Charles, waiting, unsmiling, at the side entrance, met her with a strained and guarded look of inquiry.
Fearing she had behaved unwisely, she said: ‘I am going to the Plaka. Will you come with me?’
He did not reply but followed her through the crowds that were out to see the British lorries and guns coming into the town. ‘This is exciting, isn’t it?’ she said.
‘I suppose it is exciting for you.’
‘But not for you?’
‘To me, it means I won’t be here much longer.’
They came into the square where Byron had lived. Tables and chairs had been placed outside the little café but no one could sit in the bitter wind that cut the tender, drifting branches of the pepper trees. Having come so far, Charles suddenly asked: ‘Where are you going?’
‘To the dressmaker. I hoped you’d translate for me; my Greek isn’t very good.’
He grew pale and stared at her in resentful accusation: ‘Is that why you wanted to see me? You simply wanted to make use of me?’
‘No.’ She was wounded by his reaction. She had supposed he would see the request as a gesture of intimacy, would know at once that it was an excuse for summoning him: ‘Don’t you want to do something for me?’
His expression did not change. For some minutes he was silent as though he could not bring himself to speak, then burst out: ‘Where is this dressmaker?’
‘Here. But it doesn’t matter. Let’s go to Zonar’s and see if we can get a sandwich.’
He neither agreed nor disagreed but turned when she turned and walked back with her towards University Street. Because she had been misunderstood, she did not try to speak but, glancing once or twice at his severe profile, she wondered what attached her to this cold, distant and angry stranger. This of course was the moment to break away, and yet the attraction remained. Even seeing him detached and unaccountable, she still had no real will to leave him.
Half a dozen Australian lorries had parked on Zonar’s corner and the men had climbed down. Some were drinking with newly made Greek friends: others were lurching about between the outdoor tables, occasionally knocking down a chair, but still sober and reasonable enough. The Greeks seemed delighted with them but Charles came to a stop and, shaken out of his sulks, said: ‘We’d better not go there.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘It’s out of bounds to other ranks, which makes things awkward for me. But, worse than that, they’re drinking, so there’s likely to be trouble. I don’t want you mixed up in it.’
‘Really! How ridiculous!’
He caught her arm and led her away protesting. Laughing at him and refusing any longer to be restrained by his ill-humour, she said: ‘If you won’t go there, we’ll go to the dressmaker!’
She walked him back to the Plaka where a young Greek woman was making her two summer dresses. Charles translated her instructions with a poor grace, then said: ‘I’ll wait for you outside.’ She half expected when she left to find he had gone, but he stood in the lane beside a flower-shop. He had been buying violets and, seeing her, he held the bunch out to her. She took it and put it to her mouth.
She spoke through the sweetness of the petals: ‘We mustn’t quarrel. There isn’t time.’
‘No, there certainly isn’t.’ Giving his ironical laugh, he asked: ‘Now where do you want to go?’
‘I don’t mind where we go, but don’t be cross.’
‘We might get something to eat. It’s too late for luncheon but, if we go to the Corinthian, I know one of the waiters. He’ll find something for us.’
Racing back to the square, dodging the crowds on the pavements, Charles held to her, pulling her along, caught up in the inspirited air of the city centre where so much was happening. They were both elated as the enchantment of their companionship renewed itself.
How much longer was he likely to stay in Athens? He did not know. The Mission was to be absorbed into the Expeditionary Force, but he still had his work at the Military Attaché’s office and would remain until his detachment arrived. That could be within a few days, or not for two or three weeks. No one seemed to know when the different units would turn up. Hurriedly organized, its contingents mixed and withdrawn from different sectors, the campaign was in some confusion.
One thing only was certain – there was no certainty and very little time.
The lorries, crowding in now from the Piraeus, were trying to find their way to camps outside Athens. Several, having gone astray, had made their way into Stadium Street and one after another stopped to get directions from Charles. Each time, as the Englishmen talked, a little crowd gathered to watch. A girl threw a bunch of cyclamen up to the men who leant over the lorry side. At this the men began to call to the passers-by and more flowers were thrown, and a fête-day atmosphere came into the streets. Suddenly everyone was throwing flowers to the men and calling a welcome in Greek and English. All in a moment, it seemed, fear had broken down. British intervention might indeed mean that Greece was lost, but these men were guests in the country and must be treated as such. Then the men, who had been bewildered by the suspicion, the unexpected winter weather, the fact the girls would not look at them, were reassured and began good-naturedly to respond.
Amidst all the shouting and waving and throwing of flowers, Harriet held on to Charles and said: ‘It’s fun not to be alone.’
Charles smiled down on her, in quizzical disbelief: ‘But are you ever alone?’ he asked.
‘Quite often. Guy is always busy on something. He’s …’ She was about to say ‘He’s too busy to live,’ but checked herself. It was, after all, a question of what one meant by living. She said instead: ‘He has his own interests.’
‘Interests that you don’t share?’
‘Often they’re interests I can’t share. These productions, for instance: he enjoys putting them on but he prefers not to have me there. It’s quite understandable, of course. The production is his world; he’s the dominating influence – and he feels I don’t take him seriously. When I’m there, I spoil it for him. And he does much too much. In Bucharest, when he staged Troilus and Cressida, he worked on it day and night. The Germans were advancing into Paris at the time. I never saw him. He simply disappeared.’
‘What did you do? Were you alone?’
‘Usually, yes.’
Charles watched her gravely, awaiting some conclusive revelation satisfactory to himself, but she said no more. After a moment he encouraged her: ‘You must have been lonely, in a strange country at a time like that?’
‘Yes.’
‘You married a stranger, and went to live among strangers. What did you expect?’
‘Nothing. We did not expect to survive. It’s our survival that’s thrown us out. However, as a potential, Guy seemed remarkable. Now I’m not so sure about him. As a potential, he probably is remarkable, but all he does is dissipate himself. And why? Do you think he’s afraid to put himself to the test?’
Charles did not know the answer to this question, but said: ‘He seems confident enough.’
‘Guy’s confidence really comes from a lack of contact with reality. He’s stuck in unreality. He’s afraid to come out.’
Trying himself to gain more contact with reality, Charles asked: ‘What’s he doing at the moment?’
‘Rehearsing the revue again. They’ve all decided to defy Pinkrose, and the padre’s letting them use the church hall. He’s probably over there now.’
In this she was wrong, as she soon discovered. They passed a café. The day had brightened and sitting outside in the sun was Guy with a British army officer. ‘See who’s here,’ he called out to her.