She asked if they had given up their flat.
‘It gave us up. The old soul rented it from Archie Callard. Archie wanted it back, worse luck, but now he’s got it, he doesn’t live in it. He’s always at Phaleron. But he’s sick of Athens. He says he wants to do something big … go to Cairo, get into the war, join the Long Range Desert Group. The Major’s working on it.’
‘What can the Major do?’
‘The Major! He can do anything.’
‘But he can’t produce transport where there isn’t any.’
‘Don’t you be so sure. Planes come here from Cairo. If someone very important wanted to go back on one, he could wangle it.’
‘Is Archie Callard as important as that?’
‘No, but the Major is. And there’s no knowing what Archie may do! He’s talking of starting a private army.’
‘Are there private armies these days?’
‘’Course there are. Plenty of them.’
‘I hear you’re employed by the Major?’
‘We help a bit. There’s not much staff at Phaleron. The chauffeur’s gone, so I have taken over. The Major’s very decent. He’s given us the flat over the garage.’
‘What does Dubedat do?’
‘Helps around.’ Toby lowered his voice as though disclosing something shamefuclass="underline" ‘The old soul does a bit of gardening, cleans silver, makes the beds. The other day the butler told him to wash the hall tiles. Bit of a come-down, eh? Man like that washing tiles! If he’d had his rights, he’d have been Director. Can’t get over it. Disgraceful, the way the old soul’s been treated!’
Bleak and brooding, Toby stared at the floor until Miss Gladys reappeared. ‘Come along,’ she said, and rising and projecting himself in one movement, Toby nearly went down on his face.
Alan had always described the food at the Academy as ‘execrable’, but the Sunday on which he invited the Pringles to luncheon promised to be a special occasion. He would not explain further, having no wish to raise hopes that might not be fulfilled.
Walking between showers up the wide, grey, windy Vasilissis Sofias, Guy talked exuberantly about a new production of the revue that was to be bigger, funnier, and better dressed, and staged in Athens on behalf of the Greek war effort. The times were gloomy but once again Guy had escaped from them.
There were no victories now. The bells had ceased to ring. The Athenians, living under conditions that resembled those of a protracted siege, were bored with the present and saw little to cheer them in the future. The Greeks were bogged down in the mountains. They had come to a stop on the Albanian coast. Some said they had given up hope of taking Valona. The men were exhausted. There was no food. Ammunition was running out.
Turning off towards the Academy, Harriet looked into the forecourt of the military hospital and saw the wounded still dragging round the wet asphalt square.
Guy said: ‘We’ll have to improve our theme song. I don’t think its bad, mind you, but we can’t keep singing the same thing.’
‘I suppose not.’
February, that in other years held intimations of spring, this year prolonged the bitter weather. Suffering to a point beyond endurance, the men in the mountain snows complained that supplies were not coming to the front. The Athenians, ill-fed, chilled to the bone, had no supplies to send.
Harriet said: ‘They’ll have to accept a truce.’
‘What?’
‘Look at those men. How can the Greeks go on like this?’
Guy looked, his face contracting, and after a long pause said: ‘The British may be joining in.’
‘Nobody seems to want them.’
The rumour that British troops were already on their way had caused as much alarm as rejoicing, for people feared they would do no more than expedite a German attack.
‘Still,’ said Guy, ‘anything is better than this sort of stalemate.’
It was colder inside the Academy than out. A small wood fire had been lit in the common room but the damp hung like mist in the air. Most of the chairs were taken and the talk carried a surprising intonation of cheer. Alan had a bottle of ouzo on his table and he started filling the glasses as soon as he saw Guy and Harriet cross the room.
‘So it is a special occasion!’ Harriet said.
‘It is,’ Alan agreed; and when they were seated and warmed by the ouzo, he told them that one of the inmates, a man called Tennant, had been promised a piece of beef by an officer on a visiting cruiser. ‘The promise,’ said Alan, ‘led to some slight disagreement. Miss Dunne, as usual, tried to boss the show. Before the beef had even arrived, she stuck a notice on the board saying that this Sunday guests would not be allowed. I appealed to Tennant who, after all, should be the one to decide. He said: “Ask whomsoever you like. The beef may not materialize. And if it does, it’ll probably be bitched by that God-awful cook.”’
Miss Dunne, defeated, sat beside the fire, her gaze on a book, apparently aloof from the famished anticipation that stirred the rest of the room.
Above the general animation Pinkrose’s voice, precise and scholarly, carried clearly from some distant corner. He, also, had a visitor, to whom he was describing the intention and content of his lecture on Byron.
Wondering if the visitor could be Miss Gladys Twocurry, Harriet said: ‘Do you think the younger Miss Twocurry has intentions towards Pinkrose?’
Alan nodded gravely: ‘I’m sure of it. And, you must agree, she would make a very toothsome Lady Pinkrose.’
Listening for the luncheon bell, they listened perforce to the Pinkrose monologue which persisted until it had silenced all about it. At last the bell sounded and a sigh went over the room. The inmates did their best to leave in good order, letting the women go ahead. When Miss Dunne saw she was not the only one of her sex, she hastened to be the first from the room. Harriet now had a sight of Pinkrose’s guest. It was Charles Warden.
The main meals at the Academy were taken round a table, as they had been when the diners were students with a common interest and lived as a family. Alan had said: ‘I’m afraid our table talk wouldn’t be out of place in a Trappist refectory. Sometimes someone makes a mention of work but not, of course, when visitors are present. You are liable to meet with complete silence.’
The meal was served. Everyone – Diocletian not forgotten – received a slice of beef, overcooked and dry, but still beef; and the diners gave a few appreciative ‘hahs’ and ‘hums’. One man even went so far as to say: ‘I say!’ Pinkrose, respecting the traditional taciturnity, talked below his breath. Charles, attentive, kept his eyes lowered.
A salad came with the meat. Harriet examined the coarse, dark leaves and said: ‘They could be marguerite leaves.’ Alan handed her oil and vinegar. ‘Put on plenty,’ he advised. ‘It’s only the olive oil that keeps us alive,’ and Miss Dunne, sitting opposite, raised her brows.
Guy, not easily subdued, asked his neighbour if there were anything in the story that the British were about to intervene on the Greek front.
Stunned by the question, the man caught his breath and whispered: ‘I shouldn’t think so.’
‘No? I’ve heard that British troops are already disembarking on Lemnos.’
Miss Dunne, usually pink, grew pinker; then, unable to restrain herself, burst out: ‘If you’ve heard that, you’ve no right to repeat it.’
‘It’s being pretty widely repeated,’ Alan said, and tried to divert Guy by suggesting to him that Naxos would be a more likely half-way house for troops bound for the Piraeus.
‘But are they bound for the Piraeus?’ Guy asked. ‘They may go to Salonika.’