The Balkan Trilogy (121 page)

His size helped him to an appearance of good nature. But would his good nature stand up to the test? It might be nothing more than the
bonhomie
of an experienced man who knew what would serve him best. She did not hope to uncover the truth about Tandy. Time was too short. He had arrived in a hurry, was hurriedly adopted as a prodigy and as hurriedly dropped. Whatever the truth might be, she suspected he had adapted himself so often to so many different situations, he had lost touch with his real self. But what did it matter? With Tandy as her chaperon, she could sit and watch the world go by.

As she expected, Charles walked past. He had said she would never see him again, but while they remained in one community, they must meet; and, meeting, she knew they would be drawn together.

He noticed Tandy first, then saw that Harriet was with Tandy. He looked away and did not look back.

Next day, he reappeared. This time, he eyed her obliquely and smiled to himself, amused at the company she was keeping.

The third time she saw him, Yakimov and Alan were present.

Alan called: ‘Hey!’ and held out his stick. Charles stopped, growing slightly pink, and talked to Alan while Harriet devoted herself to Tandy and Yakimov. The discussion at an end, Charles went off without giving her a glance.

‘I was having a word about the Pendeli walk,’ said Alan.

‘The Pendeli walk?’ Harriet asked in a light, high voice.

‘You are coming, aren’t you?’

‘Of course. But is Charles coming?’

‘He’ll come if he can.’

The rest of the party would be Alan, Ben Phipps and the
Pringles. Alan now suggested that Yakimov and Tandy should join them. Yakimov looked at Tandy, the globe-trotter, and Tandy shook his head. Yakimov echoed this refusal: ‘Your old Yak’s not up to it.’

As the sun grew warmer, Tandy threw off his coat, but kept it safely anchored by the weight on his backside. With an identical gesture, Yakimov threw off his own coat, saying to Tandy: ‘Did I ever tell you, dear boy, the Czar gave this greatcoat to m’poor old dad?’

‘You’ve mentioned it …’ Tandy paused, grunted and added: ‘… repeatedly. Um, um. Right royal wrap-rascal, eh?’

Yakimov smiled.

His coat-lining, moulting, brittle and parting at the seams, had been described by Ben Phipps as: ‘Less like sable than a lot of down-at-heel dock rats wiped out by cholera,’ but Yakimov saw no fault in it. He had a coat like Tandy’s coat. Tandy, globe-trotter and secret agent, owning a crocodile wallet stuffed with 100-drachma notes, was Yakimov’s secret Yakimov. Tandy, too, had a coat lined with – whatever was it?

‘Wanted to ask you, dear boy,’ Yakimov asked: ‘What kind of fur is that you’ve got inside?’

‘Pine marten.’

Yakimov nodded his approval. ‘Very nice.’

He would have spent the day at Tandy’s elbow had he not had to earn a living elsewhere. Gathering himself together, he would say: ‘Have to go, dear boy. Must tear myself away. Must do m’bit.’ Departing, he would sigh, but he was proud of his employment. He liked Tandy to know that he was in demand.

As the British troops went, sent away with flowers and cheers, the camps closed down and Yakimov was no longer neded to play Maria. There was still talk of a ‘Gala Performance’ to aid the Greek fighting men, but Pinkrose had complained to the Legation. Dobson telephoned Guy with the advice: ‘Better let the show rest for a bit.’ Yakimov, resting, still talked of his Maria that had been
un succès fou
and his
Pandarus which he had played to ‘all the quality and gentry of Bucharest’.

But these triumphs were in the past; his job at the Information Office lived on. ‘Lord Pinkrose needs me,’ he would say. ‘Feel I should give the dear boy a helping hand.’

When he saw Harriet installed in the News Room, Pinkrose said ‘Monstrous!’ but he said it under his breath. After that he always seemed too busy to notice she was there.

He had said no more about leaving Greece. He had accepted Alan’s reassurances and was apparently unaware that the revolution had cancelled them out. He may not have known there had been a revolution. The news did not interest him. He had time now for nothing but his lecture that would, he told Alan, be given early in April. The exact date could not be announced until a suitable hall was found. Alan was required to find a hall and Pinkrose came hourly into the News Room to ask: ‘Well, Frewen, what luck?’

Alan’s task was not an easy one. Most of the halls in Athens had been requisitioned by the services. The hall attached to the English church was much too small. Alan recommended the University but Pinkrose said he wanted the lecture to be a social rather than a pedagogical occasion.

He said: ‘I cannot see the beautiful ladies of Athens turning up in the company of students. It would be too … too “unsmart”.’

‘If you want that sort of occasion,’ Alan said, ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you. I haven’t the right connections. You’d do better on your own.’

‘Now, now, no heel-taps, Frewen! Soldier on. Myself, as you well know, have other things to do.’

When Pinkrose came in again, he found Alan had no more suggestions to make. He said crossly: ‘You’re being unhelpful, Frewen. Yes, yes, unhelpful. I’ll go to Phaleron. I’ll appeal to the Major.’

‘An excellent idea!’

Pinkrose stared at Alan’s large, sunken, expressionless face,
then went angrily to the Billiard Room. A little later a taxi called for him. He set out, fully wrapped, for Phaleron.

All the Major could offer was his own garden, but it was, Pinkrose said, ‘glorious with spring’, and in the end he accepted it. He announced the arrangements to Alan, saying: ‘The lecture will be combined with a garden party. There will be a buffet luncheon for the guests. I think I can safely say, knowing the Major, that it will be a sumptuous affair. Yes, yes, a sumptuous affair. I am an experienced speaker, not daunted by the open air; and it’s in the Greek tradition, Frewen; the tradition of the Areopagus and the Pnyx. Oh yes! the Major has been very kind. As I expected, of course. As I expected.’ Pinkrose sped away, to return fifteen minutes later, his voice hoarse with excitement: ‘I have decided, Frewen; yes, I have decided. I will give my lecture on the first Sunday in April.’

Alan gave a sombre nod. When Pinkrose went, he returned to his work, not meeting the eyes of Harriet or Yakimov. In a minute Pinkrose was back again. ‘I think the list should be left to the Major. The Major must compile it with my help, needless to say.’

The list took so long to compile there was no time to have the invitation cards engraved and Pinkrose refused to have them printed. They had to be written out. Pinkrose suggested that those for persons of importance should be written by Alan. The cards were placed on Alan’s desk but remained untouched until Pinkrose took them away and wrote them himself. Invitations for persons of less importance were written by Miss Gladys. The rest were typed by Miss Mabel after attempts proved that neither Yakimov nor Miss Mabel could write a legible hand.

‘Frewen,’ said Pinkrose, when at last the piles of envelopes were complete, ‘I want them delivered on the bicycle. One can’t trust these Athens post-boxes. Anyway, hand delivery is more fitting. It gives a better impression; and they will arrive in time.’

‘How many are there?’

‘About two hundred. Not more. Well, not
many
more.’

‘They could go with a News Sheet.’

‘Oh, no. No, Frewen,
no
. A letter handed in with a News Sheet could be overlooked. Besides, it is quite a different list. There will be English guests, but it is essentially a Greek occasion. Some of the names are very distinguished indeed. It calls for a special delivery.’

‘Very well.’

Yakimov, half asleep during this conversation, did not grasp its import until the office boy handed him the envelopes and the list. He accepted the task without complaint but looking through the list, cried in dismay: ‘He hasn’t invited me.’

Yakimov had always treated Pinkrose with deference. When a detractor mentioned him derisively, Yakimov might smile but it was an uneasy smile and if there was laughter he would glance round fearful that Pinkrose might be in their midst. ‘Distinguished man, though,’ he would say. ‘Must admit it. Scholar and gent, y’know. Aren’t many of them.’ He went through the list again, finding the names of Alan Frewen and both Twocurrys, but still no mention of his own. So there was no reward for deference and defence! He brooded over his omission until Alan looked at the clock and said: ‘You’d better get under way.’

Yakimov pulled himself together. He began sorting the cards into batches, then suddenly wailed: ‘There’s one for Roger Tandy! Suppose he sees me delivering it! What will he think?’

‘I’m going to the Corinthian,’ Alan said. ‘I’ll leave it in.’

‘And … Oh dear, it isn’t fair! I’ve got to go all the way to Phaleron to leave cards on Lush and Dubedat.’

‘Get on with it. There’s a rumour that Dubedat’s appearing as Lord Byron. You might get a look in at the dress rehearsal.’

But Yakimov was not to be amused. He put the batches for delivery into his satchel and went without a word.

The Sunday of the lecture was the day of the Pendeli walk. Harriet said to Alan: ‘So you won’t be coming?’

‘Oh yes, I will. We’re going to Pendeli to welcome the spring. I’d rather take Diocletian for a walk than listen to Pinkrose.’

Charles was also invited to the lecture. Harriet hoped he, too, would choose to come to Pendeli – if he were still in Athens to make the choice.

Yakimov, on his old upright bicycle, laboured three days to deliver the invitations. He could not avoid being seen as he went round the town with his brim-broken panama pulled down like a disguise about his eyes. Tandy watched him unmoved. When Yakimov returned to the office, tear-stained from grief and exhaustion, he threw the list on to Alan’s desk.

‘What a way to treat poor Yaki!’ he said.

27

Sunday was fine. Stepping out into early morning, the Pringles heard the sirens. They stood on the doorstep, listening for the raid. The sky was clear. The sun warm. A bee came down the lane, blundering from side to side as though making the first excursion of its life. Its little burr filled the Sunday quiet a while, then faded into the distance. There was no other noise. The silence held for a couple of minutes, then the all-clear rose.

It was not until they reached the centre of Athens that they realized there was something wrong. It was a brilliant day, a feast day of the church, yet people, standing about in their Sunday clothes, had mourning faces or made gestures of anger or agitated inquiry. They were gathered outside the Kapnikarea, the men in dark suits, the women with black veils over their hair, as though distracted from worship by news of some cataclysmic act of nature.

The Pendeli party was meeting outside the Corinthian where Roger Tandy sat eating his breakfast in the morning sunlight. Yakimov had already joined him. Ben Phipps and Alan, standing by, moved to meet the new arrivals as though they could not wait to deliver their dire news.

Germany had declared war on Greece. The night before, a German broadcast in Greek had spoken of a raid, the like of which the world had never seen before: a gigantic, decisive raid that would wipe out the central authority of the victim country and permit the invading army to advance unhindered through confusion. They had not mentioned the name of the threatened city. Everyone believed it would be Athens, yet the
blue, empty sky remained empty. The sirens had announced not a raid but the fact that Greece was at war with Germany.

The Pendeli party joined Roger Tandy and watched him as he spread quince jelly on a little, hard, grey piece of bread.

What should they do? Could they go to Pendeli at such a time? It might look as though they were fleeing Athens in alarm. Yet, if they remained, what was there for them? There was no point in sitting about all day waiting for destruction. They decided to delay their decision until Charles Warden turned up.

In a quavering, suffering voice, Yakimov asked: ‘Do you think they’ll hold that garden party at Phaleron?’

‘Why not?’ said Phipps. ‘The world hasn’t come to an end.’

No one agreed with him. They sat waiting round the table in the delicate spring sunlight, in the midst of a city that seemed to be holding its breath, poised for the end.

Yakimov, looking thoughtful and melancholy, said nothing more until, suddenly, he leant towards Harriet and said: ‘Dear girl! Saw rather a remarkable sight. Quite remarkable, in fact. Haven’t seen anything like it for years.’

‘Oh, what?’

‘Just round the corner. Come and see. I’d like to take another look.’

Though her curiosity was roused by his unusual fervour, Harriet did not move until Guy said: ‘Go and see. You can tell us about it when you get back.’

Yakimov led her into Stadium Street and came to a stop at Kolokotroni where a man sat on his heels in the gutter with some objects arranged on the kerb before him.

‘What are they? Beans?’

‘Bananas,’ Yakimov said eagerly.

The bananas, very green and marked with black, were about two inches in length – but they were bananas. Harriet wondered how the vendor came to have a banana palm and how far he had walked to bring his rare and valuable fruit into Athens for the feast-day. Seeing the two foreigners, he shifted on his hunkers and prepared to speak, but was afraid of speaking too soon.

‘Haven’t tasted one for years,’ Yakimov said. ‘Never seemed to see them in the Balkans. They’re a luxury here. Was wondering if you’d care to possess yourself of them.’

When living with the Pringles in Bucharest, Yakimov often suggested that Harriet should buy something he had seen and envied in the shops. His penury there had been an established fact, but now she said: ‘Why don’t you buy them yourself?’

Nonplussed, Yakimov murmured: ‘I suppose I
could
. Don’t think I want to.’ He bent closer and peered at the bananas in an agony of greed and caution, then came to a decision. ‘Rather have an ouzo.’ He turned away.

The vendor sighed and sank back on his heels and Harriet, pitying him, offered him a small coin. The man, surprised, jerked up his chin in refusal. He was not a beggar.