Though he had managed to take her away from any company but his own, Charles was not prepared to talk. She commented on things and asked questions but could not get an answer from him. His unrelenting ill-humour filled her with a sense of failure. Why need time be wasted in this way? She felt him to be intolerably demanding and ungenerous, yet she was despondent because, in a few days, he would be gone and they might never meet again.
War meant a perpetual postponement of life, yet one did not cease to grow old. She had been twenty-one when it started. At the end, if there ever was an end, what age would she be? How could she blame Guy for dissipating his energies when all the resources of life were being dissipated? What else could he do? War was a time when mediocrities came to the top and better men must rot or die in the conflict.
As for Charles, whose prospects had been so much more promising than theirs, how must he feel at seeing his youth wasted on his present futile employment? He was uncomplaining, of course. His education and upbringing required him to be uncomplaining, but what secret misery did he express in his petulance and silences and sudden shows of temper?
She stopped speaking herself until Charles said: ‘There’s a walk along the top of Pendeli. It’s rather fine. We might go up there one day.’
She looked up to the spine of the hill that showed black against the stars. ‘Would we be allowed to go as far as that?’
‘I think so. Anyway, I could get permits.’
‘When could we go?’
‘We’ll have to wait until the weather is settled. It can be cold on the top, and there’s no shelter if it rains.’
The quarrel, it seemed, was forgotten. Despite their uncertain future, they planned the walk as a possible, even probable, event in the time ahead. Harriet thought Guy would come and they wondered who else might join the excursion.
Talking, they made their way back between the gardens. By the time they reached the hall, they had decided to arrange the walk early in April.
Charles said: ‘The first Sunday in April would be a good day.’
‘Will you still be here?’
Charles walked up the length of the orchard path before he muttered: ‘How do I know?’
Inside the hall the chorus, giving encore after encore, sang:
Harriet and Charles went behind the stage where the refreshments would be served. The wooden trays covered with tissue paper were stacked one on top of the other. The cast of Maria Marten, back into everyday dress, were waiting for food and as the chorus waved the audience away and the hall emptied at last, Ben Phipps slapped his hands together and said: ‘Now for the grub; and, mein Gott, ich habe Hunger.’
‘Haven’t we all, dear boy,’ said Yakimov giving a whinny of gleeful anticipation. As he moved towards the trays, Mrs Brett pushed him aside and said: ‘All right, Prince Yaki, I’m in charge of this department. I’ll do the honours.’ She lifted down the top tray and removed the paper. The tray was empty. The tray beneath it was empty. All the trays were empty. A crust or two, a single cherry, some fluted paper cups, proved that food had been there once.
Some local men, hired to put out the chairs and act as stagehands, were gathered with their women at the back door, watching, blank-faced and silent. Mrs Brett turned and raged at them in a mixture of Greek and English.
Smirking in embarrassment, they shook their heads and held out their hands, palms up; they had nothing, they knew nothing.
Guy said: ‘They were hungry. Say nothing more about it.’
‘We’re all hungry. They’d’ve got their share,’ Mrs Brett faced the employed men again, saying: ‘If you didn’t eat it all, where is it?’ They looked at one another in wonder. Who could tell?
Their perplexity was so convincing, several people glanced suspiciously at Yakimov, but Yakimov’s disappointment was plain. He picked up the crusts and ate them one by one, leaving the cherry for the last. Wetting a forefinger and pressing it down on the crumbs, he murmured: ‘Sponge-cake.’
Mrs Brett said: ‘We should have placed a guard on the food. But, there you are! One thinks of these things too late.’
The weary players went for their coats. Ben Phipps, seeing a telephone on a table, lifted it and, finding it connected, shouted to Guy: ‘Half a mo’: let’s see if anything’s happened.’ He rang the Stefani Agency. The others stood around while Ben, his eyes shifting from side to side, shouted: ‘They’ve signed, eh? They’ve signed …’ He nodded knowingly to Guy: ‘What did I say? While you were demonstrating your solidarity, it was all over. Paul’s made a clever deal. The Germans will respect Yugoslav territory.’
They climbed into the lorry and sat close together in the cold night air while Guy affirmed his faith in the Yugoslavs: ‘They’ll never stand for an alliance with Hitler.’
‘Be your age,’ Ben said. ‘If they can keep the Germans out, they’ll save their bacon and probably save ours as well. If Hitler can’t move through Yugoslavia, he’ll be left sitting on the Bulgarian frontier. It’s less than 300 kilometres, all mountain country. Olympus is our strong-point. We could trap the bastards behind the Aliakmon and keep them trapped for months.’
In spite of their hunger, in spite of the cold, in spite of themselves, the passengers in the lorry felt a lift of hope. Their new enemy might in the end be the saviour of them all.
PART FOUR
The Funeral
25
On the morning following the submission of Yugoslavia, the office boy, summoned by Lord Pinkrose, returned to the Billiard Room with a foolscap draft of material to be typed.
All such material went first to Miss Gladys who would look through it, then, with explanation and encouraging noises, set her sister to work. If anything of particular interest came to hand, she would keep it for herself.
The foolscap sheet caused her to squeak with excitement and she ordered the boy to bring her typewriter to her desk. Her preparations for work were always protracted. This morning there seemed no end to them. As she fidgeted with the typing paper, her grunts and gasps and heavy breathing told Harriet that the foolscap sheet contained matter of unusual import. She supposed it must relate to the Yugoslav situation. The Legation had telephoned Alan warning him that refugees from Belgrade were moving towards Greece, the direction left to them.
Harriet had been in the News Room that morning when the call came. While she waited to speak to Alan, Pinkrose entered and signalled that he had something to say more important than anything that might be said by the Legation. His chameleon face was grey with the sweat of panic. He drummed on the desk, too agitated to know or care that Harriet and Yakimov were watching him.
Imagining that Pinkrose’s needs were more pressing than those of the refugees, Alan apologized to his caller, put down the receiver and turned his long-suffering gaze upon the Director of Propaganda.
Pinkrose shot a finger at the map on the News Room walclass="underline" ‘You see what’s happened, Frewen? You see … you see … !’
Alan moved round slowly in his chair. Harriet and Yakimov lifted their heads. They all looked up at the Greek peninsula that flew like a tattered banner towards Africa.
‘They’ve got everything,’ Pinkrose panted. ‘The Italians are in Albania. The Germans have got Bulgaria and Yugoslavia. They’ve got the whole frontier.’