For answer, Miss Jay and her white spinnaker swept ahead into the café, but Mrs Brett stood her ground and, stimulated by the presence of an enemy, talked with more than her usual excitement. ‘What about Lord Pinkrose?’ she asked. ‘I hope he didn’t go?’
Alan, standing unsteadily on his gouty foot, smiled in pain and embarrassment. ‘No, he didn’t go. He was a doubtful starter right up to the last, then he decided to stay in Athens. I think the news from the front was a deciding factor.’
‘Good for him.’ Mrs Brett spoke as though Pinkrose had shown some unusual courage in staying. ‘I’m told he’s in the running for the Directorship, and I hope he gets it. A scholar and a gentleman, that’s what’s needed here. There aren’t many of them. It’ll be a nice change to get one.’
She went at last and as the other men sat down, Phipps sank as though winded into his chair. His voice had grown weak. ‘I didn’t know Pinkrose was a candidate?’
‘He is, indeed.’
‘A likely candidate?’
‘Who knows? But he certainly courted Gracey. I was always seeing him slipping into the room with little gifts: a bottle of sherry, chocolates, a few flowers …’
‘Good heavens,’ said Harriet.
Alan laughed. ‘I shall never forget the sight of Pinkrose, smirking like a lover, with two tuberoses in his hand.’
Ben Phipps did not laugh, but looked at his watch.
Alan said: ‘I really asked you along because Pringle here would like to meet some of your young Greek friends: the left-wing group.’
‘Oh?’ Ben Phipps did not look at Guy. His black eye-dots dodged about behind his glasses as he said, with a glance at Alan: ‘I don’t see much of them nowadays.’
Eager for information, Guy asked: ‘I suppose they’re mostly students?’
‘Mostly, yes,’ Phipps said. ‘The older chaps’ll be in the army now.’ There was a pause while Guy looked expectant and Phipps, forced to make some concession, lifted a brow at Alan. He said: ‘You could take him to Aleko’s. They’re always there. Introduce him to Spiro, the fellow behind the bar; he’ll put him in touch.’
‘I could, I suppose,’ Alan reluctantly agreed.
Phipps looked at Guy for the first time and said by way of explanation: ‘I haven’t been there for some time,’ then seeing a bus draw up, he jumped to his feet saying: ‘My bus. Goodbye for now,’ and hastened to catch it.
Looking after him, Alan said: ‘The Major usually sends his Delahaye in for favoured friends. I think poor Ben has reason to be nervous. And he seems to be shuffling off his left-wing affiliations.’
Turning on Guy, Harriet said suddenly: ‘Why shouldn’t you be Director?’
He looked at her in astonishment, then laughed as though she had made a joke.
‘Well, why not? You’re the only member of the Organization left in Athens. Pinkrose is a Cambridge don. He has no knowledge of Organization work.’
‘Darling, it’s out of the question.’ Guy spoke firmly, hoping to crush the suggestion at its inception.
‘But why?’
He explained impatiently: ‘I have not had the experience to be a Director. I was appointed as a junior lecturer. If I can get a lectureship here, I’ll be doing very well.’
‘You’ve had more experience than Phipps or Dubedat.’
‘If either were appointed – and I’m pretty sure neither will be – it would be a piece of disgraceful log-rolling. I’m having no part in it. I’m certainly not using this situation to get more than my due.’ Turning away from her, Guy spoke to Alan: ‘I’d like to go to that place Phipps mentioned.’
‘Aleko’s? We might go later, but …’ Alan looked for the waiter.
Twilight was falling; a cold wind had sprung up and people were leaving the outdoor tables. Alan said: ‘I was hoping you’d take supper with me?’ When Harriet smiled her agreement, he asked: ‘Is there any place you would like to go?’
‘Could we go to the Russian Club?’
Alan laughed. This, apparently, was a modest request and he said: ‘I’m sure we can. It’s called a club but no one is ever turned away.’
The club, a single room, had been decorated early in the ’twenties and never redecorated. As they entered, Alan said: ‘We might see Yakimov,’ and they saw him at once, seated at a small table, a plate of pancakes in front of him.
He lifted an eye and murmured affectionately: ‘Dear girl! Dear boys! Lovely to see you,’ but he did not really want to see them. While they stood beside him, he spread red caviare between the pancakes then gazed at the great sandwich with an absorbed and dedicated smile before pouring over it a jugful of sour cream.
‘You’re doing yourself proud,’ Alan said.
‘A little celebration!’ Yakimov explained. ‘Sold m’car, m’dear old Hispano-Suiza. German officer bought it in Bucharest. Thought I’d never get the money, but m’old friend Dobson brought me down a bundle of notes. Your Yak’s in funds, for once. Small funds, of course. Just a bit of Ready. Have to make it last a long time.’ He waited for them to move on. In funds, he had no need of friends. When he could buy his own food, he ate well and ate alone.
Alan and the Pringles sat in a bay window, looking out at the Acropolis fading into the last shadowy purple of twilight. They, too, had pancakes with red caviare and cream, and Harriet said: ‘Delicious.’
Guy was tolerant of the Russian Club. He was also tolerant of Alan Frewen. He could accept the fact that some of his friends were what he called ‘a-political’ just as some might be colour-blind. He would not blame Alan for his disability, but his slightly distracted manner made it clear that his mind was elsewhere. Harriet knew he was simply marking time until he could get to Aleko’s and meet those who thought as he did, but Alan had forgotten Aleko’s. Having invited them here, he was relaxed happily in his chair and wanted to make much of the meal. He looked as though he were settled there for the evening.
Guy, on edge to be gone, took it all patiently. Harriet took it with pleasure. Something about the place stirred an old, buried dream of security, a dream she had despised when she went to earn her living with the other unconventional young in London. Then she would have repudiated with derision the idea of an orderly married life. She married for adventure.
In Bucharest once she had been amused when Yakimov said: ‘We’re in a nice little backwater here. We should get through the war here very comfortably,’ for she and Guy had set out expecting danger and not unprepared to die. Now after the perturbed months, the subterfuges and the long uncertainty, she knew she would be thankful to find a refuge anywhere. But the uncertainty was not over yet.
She said: ‘Are the Italians going to break through?’
‘Why?’ Alan laughed. ‘Do you want them to break through?’
‘No, but if we’re going to spend the winter here, we’ll have to get some heavy clothing. I left all mine in Bucharest and Guy brought nothing but books.’
‘You’ll certainly need a coat of some sort.’
Guy said: ‘Harriet can get a coat if she wants one, but I never feel the cold.’
‘And,’ said Harriet, ‘we’ll have to find somewhere to live.’
‘Nonsense,’ Guy said: ‘The hotel’s cheap and convenient.’ He would not waste time discussing clothes and homes; the important thing was to get the meal over. As Alan lifted the menu again, he said: ‘I don’t want anything more. If we’re going to Aleko’s, I think we ought to go.’
Still resistant, Alan looked at Harriet: ‘How would you like some baklava? I’m sure you would. I must say, I’d like some myself.’