He said: ‘Was happy to help the dear boy.’
‘You’d never acted before, had you?’
‘Never, dear girl, never.’
‘What did you do before the war? Had you a job of any sort?’
He looked slightly affronted by the question and protested: ‘I had m’remittance, you know.’
She supposed he lived off a show of wealth: which was as good a confidence trick as any.
Conscious of her disapproval, he tried to improve things: ‘I did do a little work now and then. I mean, when I was a bit short of the ready.’
‘What sort of work?’
He shifted about under this inquiry. His foot began to shake again. ‘Sold cars for a bit,’ he said. ‘Only the best cars, of course: Rolls-Royces, Bentleys … M’own old girl’s an Hispano-Suiza. Finest cars in the world. Must get her back. Give you a run in her.’
‘What else did you do?’
‘Sold pictures, bric-à-brac …’
‘Really?’ Harriet was interested. ‘Do you know about pictures?’
‘Can’t say I do, dear girl. Don’t claim to be a professional. Helped a chap out now and then. Had a little flat in Clarges Street. Would hang up a picture, put out a bit of bric-à-brac, pick up some well-heeled gudgeon, indicate willingness to sell. “Your poor old Yaki’s got to part with family treasure.” You know the sort of thing. Not work, really. Just a little side-line.’ He spoke as though describing a respected way of life, then, as his shifting eye caught hers, his whole manner suddenly disintegrated. He struggled upright in his seat and, with head hanging, gazing down into his empty glass he mumbled: ‘Expecting m’remittance any day now. Don’t worry. Going to pay back every penny I owe …’
They were both relieved to hear Guy letting himself into the flat. He entered the room, smiling broadly as though he were bringing Harriet some delightful surprise. ‘You remember Toby Lush?’ he said.
‘It’s wonderful to see you again! Wonderful!’ Toby said, gazing at Harriet, his eyes bulging with excited admiration, giving the impression that theirs was some eagerly awaited reunion.
She had met him once before and barely remembered him. She did her best to respond but had never been much impressed by him. He was in the middle twenties, heavy-boned and clumsy in movement. His features were pronounced, his skin coarse, yet his face seemed to be made of something too soft and pliable for its purpose.
Sucking at his pipe, he turned to Guy and jerked out convulsively: ‘You know what she always makes me think of? Those lines of Tennyson: “She walks in beauty like the night of starless climes and something skies.”’
‘Byron,’ said Guy.
‘Oh, crumbs!’ Toby clapped a hand over his eyes in exaggerated shame. ‘I’m always doing it. It’s not that I don’t know: I don’t remember.’ He suddenly noticed Yakimov and crying: ‘Hello, hello, hello,’ he rushed forward with outstretched hand.
Harriet went into the kitchen to tell Despina there would be a guest for luncheon. When she returned, Toby, with many irrelevant guffaws, was describing the situation in the Transylvanian capital from which he had evacuated himself.
Although Cluj had been under Rumanian rule for twenty years, it was still a Hungarian city. The citizens only waited for the despised regime to end.
‘It’s not that they’re pro-German,’ he said, ‘they just want the Hunks back. They shut their eyes to the fact that when the Hunks come the Huns’ll follow. If you point it out, they make excuses. A woman I know, a Jewess, said: “We don’t want it for ourselves, we want it for our children.” They think it’ll happen any day now.’
Toby was standing by the open French window, the dazzle of out-of-doors limning his ragged outline. ‘I can tell you,’ he said, ‘the only Englishman among that lot, I had to keep my wits about me. And what do you think happened before I left? The Germans installed a Gauleiter – a Count Frederich von Flügel. “Get out while the going’s good,” I told myself.’
‘Freddi von Flügel!’ Yakimov broke in in delighted surprise. ‘Why, he’s an old friend of mine. A dear old friend.’ He looked happily about him. ‘When I get the Hispano, we might all drive to Cluj and see Freddi. I’m sure he’d do us proud.’
Toby gazed open-mouthed at Yakimov, then his shoulders shook as though giving some farcical imitation of laughter. ‘You’re a joker,’ he said and Yakimov, though surprised, seemed gratified to be thought one.
While they were eating, Harriet asked Toby: ‘Will you remain in Bucharest?’
‘If I can get some teaching,’ he said. ‘I’m a free-lancer, no organisation behind me. Came out on my own, drove the old bus all the way. Bit of an adventure. The fact is, if I don’t work, I don’t eat. Simple as that.’ He gazed at Guy, supplicant and inquiring. ‘Hearing you were short-staffed, I turned up on the doorstep.’
The question of his employment had obviously been raised already, for Guy merely nodded and said: ‘I must see what Inchcape says before taking anyone on.’
Harriet looked again at Toby, considering him not so much as a teacher as a possible help in time of trouble. She had noticed his heavy brogues. He was wearing grey flannel trousers bagged at the knees and a sagging tweed jacket, much patched with leather. It was the uniform of most young English civilians and yet on him it looked like a disguise. ‘The man’s man!’ The last time he had arrived in Bucharest, during one of the usual invasion scares, he had fled from Cluj in a panic: but she was less inclined to condemn panic since she had experienced it herself. How would he react to a sudden Guardist attack? All this pipe-sucking masculinity, this casual costume, would surely require him, when the time came, to prove himself ‘a good man in a tight corner’. She looked at Guy, who was saying: ‘If Inchcape agrees, I might be able to give you twenty hours a week. That should keep you going.’
Toby ducked his head gratefully, then asked: ‘What about lectures?’
‘I would only need you to teach.’
‘I used to lecture at Cluj – Mod. Eng. Lit. I must say, I enjoy giving the odd lecture.’ Toby, from behind his hair and moustache, gazed at Guy like an old sheepdog confident he would be put to use. Harriet felt sorry for him. He probably imagined, as others had done before him, that Guy was easily persuadable. The truth was, that in authority Guy could be inflexible. Even if he needed a lecturer, he would not choose one who mistook Byron for Tennyson.
‘The other day,’ Yakimov suddenly spoke, slowly and sadly, out of his absorption in his food, ‘I was thinking, strange as it must seem, I haven’t seen a banana for about a year.’ He sighed at the thought.
The Pringles had grown too used to him to react to his chance observations, but Toby rocked about, laughing as though Yakimov’s speech had been one of hilarious impropriety.
Yakimov modestly explained: ‘Used to be very fond of bananas.’
When luncheon was over and Yakimov had retired to his room Harriet looked for Toby’s departure, but when he eventually made a move Guy detained him saying: ‘Stay to tea. On my way back to the University, I’ll take you to the Bureau to meet Inchcape.’
Harriet went into the bedroom. Determined to incite him to act while the power to incite was in her, she called Guy in, shut the door of the sitting-room and said: ‘You must speak to Yakimov. You must tell him to go.’
Mystified by the urgency of her manner and unwilling to obey, he said: ‘All right, but not now.’
‘Yes, now.’ She stood between him and the door. ‘Go in and see him. It’s too risky having him here with Sasha around. He must go.’
‘Well, if you say so.’ Guy’s agreement was tentative, a playing for time. He paused, then said: ‘It would be better if you spoke to him.’