The Balkan Trilogy (93 page)

Gracey now lay back as though the interview had wearied him. The Pringles, despondent, were not much company and they felt he was waiting in the hope of better.

Harriet said: ‘This is a pleasant room.’

Gracey looked at it doubtfully: ‘Rather comfortless, wouldn’t you say? A student’s room. This was a hostel for the young, of course. So cold in winter. And the cooking’s dreadful.’

Gracey’s complaints went on while Harriet looked round the vast, bare room in envy. The sun was low and the windows were in shadow, but outside the sunlight still trickled, like an amber cordial, beneath the olive trees. The distant glow was refracted into the room so the twilight about them was as tawny as the glitter in apatite.

This, she thought, was the room for her. The unpolished floorboards, the dusty herbal scent and the space, made more spacious by the vistas of garden, seemed familiar. For a moment she knew where she had encountered it before, then the knowledge was gone. As she pursued it through memories of childhood books, a noise recalled her.

Someone opened the door. Gracey, revivified at once, sat up and cried: ‘Archie, what a joy!’

A young man entered the room with a shy aloof smile, sidling in as though he knew himself more than welcome and wanted to counter the fact by apparent diffidence.

Gracey said to Harriet: ‘This is Archie Callard,’ then, seeing there was a second visitor following the first, added in a tone of anti-climax: ‘And this is Ben Phipps.’

Both men noted the Pringles as they might note people whom they had heard discussed. Ben Phipps stared with frank curiosity, but Callard gave no more than an appraising glance hidden at once in a show of indifference.

‘Where is the Major?’ Gracey eagerly asked.

Callard murmured in an off-hand way: ‘Gone to a party. He’ll come later.’

It was clear to the Pringles that they had been detained on view for Gracey’s friend. Once introduced, they could take a back seat and they were in no mood to do much else. Guy, usually stimulated by new acquaintances, sat silent, his glass held like a mask at the level of his lips. Harriet tried to accept the situation by detaching herself from it and watching the company as she would watch a play.

At first sight she could see no more reason for Callard’s welcome than Phipps’s lack of it. Callard was the better looking, of course, but Phipps had vitality and a readiness to please. When asked to pour drinks ‘like a good fellow’, he went at the task with a will. Perhaps he was over-ready. If that were a fault, it was not one of which Callard was guilty. He threw himself at full length on one of the two beds and when Gracey questioned him further about the Major’s whereabouts, did not trouble to reply.

Phipps gave the answers, only too eager to be heard. When the drinks had been handed round, he placed himself in the middle of the room, somehow extruding his personality, prepared to talk.

Addressing him as someone who knew, Gracey asked: ‘What’s the news from the front? Is anything happening up there?’

Phipps, short, thick-boned, with mongrel features and a black bristle of hair, sat forward on his strong, thick haunches and said in a decided voice: ‘Not much news. Town’s full of rumours, but no one knows anything.’

Archie Callard, muffled by the pillow, said: ‘The Italians’ll be here tomorrow – and that’s no rumour.’

Gracey jerked his head round and said reproachfully: ‘That’s not funny, Archie.’

‘It’s not meant to be funny. They crossed the frontier at six a.m. They’re making for Athens. What’s to stop them coming straight down?’

Gracey turned in appeal to Phipps: ‘Surely there’ll be some resistance? Metaxas said they would resist.’

Phipps, staring at his host, had an air of obliging good humour that came from the fact his gaze was neutralized by a pair of very thick, black-rimmed glasses. Harriet, viewing him from the side, could see, behind the pebbled lens, an observant eye that was black and hard as coal.

‘Oh, they’ll resist, all right,’ said Phipps. ‘Submission is all against the Greek tradition. They’re a defiant people and they’ll resist to the end, but …’ Having started out with the intention of reassuring Gracey, he was now led by his informed volubility into a far from reassuring truth. ‘They’ve got no arms. Old Musso’s been preparing for months, but the Government here’s done damn all. They saw the war coming and they just sat back and let it come. Half of them are pro-German, of course. They want things over quickly. They want a Greek collapse and an Axis victory …’

Guy, his attention caught by this criticism of the Metaxas Government, watched him with an intent interest, but Gracey, more mindful of the particular than the general, moved uneasily in his chair and at last broke in to protest:

‘Really, Ben! You’re trying to frighten me. You both are. I know you’re just being naughty, but it’s too bad. I’m an invalid. I’m in great pain when I walk. I couldn’t get any distance without help. If the Italians march in, you can take to your heels. But what can I do?’

Phipps gave a guff of laughter. ‘We’re all in the same boat,’ he said. ‘If there’s a ship of some sort, we’ll see you get away all right. If there isn’t, none of us’ll get far. The Italians will blow up the Corinth Canal bridge and here we’ll be –
stuck
!’

‘Why worry?’ Callard sat up, laughing. With auburn hair too long, mouth too full, eyes too large, he looked spoilt and entrancing, and conscious of being both. ‘The Italians are charming and they’ve always been very nice to me.’

‘I don’t doubt,’ Gracey said in a petulant tone. ‘But times have changed. They’re Fascists now, and they’re the enemy. They’re not going to be very nice to a crowd of civilian prisoners.’ The reality of war, touching him for the first time, was
shattering his urbanity. He frowned at Ben Phipps, who may have been aware of his fears but too roused by the situation to be impeded by them.

‘I must say,’ said Phipps, ‘I like the idea of Metaxas coming down to see Grazzi in a bath-robe. It was about three-thirty. The ultimatum gave the Greeks about two and a half hours to hand over lock, stock and barrel. Metaxas said: “I couldn’t hand over my house in that time, much less my country.” I’ve never had much use for him but I must admit he’s put up a good show this time.’

‘Yes, but what am I to do?’ Gracey asked impatiently. ‘I’ve got to get to Beirut for treatment.’

The boasted ‘priority flight’ forgotten, he was twitching with so much nervous misery that Harriet could not but feel sorry for him. She said: ‘I’ve heard there’s to be an evacuation boat. It’s for women and children but I’m sure …’

‘Women, children and invalids,’ Archie Callard interrupted. ‘Don’t worry, Colin. The Major will get you safely away. He’ll fix it.’

Gracey subsided and his smile returned. ‘One certainly can rely on the Major.’ As a tap came on the door, he added happily: ‘And here’s the man himself.
Entrez, Entrez
.’

Pinkrose entered.

‘Oh, it’s Lord Pinkrose.’ Gracey greeted him without enthusiasm.

Pinkrose did not notice how he was greeted. Trotting across the room, he nodded to Callard and Phipps, ignored the Pringles, and began at once: ‘I’m worried, Gracey; I’m extremely worried. We’re at war – but perhaps you know? You do? Well, I went up to the Legation to ask about my repatriation. I could have spoken to Frewen, but I thought it better to deal with the higher powers.’

‘Who did you see?’ Gracey asked.

‘Young Bird.’

‘Good God!’ Archie Callard sobbed his laughter into the pillow. ‘Is that your idea of higher power?’

‘What did they say?’ Gracey asked.

‘Not very much. Not very much. No, not very much. There may be a boat.’

Gracey seemed displeased that Pinkrose knew about the boat and said reprovingly: ‘If there’s a boat, it’ll be for women and children, not for
men
. You can’t force your way on. It would never do.’

‘Indeed?’ Pinkrose gave Gracey a look of startled annoyance while Gracey faced him indignantly. The two men eyed one another in a fury of self-concern.

The light had almost faded. In the spectral glimmer of late dusk, Gracey’s desiccated youth looked deathly while Pinkrose’s cheeks were as grey and withered as lizard skin. Seeing Pinkrose glaring like a wraith in the gloom of hell, Gracey pulled himself together and said with strained amiability:

‘Be a good fellow, Ben, and switch on the lights.’

As the light restored him, Gracey leant back and said: ‘
I
may
have
to go on the boat; but, given the choice, I would not dream of it. The Mediterranean is full of enemy shipping: submarines, U-boats, mines, and so on. It’s a perilous sea.’

‘Oh!’ said Pinkrose, faltering.

Archie Callard, who was sitting up in amusement, agreed. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it either. Any British ship is “fair game” on the Med., and there’ll be no convoy. The navy can’t spare a cruiser.’

‘Oh!’ said Pinkrose again and he looked about with fearful eyes.

He was about to speak when another tap came on the door and Gracey brought him to a stop by saying joyfully: ‘The Major, at last!’

They all watched as the door crept open and a hand, pushed through, waved at them. A head appeared. Smiling widely, Major Cookson inquired in a small, comic voice: ‘May I come in?’

‘Come in, come in; bless you,’ Gracey cried.

The Major was carrying several prettily wrapped parcels which he brought across and dropped on Gracey’s table. ‘A
few goodies,’ he said, then stepped back to examine the invalid with an admiring affection. ‘How are we today?’

Querulous in a playful way, Gracey said: ‘Those tiresome Italians! Such a worry.’

‘Not for you.
You’re
not to worry. Leave that to your friends.’

Middle-aged, of middle height, with a neat unremarkable face and bleared blue eyes, the Major held himself tightly together, hands clasped at the bottom edge of a neat, dark, closely buttoned jacket. When he sat, he sat with a concise movement and, unclasping a hand which held a tightly rolled handkerchief, dabbed at his nostrils.

Archie Callard jumped up from the bed with a sudden show of energy and, coming to the table, began to sniff at the parcels and put his nose into bags.

‘Naughty!’ The Major gave him a surprisingly sharp slap and he jumped aside like a ballet dancer. Gracey giggled helplessly.

There was a sense of union between the three who seemed to be hinting at a game that was not played in public. Pinkrose watched perplexed but it was Ben Phipps who seemed to be the real outsider here.

Gracey wanted to have news of the party at which the Major had been detained. While he talked with Cookson and Callard, Phipps made several attempts to join in and each time was ignored. On edge at this treatment, he pushed himself to the fore, talking too much and too loudly, and the others looked at him in exasperation.

Discomforted by his behaviour, Harriet saw that the over-cultivated voice and over-large glasses were blazonry intended to disguise his own plainness of person. She suspected that he rode a rough sea of moneyless uncertainty and was a man who would always demand from life more than life was likely to give.

The Major began opening the parcels, saying: ‘I thought as I could not get here until supper time, it would be nice if we all took a little bite together.’

‘What a charming idea!’ Gracey said.

He had not troubled to introduce the Pringles to Cookson and they knew they were now required to take themselves off. As they got to their feet, Gracey sped them with a smile.

‘Do come again some time,’ he said.

The parcels were being opened before they left the room.

Down in the hall the supper bell rang. The Academy food might be indifferent, the lights cheerless, the rooms under-furnished, but Harriet longed to be sheltered here, one of a community, fed, companioned and protected.

The streets were unlit. The authorities had imposed a blackout. The Pringles clung together in the darkness of the unfamiliar district where pavements were uneven and areas unrailed. Guy, quite blind under these conditions, fell over some steps and groaned with pain.

Savagely, Harriet said: ‘Bloody Dubedat!’ and Guy had to laugh: ‘You can’t blame him for the black-out.’

‘No, but I blame him for a lot of other things. I’d like to know what he told Gracey about you.’

‘So would I; but what does it matter? Dubedat wanted to do something more than teach. He asked me if he could give an occasional lecture. I refused. I must have hurt his pride.’

Harriet, feeling for the first time that she had had enough of Guy’s forbearance, said: ‘Dubedat is nothing but a conceited nonentity. The pity is that you ever employed him at all. I hope you don’t intend to ask him for any favours.’

‘No. We’ll wait and see who gets Gracey’s job.’

‘Could the London office appoint Dubedat? Is it possible?’

‘Anything’s possible. All they know is what Gracey cares to tell them. He said there were several candidates. The choice will really be Gracey’s choice because they will choose the person he recommends. It’s as simple at that.’

‘He couldn’t recommend Dubedat.’

‘He could recommend worse … I suppose.’

‘I doubt it. But we’ll see. Meanwhile, what are we going to do about money?’

‘Don’t worry. The Organization won’t let us starve.’

‘You’ll speak to Gracey?’

‘No. I’ll cable the Cairo office.’

‘You might have done that days ago.’

‘If I had, we’d’ve been ordered to Cairo. Now we’re stranded here. They’ll have to let me have my salary.’

She was suddenly exhilarated. Their hopeless and moneyless condition had filled her with fear, but suddenly her fear was gone. She threw her arms round Guy, feeling that his human presence was a solution of all life’s difficulties, and said: ‘What would I do without you?’

Perhaps he was not as confident as he wished her to think, for he returned her embrace as though lost himself in the darkness of this city that had nothing to offer him. They stood for some minutes wrapped together, each thankful for the other, and then guided each other down through the main square to the hotel. There they went to supper in the basement, the only place where they could get a meal without making an immediate payment.