I won’t be late.’ Guy, bouncing to be off, caught Alan’s arm and pulled him into the taxi before he, too, could excuse himself; then, slamming the door shut, he shouted: ‘Aleko’s. Omonia Square.’

Watching the taxi drive off, Harriet marvelled at Guy’s vigour and determination in the pursuit of his political interests. Why could he not bring as much to the furtherance of his own career. He was eager – too eager, she sometimes thought – to give, to assist, to sympathize, to work for others, but he had little ambition for himself.

When she first met him, she had imagined he needed nothing but opportunity; now she began to suspect he did not want opportunity. He did not want to be drawn into rivalry. He wanted amusement. He also wanted his own way, and, to get it, could be as selfish as the next man. But he was always justified. Yes, he was always justified. If he had no
other justification, he could always fall back on some morality of his own.

She walked despondently back to the hotel, beginning to fear that he was a man who in the end would achieve little. He would simply waste himself.

PART TWO

9

One evening, in the steel-blue chill of the November twilight, the church bells began to ring. They had been silent for nearly a month. No bell in Greece would sound while one single foreign invader remained on Greek soil. Now the whole of Athens was vibrant with bells. People came running into the streets, crying aloud in their joy, and when Harriet went out to the landing, she heard the chambermaids shouting to one another from floor to floor.

The Italians had been driven back. The Greeks had crossed the Albanian frontier. Greek guns were trained on the Albanian town of Koritza and Greek shells were falling in the streets. All that had happened, but the bells had not rung. What could have caused them to ring now?

Harriet threw up the landing window and looked out in search of an answer. One of the chambermaids, seeing her there, shouted to her in Greek. When Harriet shook her head to show she did not understand, the girl lifted a hand and slapped it down on the window-sill: ‘Koritza,’ she shouted. ‘Koritza.’

So Koritza had fallen. It was a victory. The first Greek victory of the war. As Harriet laughed and clapped her hands, the girl caught her about the waist and swung her round in a near hysteria of delight.

Outside it was almost dark but the black-out was forgotten. The Italians were much too busy now to take advantage of a few lighted windows. Someone began speaking on the wireless. The voice, rapid, emotional, pitched in triumph, began coming from all the lighted windows and doorways, and people in the streets cheered whenever the word ‘Koritza’ was spoken. Another voice came very loud from the square, speaking over an uproar of shouting, music, applause, with the bells pealing above it all. Harriet could not bear to stay in, but was afraid to go out for fear that Guy would return for her.