She had forgotten Charles. When he said: ‘What is the matter?’ his lightly quizzical tone affronted her. She said: ‘Nothing.’ He put a hand to her elbow, she moved away, but the all clear was sounding and they were free to leave.
Outside in the street, he said again: ‘What’s the matter?’ and added with an embarrassed attempt at sympathy: ‘Aren’t you happy?’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it. Is one required to be happy?’
‘I didn’t mean that. “Happy” isn’t the word. I don’t know what I meant.’
She knew what he meant but said nothing.
‘Guy is a wonderful person,’ he said at last. ‘Don’t you feel you’re lucky to be married to him?’
‘You scarcely know him.’
‘I know people who know him. Everyone seems to know him, and speak highly of him. Eleko Vourakis said: “Guy Pringle will do anything to help anyone.”’
‘Yes, he will. That’s true.’
Not enlightened by her agreement, Charles gave a laugh – the brief, exasperated laugh of a man who suspects he is being swindled. It occurred to her that her first impression of him had had some justification. Whatever he might be, he was not simple. She was relieved when they reached the Grande Bretagne.
‘Are you seeing Frewen now?’ he asked.
‘Yes. I may get a job in the Information Office.’
‘Then you’ll be next door to me.’
‘It’s not settled yet.’
‘Have tea with me tomorrow?’
‘Not tomorrow.’
‘Then, when?’
‘Thursday is possible. I’ll have to see what Guy is doing.’
He opened the hotel door and as the interior light fell on his face, she saw he was chagrined. ‘Perhaps you’ll let me know,’ he said.
‘Yes, I’ll let you know.’ She went off, scarcely knowing why she felt elated, and made her way back to the Billiard Room. This time the Misses Twocurry did not give her a look. The desks were overhung by two green-shaded bulbs pulled down so low there was nothing to be seen but the desk-tops and the outline of the women. Harriet asked for Mr Frewen and, as though too occupied to speak, the younger waved her towards a door.
Alan and Yakimov were in a room marked News Room. Filled with elegant little escritoires and gilt, tapestry-seated chairs, it had once been the hotel writing room. Every piece of furniture was hung with news-sheets Roneoed over with blocks of information that had either been marked as important or heavily crossed out.
Alan was seated behind a massive desk that might have come from the manager’s office. He was working on the sheets with a charcoal pencil, scoring out or underlining information, then handing them to Yakimov who sat, with negligent humility, in front of the desk. Although, as a military establishment, the hotel was heated, Yakimov still had his coat about him. At the sight of Harriet, he struggled to his feet, delighted that she should not only see him working but interrupt his work.
Alan was less sociable. He seemed ill at ease in the position of employer, but he was prepared for her arrival. He had books, maps, depositions and newspaper cuttings stacked ready, and started at once to explain how she must correlate the material in order to make a handbook for the troops who were preparing to invade Dodecanese. He was in the midst of this when Miss Gladys Twocurry entered and started to sort the letters in a tray. Alan stopped speaking and when Harriet began to question him, he lifted a hand to silence her. When at last it became evident that Miss Twocurry would hear nothing, she took herself off.
Alan made no comment on this sally but said to Harriet: ‘I had hoped to put you in here with Yakimov, but apparently we are to have a Director of Propaganda.’
‘Lord Pinkrose?’
‘Yes. The Legation says his appointment is imminent. He has decided he must have my office, so I’ve had to move in here. There’ll be more space for you in the outer office. Don’t let anyone quiz you about your work. Simply say you’re not allowed to discuss it.’
He gathered up Harriet’s impedimenta and led her back to the Billiard Room where he switched on a central light, disclosing a confusion usually hidden beneath the gloom of day or the shadows of night.
As though scandalized by this, Miss Gladys Twocurry clicked her tongue.
Alan passed her without a glance. The billiard tables, with their stout legs and little crocheted ball-traps, had been pushed against the walls and covered with dust-sheets. The sheets, intended to protect the baize, had fallen awry. Unfiled papers were heaped on the green surface which was growing grey with dust. Beside the billiard tables there were dining tables, bureaux, military trestle-tables and card tables; and every surface was covered with letters, reports, news sheets, newspapers, maps and posters, all thrown pell-mell together and growing écru with age. An open bureau was filled with rolls of cartridge paper, made brittle by the summer heat, and as Alan swept them to the floor, they cracked like crockery and Miss Gladys clicked again, more loudly.
Alan said: ‘You can work here. If you need anything, let me know.’ He left the room.
Harriet, arranging her books and papers, was conscious of the Twocurrys behind her. Miss Mabel’s typewriter was still. Miss Gladys seemed not to breathe. Then, suddenly, Miss Gladys crossed the room and her personal smell, a smell like old mutton fat, filled the neighbourhood of Harriet’s desk. She was peering down at a copy of the Mediterranean Pilot which Harriet had opened on the table.
She asked severely: ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’m working. I’ve been employed.’
‘Indeed! And what are you working at, may I ask?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you.’
‘Indeed!’ Miss Gladys’s head quivered with indignation. ‘Who employed you? Lord Pinkrose?’
‘I was taken on by Mr Frewen.’
‘Ah!’ Miss Gladys seemed to think she had uncovered a fault and, turning, went purposefully from the room.
Harriet waited apprehensively, knowing her apprehensions were absurd. If Pinkrose disapproved her, he could do no more than dismiss her. As he was not yet Director of Propaganda, he could not, as yet, do even that.
The door opened again. She could hear Pinkrose’s grunts and coughs and, glancing over her shoulder, she saw he had stopped at a safe distance from her and was viewing her as though to confirm whatever Miss Gladys had said.
‘Good evening, Lord Pinkrose,’ Harriet said.
He coughed and muttered: ‘Yes, yes,’ then went to a bookcase where he took down a book, opened it, fluttered the pages, clapped it to and returned it. He muttered several times: ‘Yes, yes,’ while Miss Gladys stood by hopefully and watched. Harriet returned to her work. Having dealt with several other books, Pinkrose left the bookcase and began rustling among the papers, several times saying: ‘Yes, yes,’ in an urgent tone, then suddenly he sped away. Miss Gladys let out her breath in an aggravated way. For the first time it occurred to Harriet that Pinkrose was as nervous of her as she was of him.
Next morning, soon after she arrived in the office, a military messenger rapped the door and came in with a note.
‘Bring it over here,’ Miss Gladys pointed imperiously to a spot on the floor beside her.
The messenger said: ‘It’s for Mrs Pringle.’
Harriet took the note and read: ‘Will you have lunch today?’ There was no signature. In the space for a reply, she wrote ‘Yes’ and handed back the paper. Miss Mabel thumped on unawares, but Miss Gladys watched with the incredulity of one who wonders how far insolence can go.
Charles Warden was at the side entrance, standing casually as though he had merely paused to reflect and would, in a moment, move away. When Harriet said: ‘Hello,’ he appeared surprised and she said: ‘Someone invited me to lunch. I thought it might be you.’