‘The lecture’s a consideration, I agree,’ Dobson said, ‘though I’m sure H.E. would advise you to warn Lord Pinkrose what to expect here. If he knew the risks, he might think twice about coming …’
‘I doubt that, I doubt that,’ Inchcape broke in affably.
‘Well,’ Dobson concluded, ‘I suppose if your men are set on staying we’ll have to let them stay, anyway for a while. But’ – he turned to Mrs Ramsden, Miss Turner and Miss Truslove – ‘the ladies are another matter. H.E. says he cannot accept liability for unmarried English ladies. That is, ladies without menfolk to look after them.’
A moan passed among the three women. The feathers on Mrs Ramsden’s hat quivered as though set on wires. They looked at Dobson, who was beaming so pleasantly upon them, then turned to Inchcape for succour, but Inchcape, in high spirits at his victory, was willing to concede the women teachers. ‘On this point,’ he said, ‘I agree with His Excellency. I am sure you ladies would not wish to feel you were in the way here. Apart from that, your work is coming to an end. How many students enrolled for the summer school? Some two hundred. Now we’ve got – how many?’ He cocked an inquiring eye at Guy, who answered reluctantly:
‘About sixty. But the school is in five grades.’
‘It can be reorganised. The fact is,’ Inchcape looked at the women teachers, ‘your jobs will soon be folding up. You’d be better off elsewhere.’
‘We don’t want to go,’ said Mrs Ramsden.
‘It’s up to you, of course,’ Dobson said agreeably, ‘but when you next receive an order to quit I shall not be able to claim that your presence here is essential. It would be better for you to go in your own good time.’
‘But look here!’ Mrs Ramsden spoke with vigour. ‘We had all this when the war began. Mr Woolley gave his general order for the ladies to leave Rumania. He sent his wife home. Dozens of others went at the same time and most of them never came back. We three went to Istanbul. We had to stay in a pension – a hole of a place, filthy dirty and expensive. We were miserable. We just sat about with nowhere to go and nothing to do. We spent all our savings – and for nothing, as it turned out. In the end we came back again. This is where we belong. Our homes are here. We’re only old girls. The Germans wouldn’t touch us.’
‘And I have my little income here,’ said Miss Turner, whose complexion had the bluish pallor of skimmed milk. ‘The Prince lets me have it, you know. I looked after his children for twenty years. I can’t take this money out of the country. They won’t let me. If I leave here, I’ll be penniless.’
‘We’d rather stay and risk it,’ said Mrs Ramsden.
‘Dear lady,’ Dobson patiently explained, ‘if the Germans come in, they won’t let you stay in your homes. You’ll be sent to prison camps, somewhere like Dachau, a terrible place. You might be there for years. You’d never survive it.’
Miss Truslove was dabbing at her eyes with a cotton glove. She spoke with an effort: ‘If I have to go away again, it’ll kill me … kill me.’ Her speech ebbed and became a sob.
Inchcape patted her shoulder, but he was not to be moved. ‘In war-time,’ he said cheerfully, ‘we must all do things we don’t like.’
Miss Turner plucked at his sleeve: ‘But surely you said … this raid on Berlin …’
‘Alas, that doesn’t mean the end of the war,’ and he made a little gesture dismissing the whole subject.
Miss Truslove, near weeping, began struggling with her gloves. She moaned: ‘I can’t get them on. I can’t get them on.’
Watching the old ladies, seeing them pitiable, Harriet knew nevertheless that Dobson was right. Mrs Ramsden might eke out a few years in a prison camp, but Miss Turner and Miss Truslove, frail and nervous creatures, would be doomed. They were not looking so far ahead. Catching her eye, Mrs Ramsden said: ‘I’m sure Mr Pringle doesn’t want us to go. I’d like to speak to him but’ – she looked wistfully at Guy, who was talking to Dobson – ‘I suppose I shouldn’t worry him now.’
Harriet said: ‘Professor Inchcape is still in charge of the department. I’m afraid he has the last word.’
As they moved off, they glanced back at Guy, hoping he would see them and somehow save them. But what could he do? He kept his back to them, probably in painful consciousness of their plight, and, with no excuse for lingering, they went.
Behind Harriet, Toby was talking about Cluj – the dangers he had foreseen there and his own wisdom in getting away before the present crisis developed. He claimed that the professor had attempted to ‘bully-rag’ him with all sorts of threats into keeping his contract, but Toby knew that as a foreigner he could plead force majeure. It was typical of Toby’s stories. He led one to believe he had always been involved in such a morass of University politics, only a very wily fellow could have survived. It occurred to her, as she glanced round at his soft, fleshy face, his soft chin slipping back from under his moustache, hearing him say in self-congratulation: ‘A chap’s got to survive,’ that he might well survive where the rest of them would not.
Suddenly Dubedat stepped briskly over to Dobson and broke into his talk with Guy. ‘About this Slav plot,’ he said as though he had no time to waste: ‘is there any basis for believing we’ll be cut off from Constanza?’
Dobson, abashed for only a moment, answered lightly: ‘So far as we know, none at all,’ then turning from this intrusion, continued his conversation with Guy: ‘Hitler cares nothing for Balkan politics. He is interested only in Balkan economics. He has ordered the Rumanians to settle these frontier problems simply to keep them busy until his troops are free to march in. That could be any day now.’
Dubedat glanced at Toby and made a movement with his head. He left the room. Toby followed him without a word.
The porter came to ask if he could lock up. Inchcape led Dobson, Clarence and the Pringles from the building. On the terrace, they paused in the greenish glow of evening. As the swaddling bands of heat loosened and the air moved and cooled, people were crowding out of doors. This was the pleasantest hour of daylight. Dobson offered a lift to whomsoever should want it, but the others preferred to walk. ‘I must be off then,’ he said, and with his front line curving out before him he ran trippingly down the steps.
Waiting till he was out of earshot, Inchcape laughed. ‘The day is ours,’ he said.
Guy was not responsive. His face was creased with concern for the victims of their victory. He said: ‘Perhaps we could give Mrs Ramsden and the others introductions to our representative in Ankara? They’re good teachers. He could use them.’
‘Why not? Why not?’ said Inchcape, adding at once: ‘Now how are we to entertain Pinkrose? I’m afraid he’s a bit of a stick.’
Harriet leant on the balustrade, gazing down into the flower-baskets. As she had expected, Clarence made his way over to her, though slowly and, she felt, unwillingly. When he reached her, she said: ‘Will we ever get away?’
Clarence was not in a sympathetic mood. ‘You’re free to go any time,’ he said. ‘You haven’t even a job to keep you here.’
‘I have a husband. Even if I were willing to go without him, he couldn’t afford to keep two homes going.’