‘Odd sort of disguise,’ Phipps said.
‘All disguises are odd,’ Yakimov said in a tone of reprimand, gentle but dignified.
Harriet, who had not expected much of Tandy, did not share Guy’s disappointment. She had liked him well enough at first and still liked him after the brief myth died. He made no demands, but he was there: his table was a meeting place, a lodgement during stress and a centre for the exchange of news.
Charles intended, apparently, to keep his word. She had rejected his ultimatum and would not see him again; and so was drawn like an orphan to Tandy’s large, comfortable, undemanding presence.
‘May I adopt you as a father figure?’ she said, approaching his table. For answer, he rose and bowed.
His size helped him to an appearance of good nature. But would his good nature stand up to the test? It might be nothing more than the bonhomie of an experienced man who knew what would serve him best. She did not hope to uncover the truth about Tandy. Time was too short. He had arrived in a hurry, was hurriedly adopted as a prodigy and as hurriedly dropped. Whatever the truth might be, she suspected he had adapted himself so often to so many different situations, he had lost touch with his real self. But what did it matter? With Tandy as her chaperon, she could sit and watch the world go by.
As she expected, Charles walked past. He had said she would never see him again, but while they remained in one community, they must meet; and, meeting, she knew they would be drawn together.
He noticed Tandy first, then saw that Harriet was with Tandy. He looked away and did not look back.
Next day, he reappeared. This time, he eyed her obliquely and smiled to himself, amused at the company she was keeping.
The third time she saw him, Yakimov and Alan were present.
Alan called: ‘Hey!’ and held out his stick. Charles stopped, growing slightly pink, and talked to Alan while Harriet devoted herself to Tandy and Yakimov. The discussion at an end, Charles went off without giving her a glance.
‘I was having a word about the Pendeli walk,’ said Alan.
‘The Pendeli walk?’ Harriet asked in a light, high voice.
‘You are coming, aren’t you?’
‘Of course. But is Charles coming?’
‘He’ll come if he can.’
The rest of the party would be Alan, Ben Phipps and the Pringles. Alan now suggested that Yakimov and Tandy should join them. Yakimov looked at Tandy, the globe-trotter, and Tandy shook his head. Yakimov echoed this refusaclass="underline" ‘Your old Yak’s not up to it.’
As the sun grew warmer, Tandy threw off his coat, but kept it safely anchored by the weight on his backside. With an identical gesture, Yakimov threw off his own coat, saying to Tandy: ‘Did I ever tell you, dear boy, the Czar gave this greatcoat to m’poor old dad?’
‘You’ve mentioned it …’ Tandy paused, grunted and added: ‘… repeatedly. Um, um. Right royal wrap-rascal, eh?’
Yakimov smiled.
His coat-lining, moulting, brittle and parting at the seams, had been described by Ben Phipps as: ‘Less like sable than a lot of down-at-heel dock rats wiped out by cholera,’ but Yakimov saw no fault in it. He had a coat like Tandy’s coat. Tandy, globe-trotter and secret agent, owning a crocodile wallet stuffed with 100-drachma notes, was Yakimov’s secret Yakimov. Tandy, too, had a coat lined with – whatever was it?
‘Wanted to ask you, dear boy,’ Yakimov asked: ‘What kind of fur is that you’ve got inside?’
‘Pine marten.’
Yakimov nodded his approval. ‘Very nice.’
He would have spent the day at Tandy’s elbow had he not had to earn a living elsewhere. Gathering himself together, he would say: ‘Have to go, dear boy. Must tear myself away. Must do m’bit.’ Departing, he would sigh, but he was proud of his employment. He liked Tandy to know that he was in demand.
As the British troops went, sent away with flowers and cheers, the camps closed down and Yakimov was no longer neded to play Maria. There was still talk of a ‘Gala Performance’ to aid the Greek fighting men, but Pinkrose had complained to the Legation. Dobson telephoned Guy with the advice: ‘Better let the show rest for a bit.’ Yakimov, resting, still talked of his Maria that had been un succès fou and his Pandarus which he had played to ‘all the quality and gentry of Bucharest’.
But these triumphs were in the past; his job at the Information Office lived on. ‘Lord Pinkrose needs me,’ he would say. ‘Feel I should give the dear boy a helping hand.’
When he saw Harriet installed in the News Room, Pinkrose said ‘Monstrous!’ but he said it under his breath. After that he always seemed too busy to notice she was there.
He had said no more about leaving Greece. He had accepted Alan’s reassurances and was apparently unaware that the revolution had cancelled them out. He may not have known there had been a revolution. The news did not interest him. He had time now for nothing but his lecture that would, he told Alan, be given early in April. The exact date could not be announced until a suitable hall was found. Alan was required to find a hall and Pinkrose came hourly into the News Room to ask: ‘Well, Frewen, what luck?’
Alan’s task was not an easy one. Most of the halls in Athens had been requisitioned by the services. The hall attached to the English church was much too small. Alan recommended the University but Pinkrose said he wanted the lecture to be a social rather than a pedagogical occasion.
He said: ‘I cannot see the beautiful ladies of Athens turning up in the company of students. It would be too … too “unsmart”.’
‘If you want that sort of occasion,’ Alan said, ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you. I haven’t the right connections. You’d do better on your own.’
‘Now, now, no heel-taps, Frewen! Soldier on. Myself, as you well know, have other things to do.’
When Pinkrose came in again, he found Alan had no more suggestions to make. He said crossly: ‘You’re being unhelpful, Frewen. Yes, yes, unhelpful. I’ll go to Phaleron. I’ll appeal to the Major.’
‘An excellent idea!’
Pinkrose stared at Alan’s large, sunken, expressionless face, then went angrily to the Billiard Room. A little later a taxi called for him. He set out, fully wrapped, for Phaleron.
All the Major could offer was his own garden, but it was, Pinkrose said, ‘glorious with spring’, and in the end he accepted it. He announced the arrangements to Alan, saying: ‘The lecture will be combined with a garden party. There will be a buffet luncheon for the guests. I think I can safely say, knowing the Major, that it will be a sumptuous affair. Yes, yes, a sumptuous affair. I am an experienced speaker, not daunted by the open air; and it’s in the Greek tradition, Frewen; the tradition of the Areopagus and the Pnyx. Oh yes! the Major has been very kind. As I expected, of course. As I expected.’ Pinkrose sped away, to return fifteen minutes later, his voice hoarse with excitement: ‘I have decided, Frewen; yes, I have decided. I will give my lecture on the first Sunday in April.’
Alan gave a sombre nod. When Pinkrose went, he returned to his work, not meeting the eyes of Harriet or Yakimov. In a minute Pinkrose was back again. ‘I think the list should be left to the Major. The Major must compile it with my help, needless to say.’
The list took so long to compile there was no time to have the invitation cards engraved and Pinkrose refused to have them printed. They had to be written out. Pinkrose suggested that those for persons of importance should be written by Alan. The cards were placed on Alan’s desk but remained untouched until Pinkrose took them away and wrote them himself. Invitations for persons of less importance were written by Miss Gladys. The rest were typed by Miss Mabel after attempts proved that neither Yakimov nor Miss Mabel could write a legible hand.