5
The young men were disappearing from the city. The porter left the Pringles’ hotel, first saying an emotional farewell to everyone, and his place was taken by an old man moustached like the great Venizelos.
Each day lorry-loads of conscripts were driven through the streets to the station and the girls threw flowers to them. Farmers came into Athens leading horses that were needed for the army. But there was no sight of the Italians.
Mussolini had told Hitler that he would take Greece in ten days, just as the Germans had taken France. At the end of the ten days his troops were still on the Kalamas River, at the spot where they had found the Greeks waiting for them.
The Italian radio complained of their reception. It said that the Duce had offered to occupy Greece in a friendly, protective spirit and had not been prepared for this resistance. It would take the Italians a day or two to get over the shock.
The Italian Minister had not left Athens and was pained when he found his telephone had been cut off. He rang Metaxas to ask why he was being treated in such a fashion. Greece and Italy were not at war.
‘Sir,’ Metaxas replied, ‘this is no time for philological discussion,’ and he put down his receiver.
The war was, in its way, comic, but no one imagined it would remain comic for long. The Italians had behind them the weight of Axis armour. Beneath all the humour was the fear that the Greek line would break suddenly and the enemy arrive overnight.
An order had gone out from the Legation that British subjects must be prepared to leave Greece at an hour’s notice. Each person could take a suitcase, and the suitcase should be kept ready packed. When Guy presented himself at the Legation and asked for his salary to be diverted from Cairo, he saw a junior secretary who said: ‘If that’s how you want it, I’ll pop a note in the jolly old bag; but my guess is: while the transfer is winging its way here, you’ll be off to where it came from. Do you want to take the risk? Righteo, then! You know the drill? You chaps draw from Legation funds. If you like, you can have a small advance to settle your hotel bill.’
The bill was settled, to Harriet’s relief, but there would be no money to spend until the transfer arrived.
The Pringles heard nothing more from Gracey. No word came from Dubedat, but a few days after their visit to the Academy, the porter rang to say a visitor was on his way up.
Harriet opened the door. Toby Lush, outside, said with ponderous gravity: ‘I’d like a word with himself.’
Guy was sorting out his books. Greeting him with unusual sobriety, Toby sat on the edge of the bed and contemplated his pipe. The Pringles waited. He spoke at last:
‘We hear you went and saw Mr Gracey?’
Guy said: ‘Yes.’
‘Well, it’s like this …’ Toby stuck the empty pipe into his mouth and sucked it thoughtfully. ‘When we came here, the old soul and me, we had to find work. After all, we had to eat. So when we met Mr Gracey, we laid it on thick. Anyone would under the circumstances.’
‘What did you tell him, exactly?’
‘Oh, this and that. We said we’d done a spot of lecturing up in Bucharest … a few other things. You don’t want the gory details, do you? Just a bit of hornswoggle. You understand. But the thing is, the old soul’s moidered; hopes you didn’t give us away.’
‘I didn’t give anything away.’
‘That’s all right then. But …’ an expression of inquisitorial cunning came over Toby’s features and he pointed the pipe stem at Guy: ‘Supposing Mr Gracey asks you direct what we did?’
Formal with annoyance, Guy replied: ‘I would tell him I do not discuss my friends’ affairs.’
‘Oh, good enough! Good enough!’ Toby whoofed with relief: ‘And you didn’t mention we’d done a bolt?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘Fine. Splendid. I said you wouldn’t.’ Much heartened, Toby leant back against the wall and, taking out his tobacco and matches, prepared himself for a chat.
Harriet was having none of this. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘I’d like to ask you something. What did you tell Gracey? Did you say that Guy wasted his time producing Troilus and Cressida?’
Toby jerked up with a pained frown. ‘Me? I never did.’
‘What about Dubedat?’
Toby sat up. Scrambling his equipment together with agitated hands, he said: ‘How do I know? He sees Mr Gracey in private. He doesn’t tell me everything.’ He got to his feet. ‘Have to scarper. The old soul’s a bit carked. I’ll let him know you didn’t sneak. He’ll appreciate it.’
‘He ought to.’
Toby made off with the gait of a guilty fox. When he had gone, Harriet said to Guy: ‘Dubedat means to be Director. He’s afraid you might have queered his pitch.’
‘It certainly looks like it,’ Guy was forced to agree. Pale and unhappy, he returned to his books, wanting to hear no more. Harriet pitied his disillusionment, but had no patience with it. Reality was not to be altered by an inability to recognize fact.
She had remained with Guy, imprisoned in the room, but now, uplifted by a sense of being the stronger of the two, she said: ‘Come on, let’s go for a walk.’
He did not move. ‘You go. I don’t want to go.’
‘But what will you do, shut up here alone?’
‘Work.’
‘Have you any work?’
‘I’m getting quotations for a lecture on Coleridge.’
‘Surely you could do that any time? You might not lecture again for months.’
He shook his head. Bent over his books, he whistled softly to himself: a sign of stress. Harriet stood at the door, longing to go out, not knowing what to say. During past crises – the fall of France, the final break-up in Bucharest – he had found escape, first by producing Troilus and Cressida, then by organizing a summer school. Throwing himself into one occupation or another, he had managed to keep anxiety on the periphery of consciousness; now, without employment, without friends, without money, he was trying to follow his old escape pattern. But there was no route open to him. All he could do was sit here in this dark, narrow room and try to lose himself in work.
‘Wouldn’t you be better at the School library?’ she asked.
‘I’d rather not go there.’
One afternoon, while wandering about alone, Harriet met Yakimov and, strolling with him up University Street, took the opportunity to ask about some of the people they had seen in Athens.
‘Who is Major Cookson?’
Yakimov answered at once. ‘Very important and distinguished.’
‘Yes, but what does he do?’
That was more difficult. ‘Do, dear girl?’ Yakimov pondered the question heavily, then brightened: ‘Believe … indeed, have inside information to the effect: he’s something big in the S.S.’
‘Good heavens, the German S.S.?’
‘No. The Secret Service.’
As there was little point in pursuing that fantasy, Harriet went on to inquire about Callard and Phipps. Sighing at being forced into intellectual activity, Yakimov dismissed them as ‘both very distinguished’.
‘What about Mrs Brett and Miss Jay?’ Harriet persisted.
‘Don’t ask me, dear girl. Town’s full of those old tits.’
‘Yes, but what are they all doing here?’
‘Nothing much. They live here.’
The English who lived in Bucharest had gone there to work. The English in Athens were clearly of a different order. Encountering for the first time people who lived abroad un-occupied, she was amazed by their inactivity and, learning nothing from Yakimov, decided to take her curiosity to Alan Frewen. He had asked them if they would go with him on Sunday morning when he exercised Diocletian in the National Gardens.