The Balkan Trilogy (99 page)

‘They’re not worn in the air force, are they? How can he get away with it?’

‘He can get away with anything.’

The navigator, Chew Buckle, was a small, thin, sharp-nosed boy who, in normal times, would probably be morose and unsociable. He still had nothing to say, but he laughed without ceasing.

Guy was drunk enough but the airmen were more drunk
and evaded any sort of serious topic as a blind man evades obstacles. Only Zipper Cohen was ready to talk. He took out a cigarette-case, opened it and, showing Harriet a photograph tucked into the lid, watched her keenly as she looked at the face of a young woman holding a child.

‘My wife and little girl,’ he said. He seemed the only one whose feet were on earth and when Harriet handed back the cigarette-case, he sat staring at the picture which attached him to the real world. But this incident did not last long. In a moment he shut the case, put it away and began asking what was wrong with the girls in this place. Harriet was the only girl who had given him a smile since he got here.

‘The Greek girls won’t look at us,’ he complained.

‘It’s their way of being loyal to their men at the front.’

Zipper gave a howl of laughter. ‘I hope my old woman’s being as loyal as that.’

Alan, drawn into the rantipole merriment of the young men, tried to talk to Chew Buckle who sat beside him. Why were they stationed so far behind the lines? he asked.

Chew Buckle giggled. He was a man used by events but not involved with them. When asked a direct question, he knew something was expected of him, but could scarcely tell what.

The war had plucked him out of his own nature but given him nothing to take its place. He giggled and shook his head and giggled.

Zipper explained that the Greeks, fearful of provoking the Axis, kept them well behind the lines with some idea that the Germans would not notice them. ‘We just about managed to get to Albania and back. When we landed last night, there wasn’t a pint in the tank.’

‘Suppose you’re forced down?’ asked Alan.

Zipper laughed. ‘It’s a friendly country. Not like Hellfire Pass.’

The mention of Hellfire renewed the laughter and Chew Buckle, speaking in a deep, harsh voice, said: ‘They cut y’r bollocks off there.’ The others collapsed.

It was some time before the three civilians could discover that, if the Arabs of Hellfire Pass caught a pilot, they held him to ransom and, as proof of his existence, sent his expendable parts to Bomber Command.

When Costa came out to sing again, the enjoyment had a second focal point, and Costa, acknowledging applause, waved at the aircrew to show they were as much part of the entertainment as he was. Glasses of wine were sent over to the young men and, as a special honour, apples were sliced and put into the glasses. More bottles were ordered by Guy and Alan so these compliments could be repaid, and glasses passed to and fro, and were sent to Costa, then to the proprietor and the waiters, and soon the tables all around were covered with glasses, some empty, some half full and some waiting to be drunk. The restaurant swayed with drink, and the air quivered with admiration, affection and the triumph of the day.

Suddenly one of the waiters, a middle-aged man as thin as a whippet, ran into the middle of the floor, and began to dance, and the audience clapped in time for him. Cookson and his friends watched, not clapping but indulgently approving.

Guy was in a jubilant state. He suffered from his own frustrated energy and the challenge of other men’s activity, but now it seemed nothing could daunt him. A sort of electricity went out from him and infected the neighbouring tables, and even the airmen began to talk. They told, in terms of riotous humour, how they were sent out every morning over Valona at exactly the same time. It was intended as a double bluff. The Italians were expected to think such tactics impossible and so be unprepared.

‘But the bastards are expecting us every time,’ shouted Zipper Cohen, and Surprise, shaking in his chair, said: ‘Thank God for the Greek air force. They’ll fly anything. They go up on tea-trays tied with string.’

The wine was as much for Guy as for the air-crew. Among the Greeks he was an honorary Greek, among the fighting-men, he was an honorary fighting man. Aware that she could
not, for the life of her, attract so much enthusiasm, Harriet was moved with pride in him.

Now there were six men out dancing and the clapping had settled into a rhythmic accompaniment that filled the room. Unfortunately, while things were at their height, Major Cookson felt he must take his party away. He said to those around that it was all very pleasurable but, alas, he had invited friends to drop in after dinner and must be at Phaleron to greet them. Those with him rose, but not very willingly. Harriet felt Charles Warden look at her as he went, but she kept her eyes on Zipper Cohen.

The departure of Cookson brought the dancing to a stop. In the silence that came down, Chew Buckle threw back his head and sang to the tune of ‘Clementine’:

‘In a Blenheim, o’er Valona,
Every morning, just at nine;
Same old crew and same old aircraft,
Same old target, same old time.
“Bomb the runway,” says Group Captain,
“And make every one a hit.”
If you do, you’ll go to heaven;
If you don’t, you’re in the … whatd’ycallit … ?’

Amidst the applause, Buckle climbed slowly and deliberately up on his chair, then to the table where he bowed on every side before sinking down, as slowly as he had risen, and going to sleep among the bottles.

Alan said it was time to get the boys back to Tatoi. He went out to order a taxi while Guy roused Chew Buckle and got them moving. As they left the room, Dobson called to the Pringles:

‘Hey, you two! There’s a special film show. You’ve got to come. It’s in aid of the Greek war effort. After the show, we’re holding a reception.’

Guy looked at Harriet and said: ‘Would you like to go?’

‘I’d love to go,’ she said.

‘Then you shall.’ In elated mood, he flung an arm round her shoulder and said: ‘You know if you want to go, you’ve only got to say so. Whatever you want to do, you’ve only got to let me know. You know that, don’t you?’ He spoke so convincingly, that Harriet could only reply: ‘Darling, yes, of course.’

10

Every day now there was something to celebrate. There might not be a decisive victory like Koritza, but there was always an advance and always stories of Greek prowess and heroism. People queued to give food and clothing to the men who, having quelled the invaders, were now driving them into the sea.

The snow was falling in the Pindus mountains. As it blocked the passes and disguised the hazards of the wild, roadless regions, the retreating Italians abandoned their guns and heavy armaments. It was said the mere sight of an unarmed Greek would put a whole Italian division to flight. Posters showed the Greeks in pursuit, with nothing to abandon, leaping like chamois from crag to crag. The Italian radio called them savages who not only pitched their enemies over precipices but threw after them the splendid equipment which the Italian people had bought at such sacrifice to themselves.

While it snowed in Albania, it rained in Athens. The wind blew cold. The houses were unheated. People went to cafés and crowding for warmth behind the black-out curtains, told one another if it were not victory by Christmas, it would be victory by spring.

Guy could be idle no more. He went to Aleko’s and announced his intention of starting an English class. Would any student lend a living-room in his house? The boys, made exuberant by his exuberance, all offered living-rooms.

When Guy turned up for the first class, expecting perhaps a dozen pupils, he found the room packed to the door with young people who acclaimed him not merely as a teacher but as a representative of Britain. Some of them had attended the
School before it closed, but the majority knew only a little English. They felt if they were too young to fight, they could at least learn the language of their great ally. Guy, greatly stimulated by their response, began to plan a course of study. He would divide up the students into grades and hold a class every night. But where? The householder, a widow, treating the invasion of her living-room as a joke, said: ‘Tonight, yes. Very good. Other nights, some other place. Yes?’ The classes were moved from house to house, but no room was large enough and everyone hoped that soon some permanent meeting-place would be found.

Guy, pressed by obligations, was now in the condition he most enjoyed. He wanted to do more and more. One night, coming back to the hotel-room, he told Harriet that the students were eager to do a Shakespeare play. He was thinking of producing
Othello
or
Macbeth
.

‘But then I’ll never see you at all,’ Harriet said in dismay.

‘Darling, I have to work. You wouldn’t have me hanging around doing nothing while other men are fighting?’

‘No, but I can’t spend my life doing nothing, either; and certainly not in this miserable little room.’

‘You can always go to a café.’

‘Alone?’

‘Alan would be glad to have you with him.’ Guy had relegated Alan to the position of Harriet’s friend.

‘I don’t always want to be with Alan. Besides, people talk.’

‘Good heavens, what does that matter?’

‘I’m sure if you spoke to Dobson, he could get us into the Academy. We might even have Gracey’s room.’

Eventually persuaded, Guy approached Dobson, but his approach was not successful. Dobson explained – ‘quite nicely’, Guy said – that the rooms had to be kept in case Foreign Office employees turned up.

‘Fact is,’ Dobson had said: ‘Gracey had no right to be there. Don’t know how he worked it, but I suspect the Major’s influence. Anyway, if he’d stayed on, he’d’ve been told to find “alternative accommo”, so you can see it’s a case of “no can do”.’

‘And that’s that,’ Guy said to Harriet, glad that his onerous task was over.

Harriet had to accept it: the Academy was not for them. She said: ‘At least he’s sent us tickets for the film-show.’

‘What film-show?’

‘The one he told us about. A new English film has been flown out. It’ll be the first new film we’ve seen since Paris fell.’ She handed him the tickets that would admit them to a showing of a film called
Pygmalion
. Guy handed them back.

‘Sorry. Can’t manage it. That’s the evening I promised to address a gathering of students on the state of left-wing politics in England.’

‘But you promised to take me. You said when we were at Babayannis’ that we would go.’

‘I’m afraid I forgot. Anyway, the meeting’s much more important. I can’t let the students down.’

‘But you can let me down?’

‘Don’t be silly. What does a film-show matter?’

‘But I’ve been looking forward to it. I haven’t seen a new English film for months.’

‘You can get someone else to take you. Give my ticket to Alan.’

‘He doesn’t need your ticket. He’s going with Greek friends.’

‘Then ask Dobson to take you.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of asking Dobson to take me.’

‘It’s only a cinema. Why not go by yourself?’

‘There’s a reception as well; and I won’t go by myself. I should hate it by myself. You ought to understand that. You promised to take me, and I want you to take me. I’ve been looking forward. So you must ask the students to change the day of the meeting.’

‘I can’t do that. I can’t put them off. It’s not possible. If you break an appointment with English people, you can explain. But it’s different with foreigners. They would think there was more to it. They wouldn’t understand.’

‘You expect me to understand?’

‘Of course.’

To Guy, the discussion had been light and Harriet’s disappointment was of so little moment that he scarcely paused to consider it. To her it was shattering. She could not believe it. She was certain that when Guy had reflected upon it all, he would arrange to change the day of the meeting and, this accomplished, would present the change to her as a token of their importance to each other; but he did nothing of the kind.

The days passed. She began to wonder whether he had given the film-show another thought. He had not; and he was surprised when, at the last minute, she mentioned it again.

‘But we have discussed all this,’ he said. ‘I told you I had to go to the meeting. There was no question of putting it off. If it’s a choice of a film-show or a political meeting, naturally the meeting must come first.’

To Harriet it seemed a choice between much more than that. She said: ‘You promised to take me.’

‘I told you to get someone else to take you.’

‘Wherever I go, I have to get someone else to take me. Why? Being married to you is much the same as not being married at all. You ought to understand my feelings. I want you to take me; just to show you understand. You’re my husband.’

‘My husband!’ he echoed her. ‘The trouble is, you cling too much to things. You cried your eyes out when that kitten died. You couldn’t have made more fuss if it’d been a baby.’

‘Well, it wasn’t a baby.’

Ignoring this, he went on: ‘
My
husband!
My
kitten! You promised
me
. What an attitude!’ His face shut off in a mask of obstinacy, he began collecting his books together, eager to get away before she spoke again.

She did not try to speak again. Instead, she told herself that the meeting was important to him not because of his political ideals, but because it would accord him what he wanted most: attention. He was simply longing to be on view again. Lecturing or teaching, producing plays or giving advice to students, he was what he most wanted to be – the centre of attention. That meant more to him than she did.

As he made off, his face blank with purpose, she felt angry, but more than that, she felt abandoned. She sat for a long time on the bed, stunned and yet acutely lonely. The mention of the kitten had renewed in her a sense of loss. She had lost the kitten, she had lost Sasha, she had lost faith in Guy. Collapsing suddenly, she lay on the bed and wept helplessly.

She might have asked someone to take her to the reception but to do so, she felt, would be a public admission that Guy had failed her. She imagined herself being taken out of charity, an object of pity, a creature wronged and humiliated. If she went alone, it would be the same. Guy, in the past, had laughed at what he called the female ‘zenana-complex’, no intelligent woman could possibly be restricted by such feelings. Yet something in her upbringing put an absolute check on the possibility of going alone.