‘Do you think so? Well, perhaps he is, in some ways …’
‘A great man!’ Nikko insisted, permitting no reservations. ‘And why? Because he is himself. Many Englishmen came here to be important people – the sahibs, as they called it. They would show these foreigners how to run the world. But not Guy. He came as one of us – a chum, you might say, a human being. Only the other day as we came into Bucharest, I said to Bella: “How I wish I had known better Guy Pringle. Now he will be gone, and I shall never know him.”’
Harriet smiled at the pattern of approval, never disclosed before, and said nothing.
Sensing her doubt in his sincerity, Nikko said: ‘Before you came, you understand, I had not much opportunity. Guy and Bella did not see eye to eye. She invited him to a cocktail, he did not turn up. She said: “That young man is not an advertisement for England. They should not have let him come here. He is badly dressed, he cultivates Jews, he is not careful what he says. The important English do not approve him.” All this perhaps was true, yet I approved him. I said: “Invite him again. He is always so busy …”’
‘Much too busy,’ commented Harriet.
‘But she would not invite him again, not until you came. You she approved.’
‘Oh,’ said Harriet, uncertain how to take this.
‘But I admired Guy,’ Nikko went on, not feeling the subject was yet exhausted. ‘I admired him because he spoke to one and all and dressed so badly. He wore that old overcoat. Do you remember that old overcoat? What Englishman here would be seen dead in such a coat? No, no, they must impress us. But it is not necessary, you know. We are impressed already by the English qualities. We know here that to be English is to be honest. You do things to your own disadvantage because you know them to be right. That is remarkable, I can tell you. So we love you.’
‘I’m not so sure of that,’ said Harriet, feeling the need to introduce some sobriety into this conversation. ‘I often feel the Rumanians are suspicious of us, and resentful.’
‘A little, perhaps.’ Conceding the point, Nikko hurried past it: ‘We envy you. You are a great, rich nation. We think you despise us, but we love you nevertheless. See!’ He paused at a railed area of uncut grasses among which some flowers ran riot. ‘This is the English garden.’
Harriet looked in astonishment. She had sometimes wondered about this patch that she would not have described as a garden of any kind.
‘Yes,’ Nikko assured her. ‘It is a genuine English wilderness. So you see,’ he nodded as though proving his point, ‘we have an English Bar and an English garden.’
‘Yes,’ said Harriet. They had now reached the gate and she paused before saying she must turn back.
Nikko took her hand. ‘Goodbye, Harry-ott. Let us, this winter, meet more often. Persuade Guy to come and have dinner with us.’
She promised she would. Nikko looked pleased, as though a whole future of friendship lay ahead, but Harriet felt in their parting a note of farewell.
When she returned to the lakeside she saw Guy walking rapidly, down between the chrysanthemum beds, his expression troubled, his appearance more dishevelled than usual. When she called to him, he glanced towards her but did not smile.
‘What is the matter?’ she asked.
‘I must see Inchcape. Will you come with me?’
As they walked together back to the main road, he described to her how, entering the University building, he had found all the doors of his department locked. Even his own study door had been locked against him. He had noticed the porter, with whom he had been a favourite, sliding out of sight as he entered. Guy, determined to speak to him, had tracked him down to the boiler-room in the basement. The old man, stammering in his embarrassment, asked: What could a poor peasant do?
‘These are wicked days, domnule! Bad men possess our country and our friends are severed from us.’
‘He said that?’ Harriet asked in admiration.
‘Something like that,’ said Guy. ‘He said he had no keys for my rooms. They had all been taken away by the Foreign Minister.’
‘Have you much stuff in your office?’
‘Some of my books. A lot of Inchcape’s. My overcoat.’
‘Oh, well!’ said Harriet, feeling things might have been worse.
Guy sighed, apparently stunned by a rebuff that did not surprise her in any way.
‘Do you think Inchcape can do anything?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know.’
She could scarcely keep up with him as he made his way to the Propaganda Bureau. She had no wish for the department to reopen, but, remembering how, on the day of the abdication, she had found Guy waiting for the students who did not come, she felt an acute pity for him. Whatever he chose to do – and it was, after all, done from a sense of responsibility and a need to be occupied – he must be her first concern.
When they reached the main road, they became aware that something had occurred. A crowd stood opposite the English Propaganda Bureau, gazing across at it. The pavement outside it was empty of people: those who approached it, swerved away from it as though it held contagion. The trespass of the bystanders on to the road had caused a traffic hold-up. The result was an hysterical din of motor-horns.
Guy and Harriet were conscious of being watched as they crossed the road to the Bureau. The pavement when they reached it was a litter of splintered wood, glass and scraps of torn cardboard. The Bureau window had been shattered; its faded display wrecked. The model of the Dunkirk beach-head seemed to have been attacked, savagely, with hammer blows. The ‘Britain Beautiful’ posters had been ripped down and screwed into balls. Everywhere lay remnants of the photographs of ships and soldiers.
Despite the disorder there was no sign of police or any official keeper of law and order.
Guy said: ‘Wait here. I’ll look inside,’ but Harriet kept at his heels. The door stood ajar. Inchcape was alone in the downstairs office. He was sitting in the typist’s chair, pressing a folded handkerchief to the corner of his mouth. He greeted the Pringles with a wry smile.
‘It’s all right,’ he said; ‘they barely touched me.’
As he spoke, blood welled out of the corner of his mouth and trickled down his chin. Blood and serum from a wound under his hair was trickling down into his left ear. His natllural pallor had taken on a greenish tinge.
‘For heaven’s sake,’ said Guy. ‘We must get a doctor …’ He went to the telephone, but Inchcape detained him with a gesture.
‘Believe me, it’s nothing.’
There was a sound of car-doors banging outside, then Galpin entered with Screwby and three other journalists from the English Bar. Galpin crossed to Inchcape, observed him keenly, flicked open a notebook, then asked: ‘What happened? What did they do to you?’
Inchcape regarded him with distaste. ‘An accidental knock or two. They came in merely to sabotage the work of the place. The attack was all over in a matter of minutes.’ He turned pointedly to Guy and in a changed tone said, smiling: ‘I rang your flat first. When I couldn’t get you, I rang Dobson. He’s on his way.’
Galpin gave his attention to the condition of the office. ‘They’ve done a proper job.’ He looked at his companions and said: ‘My stringer here says there were these hooligans knocking the old boy about, smashing the windows, destroying things – all in broad daylight, in a crowded street. And not a soul lifted a finger. They just scurried past. Just look at them now.’ He flicked a hand at the audience across the road. ‘Piss-scared.’ He turned on Inchcape again and as though speaking to someone of limited intelligence he explained: ‘We’ll want a statement. Tell us in your own words: when it happened, how it happened and who you imagine the assailants were.’