Mrs Ramsden gave an ‘ah!’ of appreciation.
‘A lot of things can happen before that day comes,’ Dubedat sombrely said.
‘I’m not so sure,’ Inchcape pushed the chair from him and folded his arms. His smile suggested that he could, if he wished, justify his confidence. The others waited, but he said no more.
Feeling the silence begin to drag, Guy stood up. The women teachers turned to him as though he were about to solve something. He said: ‘The important thing is for us to stay. I mean, we should not run away. There are too many people here who need our support.’
‘I agree,’ Clarence’s voice came rich, resonant and magnanimous from the depths of his chair.
The door fell open. ‘I do apologise,’ Dobson said as he hurried through it, his linen suit rumpled, a large patch of damp between his shoulder-blades. ‘They keep us at it day and night.’ He did not look at anyone but opened his eyes in amusement at things as they were and searched for a handkerchief. His face and head were pink. Beads of moisture stood among the downy hairs that patched his skull.
Inchcape stretched out his legs and jerked himself upright. ‘The floor is yours,’ he said.
Finding his handkerchief, Dobson patted all over his head. ‘Well now!’ He smiled round with an appearance of easy faith in the good sense of those about him. ‘There isn’t much to be said. I’m speaking for H.E., needless to say.’ At this, he stopped smiling and became serious. ‘Things are becoming unstuck here. You can see it for yourselves. Even His Majesty isn’t feeling too secure on his throne. No one can be certain what will happen next. Our guess is that the Germans are planning to overrun the place. There’s a pretty consistent pattern of events these days. A fifth column – in this case it would be the Iron Guard – creates trouble, giving Axis troops an excuse to march in and keep order. If this happens here, you may be given a chance to get out; then again, you may not. If you did get a warning, you might still fail to get transport. In any case, you’d probably have to abandon all your stuff. It could happen any time – next week, tomorrow, even tonight …’ He looked round gravely and, meeting despondent eyes, smiled in spite of himself. ‘I don’t want to scare you’ – he swallowed his smile – ‘but there’s not much point in waiting till it’s too late. The English Department has done its bit. Troilus and Cressida was a simply splendid effort. The production boosted morale just when a boost was needed. I might say’ – he gave a giggle – ‘you stuck to your posts like Trojans. Still’ – he straightened his face again – ‘your work here is over. You must see that. H.E. thinks the department should close down and the staff pack up and get away in good order.’
Having spoken, he glanced at Inchcape, restoring him to the centre of the attention. Inchcape did not move. Staring down at his white buckskin shoes, his hands clasped before him, he conveyed a modest intent to influence no one. After a long pause, he glanced up and from side to side, inviting independent opinion. Mrs Ramsden’s vast hat, trimmed with pheasant feathers, swung about as she looked for the next speaker, and her taffeta creaked. When no one else spoke, Miss Turner, the eldest of the three, said in her plaintive little voice: ‘We do know that things are bad here, but surely now that our aeroplanes have raided Berlin … I mean, surely that makes a difference?’
Dobson, leaning courteously towards her, explained as to a child: ‘We are all delighted about the raid. It’s enormously good for our prestige, of course, but the situation here has deteriorated much too far to be affected by it. The truth is – we have to face it! – Rumania is, to all intents and purposes, in enemy hands.’
Miss Turner looked sorrowfully at Inchcape, hoping for more favourable comment, but Inchcape had nothing to say. Guy again rose to his feet: ‘We’ve all known for some time that our situation here is precarious. In spite of that, we’ve chosen to stay. Probably we are a trouble to the Legation, but the point is …’
‘My dear fellow,’ Dobson expostulated, ‘we’re concerned for your safety.’
‘I am just twenty-four,’ Guy said. ‘Clarence, Dubedat and Lush are all of military age. Our contemporaries are in uniform. I do not think we’re in any more danger here than we would be in the Western Desert.’
Having decided what he would say, Guy said it with firm directness, but Harriet, watching him, realised he was under strain. He pressed the lower edge of his right palm against his brow and held it there as though for support. Coming from a provincial University and a background of poverty, he did not find it easy to withstand the majesty of the British Minister and his Legation.
He paused, then said quickly, almost aggressively: ‘I think we should remain in Bucharest while there is a job to be done.’
‘Hear, hear!’ said Mrs Ramsden.
‘But is there a job to be done?’ Clarence’s tone had changed now to languid indecision. ‘What can we do – or the Legation, either, for that matter – remnants of a discredited force in what is virtually an enemy-occupied country?’
Guy said: ‘It’s true, the British have failed here; but if we can stay to the end, we may give someone something to believe in during the time ahead. There are many people here in much greater danger than we are. For them we represent all that is left of Western culture and democratic ideals. We cannot desert them.’
‘Be reasonable, Pringle!’ Dobson spoke amiably enough: ‘What have you got here now? A handful of Jewish students.’
Guy answered: ‘While the Jewish students are loyal to us, we must remain loyal to them.’
Dubedat, his face expressionless, was picking at an eyetooth with one of his long dirty fingernails. Toby, pipe-sucking just behind him, leant forward and whispered something. Dubedat frowned him into silence.
Inchcape, bland now and smiling, sauntered forward, saying: ‘We must also remember the Cantecuzeno Lecture. Professor Lord Pinkrose is being flown out.’
‘Who the hell is Professor Lord Pinkrose?’ Clarence asked. Lying there, supine, vacillating between truculence and sentiment, he was, Harriet realised, more drunk than sober.
Still smiling, Inchcape looked about him. ‘Does anyone need me to answer that?’ he asked.
‘The students are the first consideration,’ said Guy, dogged now in combating Legation indifference to his cause.
Harriet felt a stab of pride in him, yet felt, at the same time, some resentment that his first consideration was not their own safety. She knew, were it not for Sasha she would be concerned for nothing but getting Guy away before it was too late. Trapped here by her sense of responsibility for him, she was near to resenting Sasha too. And, she thought, it was Guy’s easy, almost feckless willingness to adopt the world that had brought the boy into their home.
She did not really imagine that the Legation could persuade them to go ‘in good order’. She had faith in Inchcape’s determination to remain while there was any excuse for remaining, but she saw now that the problem of Sasha must be settled somehow. They must, when the time came, be free to go without a qualm.
Inchcape had taken the centre of the room again and was saying: ‘Pinkrose is out of the top drawer. That sort of thing goes down well with the Rumanians.’
Apparently it also went down well with Dobson. He was already retreating. He had not been impressed by Guy’s appeal for loyalty to the students, but here he was nodding in reverent approval as Inchcape enlarged on the social importance of the lecture and the lecturer. She was surprised that Dobson did not comment on the fact that the London office knew no better than to fly out this professor. Inchcape, of course, had kept them in ignorance of the true situation here – not wantonly, but from sheer unwillingness to face it. She smiled a little bleakly as it occurred to her that, thanks to Inchcape’s vanity, Lord Pinkrose might end like the rest of them, in a German concentration camp.