The Academy door stood ajar. They went through to the common-room where the air was dank with cold. There was no one to meet them. At that hour the inmates were at work and the whole building was silent. Not knowing what else to do, they sat down to wait. Pinkrose must have been watching for them. He let them linger in suspense for ten minutes, then they heard the trip of his little feet coming down the stairs and along the tiled passage.
‘Ah, there you are!’ he said. His tone surprised them. It was not a friendly tone but it suggested he might have something to offer.
Guy stood up. Pinkrose gave him a rapid, oblique glance then gazed at the empty fireplace. He was wearing his greatcoat and scarves and though he had no hat, his flattened dog-brown hair showed a ring where his hat had been.
He took a letter from his coat pocket and slowly unfolded it, saying: ‘I sent for you … Yes, I sent for you. Lord Bedlington … by the way, are you known to him?’
Guy said: ‘No.’
‘Well, strangely enough … he’s chosen you to be Chief Instructor. You’re to be appointed. It’s a definite order. I could say, you’ve already been appointed. It’s in this letter here. You may read it, if you wish. Yes, yes, if you wish, you may read it.’ He pushed the letter at Guy as though disclaiming any part in it.
Embarrassed by his discourtesy, Guy said: ‘May I ask what has happened? I was recently called out to Phaleron to see Mr Callard.’
‘I know you were. Yes, I know you were. Mr Callard heard from the Cairo office that he was to be Director, but the appointment was not confirmed. No, it was not confirmed. In fact, it was rescinded. Mr Callard’s announcement was premature and a trifle unwise, I think. Lord Bedlington decided that the position called for an older man. I am to be Director and have asked Mr Callard to act as Social Secretary, a position more suited to his particular gifts.’
Guy extruded unspoken inquiry as to how this had come about. Pinkrose, after a reflective pause, chose to explain: ‘I contacted Lord Bedlington … I made it my business to contact him. We were at Cambridge together. He was unaware that I was in Athens. I fear that Mr Gracey had failed … had failed to mention me. An oversight, I have no doubt. Never mind, the matter has been put right; and in accordance with Bedlington’s wishes, I am appointing you Chief Instructor.’
‘May I ask if you were kind enough to recommend me?’
‘No. No, I can’t say that I did. I recommended no one. You are Lord Bedlington’s choice.’
‘And what about Dubedat and Toby Lush? Am I to employ them?’
Pinkrose gave no sign that he had ever heard of Dubedat and Lush. ‘You may employ whom you please,’ he said.
‘When will the school reopen?’
‘I suggest the first of January. Yes, the first of January will be an excellent date.’
‘And may I start enrolments?’
‘You may do what you like.’ Pinkrose walked out of the room without a good-day and Guy and Harriet were left to find their way out. They took the steps down to the garden where the new green was pushing through the straw tangle of dead plants. Once they were safely away from the house, Harriet said: ‘That was interesting. It looks as though Pinkrose, when pushed, is tougher than we thought.’
Grinning in exultation, Guy said: ‘We know how he got his job; but heaven knows how I got mine.’
‘You’ve got it. That’s all that matters.’ Harriet was as exultant as he: ‘In spite of your follies, luck is on your side.’
14
Two days before Christmas, the bells started up again. The Greeks on the Albanian coast road had taken Himarra. So the advance continued and the hope of a conclusive victory lightened the winter. Everyone was certain that in a few weeks, in a month or less, the enemy would be asking for terms. The war was as good as over.
Still, it was a sparse Christmas. There was little enough for sale in the shops that did their best, decking the windows with palm and bay in honour of the Greek heroes, and olive for the expected peace.
There were candles and ribbons – blue and white ribbons, and red, white and blue ribbons – and, for the short space of twilight, the shops were allowed to shine for the festival. Everyone came out to see the brilliance of the streets, but when darkness was complete, the black-out came down and those who could afford it crowded into the cafés. The others went home.
Harriet went shopping to celebrate another victory: the conquest of a city that was on no map but their own. Guy was employed. They had found a home. They could remain where they most wanted to be. She bought Guy a length of raw silk to be made into a summer jacket, one of the last silk lengths left in a shop which had been opened by an Englishwoman to encourage the arts of Greece. The woman had gone back to England, and no one had time now to weave silk or make goatskin rugs or pottery jars for honey.
The Pringles were asked to two Christmas parties, one to be given by Mrs Brett and one by Major Cookson. The Major’s invitation came in first but Guy thought they should accept Mrs Brett’s. ‘We owe it to her,’ he said. ‘She would never forgive us if we went to Cookson.’
‘Why do we owe it to her?’ asked Harriet, who was drawn to the idea of the Phaleron party.
‘She’s been so badly treated.’
‘She probably deserved it. I would much rather go to Cookson’s.’
‘It’s out of the question. She’d be deeply hurt.’
In the end Harriet was over-ridden, as she always seemed to be, and the argument came to an end.
On Christmas Day the sky was overcast. The parties did not begin until 8 o’clock and they had to get through the day that was a sad and empty day of the homeless.
When they went out to walk in the shuttered streets, the Pringles met Alan Frewen who was wandering about with his dog. He joined them and they went together towards Zonar’s where Ben Phipps sat staring into vacancy. At the sight of them, he jumped up, asking eagerly: ‘Where are you off to?’ They did not know.
University Street stretched away, long, straight and harshly grey, with only one figure in sight – Yakimov, his tall, fragile body stooped beneath the weight of his fur-lined coat. Seeing four persons known to him, he began to hurry, several times tripping over his fallen hem, and came to them smiling a smile of great sweetness, and singing out:
‘How heartwarming to see your nice familiar faces! What can one do on this day of comfort and joy? Where, oh where, can poor Yaki get a bite to eat?’
Alan said he had promised to give Diocletian a Christmas present of a real walk. Why should they not take the bus down to the sea-front and stroll along the beach?
Yakimov looked discouraged by this suggestion but when the others moved towards the bus stop, he followed with a sigh.
They were alone on the shore. The air was moist but there was no wind, and the cold, instead of blowing into their faces, seeped down from the yellowish folds of cloud above their heads.
The sea was fixed like a jelly in bands of sombre colour: neutral at the edge, a heavy violet in mid-distance, indigo where it touched the horizon.
In the jaundiced light the esplanade was grey but the pink and yellow houses shone with an unnatural clarity, while the Major’s villa was as white as a skull within a circlet of palms and fur-dark pines.
The dog, released, had taken off like a projectile and now dashed back and forwards, sending up flurries of sand and barking its joy in freedom. Alan, chiding it with a doting smile, made matters worse by throwing stones for it.