‘He did not sell Diocletian’s food. It was a gift.’ ‘Yes, if you are poor you sell things or you give them away. What you cannot do is keep them.’
Guy regarded her with quizzical wonder before he said: ‘Why aren’t you a Progressive? You recognize the truth yet don’t subscribe to it.’
‘I disagree. Truth is more complex than politics.’
Guy looked to Ben Phipps but Ben was not taking on Harriet. Instead, he bawled out:
Thinking he was having a sly dig at her, Harriet was not much pleased by this song, but Guy was delighted. Phipps, encouraged, passed into a gay, satirical mood and began to entertain the company. He lifted the edge of Yakimov’s coat and after examining the lining, whistled and said: ‘Sable, by Jove! Always thought it was rabbit.’
In no way offended, Yakimov smiled and said: ‘Fine coat. Once belonged to the Czar. Czar give it to m’poor old dad.’
‘Thought you were English?’
‘Certainly I am. Typical Englishman, you might say. Mother Irish.’
‘And your father?’
‘Russian. White Russian, of course.’
‘So you’re against the present lot? The Soviets?’
A wary look came over Yakimov’s face. ‘Don’t know about that, dear boy. Lot to be said for both lots.’
Phipps stared at Yakimov with mock severity then said: ‘This story about you doing undercover work? I suppose there’s no truth in it?’
Gratified by Phipps’s interest, Yakimov murmured: ‘Not in a position to say.’
‘Um. Well, if I were you, I’d issue a denial.’
‘Really, dear boy? Why?’
‘I just would, that’s all. British Intelligence isn’t popular here. The Italians took exception to their activities. It’s my belief, if those goofs had kept out, there’d’ve been no attack.’
Yakimov’s eyes grew moist with disquiet. He said: ‘Wish you’d elucidate, dear boy,’ but Phipps merely nodded with the threatening air of one who knows much but will say nothing. Yakimov sniffed with fear.
‘Don’t tease him,’ said Alan.
Bored and dispirited, they watched the rain plop heavily into the sand and the sea, jaundiced and viscous, move an inch forward and inch back. With the same viscous and inane slowness the afternoon crawled by. Cold and bored, they remained on the rickety verandah chairs because there was nothing else to do, nowhere to go. Yakimov said suddenly: ‘Athens, the Edinburgh of the south!’
It was so long since he had roused himself sufficiently to exercise his wit that the others looked at him in astonishment. He smiled and subsided and for a long time no one spoke.
Alan broke the silence to say that his friend Vourakis had told him a curious thing. The Greek people were saying that someone had run to Athens with the news of the victory of Koritza and, crying ‘Nenikiamen’, had fallen down dead.
‘I’ve heard that before,’ said Ben Phipps.
‘We’ve all heard it before,’ said Alan. ‘After the victory of Marathon the runner Phidipides ran with the news to Athens and, crying “Nenikiamen”, fell dead.’
‘It is possible,’ Guy said, ‘that the Marathon story had no more truth than the Koritza story.’
‘It is possible,’ Alan nodded. ‘But it is not a question of truth. This war, like other wars, is collecting its legends.’
The rain drummed on the slats above their heads, its rhythm breaking every few minutes when an overflow pipe released a gush of water. At last the fall slackened. The light was failing and they had to get to their feet and go.
As they reached the bus stop, a car came hooting behind them.
The car, a Delahaye, slowed down by the kerb and a head covered with wild, straw-coloured hair, shouted: ‘Hello, there!’
The car stopped and Toby Lush jumped out. ‘What brings you all to Phaleron?’ He ran at Guy, slipping on the wet road, almost falling headlong in his eagerness to clinch the meeting. ‘What a bit of luck, meeting you! Come on. Get in. Room for everyone.’
Yakimov and Ben Phipps, needing no second invitation, got themselves into the back seat, but Guy, though he found it impossible to snub Toby, had no wish to be driven by him.
Alan said: ‘There isn’t room for the dog. I’ll take the bus.’ He limped off, and Guy looked after him.
‘Get in. Get in.’ Toby seized Guy’s arm and manoeuvred him into the front seat. ‘Three in front,’ he shouted, then caught Harriet’s elbow: ‘Come along now. In there beside Guy.’
He was more than usually excited and, when under way, told them he had been helping to prepare the villa for the Major’s party. ‘They’re laying out the buffet. Gosh! Wait till you’ve had a dekko! You’re all coming, aren’t you?’ He was hilarious as though he had won a prize which, in a way, he had. The prize was Guy, and Toby had not captured him without reason.
‘Jolly glad you got that job,’ he said. ‘No one better fitted for it. Jolly glad. We’re both jolly glad. I don’t mean the old soul wasn’t put out. He was a bit, you know! Stands to reason; but what he said was: “If it’s not to be me then I’m glad it’s old Pringle.”’
Guy gave an ironicaclass="underline" ‘Oh!’ but it was an amused and good-natured irony, and Toby, encouraged, went on: ‘You’re opening in the new year aren’t you? You’ll be needing teachers? Well, what I wanted to say is: you can rely on the pair of us. We’ll help you out.’ His tone of open-hearted friendliness suggested that all was forgotten and forgiven.
Guy said ‘Oh!’ again and laughed. Harriet thought it likely enough that Dubedat and Toby Lush, when the School reopened, would be installed there as senior teachers.
‘Perhaps you think we behaved like a couple of Bs,’ Toby said. ‘Well, we didn’t. I’d like you to know that. We’d’ve done what we could for you but Gracey was dead against you. So we couldn’t do a thing.’
‘Even though Dubedat was in charge?’ Harriet asked.
‘That was all my eye.’ Toby blew out his moustache in disgust: ‘The old soul was hamstrung. He daren’t make a move without consulting Gracey.’
‘And why was Gracey dead against Guy? Because somebody told him that Guy neglected his work in order to produce a play?’
‘Look here!’ Toby Lush exploded in an injured way. ‘We told him the play was a smash hit. We said H.E. was in the royal box and every seat was sold. It was Gracey who disapproved – and I can tell you why! He was jealous. He couldn’t bear someone to do something he hadn’t done himself.’
‘Couldn’t he produce a play?’ Guy asked.
‘He’d be terrified to take the risk. Suppose it didn’t succeed! Besides, he was too damned lazy.’
‘Why didn’t you tell us this before?’ Harriet asked.
‘There’s such a thing as loyalty.’
‘Then why mention it now?’
‘Oh, I say!’ Toby now was both injured and indignant. ‘You can’t blame us. Look how the old soul’s been treated. He worked like a black doing Gracey’s job for him and what’s he got to show? We’re loyal. We’re loyal all right but …’