Strangers in Company Page 11

  “I’m glad to be away from there,” said Miss Gear, and Marian, thinking of all the events of the day before, could not help silently agreeing with her. She was not so sure, now, that she wanted to go back to Nauplia.

  In the window seat, Stella was very quiet, as, indeed, she had been all day, so that Marian could not help wondering if she had had a late-night session with David Cairnthorpe or, indeed, with Mike, or just another bad night, and, possibly, nightmare. But today there were no jokes about Aesculapius. She sat hunched together, gazing broodingly out at the changing views forward and back as Andreas swung the bus round one dizzy hairpin bend after another. I was impossible not to remember the two psychiatrists’ remarks about her changing moods, and it was tiresome to have them sitting just in front, very probably aware of silence behind them and drawing their own conclusions,

  They stopped for midmorning coffee at Tripolis, a depressing modern city, flat on its plateau. “You will find no classical ruins here, ladies and gentlemen,” Mike warned them. “The town was ruthlessly sacked by the Turks when they retook it during our War of Independence.”

  “Having been just as ruthlessly sacked by the Greeks when they took it.” The bus had slowed down on entering the town, and even without the benefit of microphone, Cairnthorpe’s voice came over surprisingly clearly. It was not the first time that Marian had wondered a little about how guide and courier were getting on behind the scenes. There had certainly been antagonism sparking in the air after Mike’s “rescue” of Stella, but then that was understandable enough. She had been frightened and angry herself.

  The bus had stopped, and the usual half-polite, half-pushing queue was working its way off. “Don’t lets bother with coffee,” said Stella as they finally emerged. “It’s too early for ouzo; I don’t think I could face that sickly Turkish—and I’m sick of Nescafé. I don’t know about you,” she went on as they walked up the undistinguished street. “But I’m getting claustrophobia. Shall we opt out tomorrow?”

  “We could, couldn’t we?” The idea was tempting. And they were to spend two nights in the hotel at Sparta, so as to take what Mike called a coachman’s holiday to Mistra. “No classical ruins,” he had explained. “But every other kind.”

  “Do let’s.” Stella spoke with surprising vehemence. “I know Mistra’s supposed to be full of marvellous Byzantine stuff, but it gives me the willies just to think of.”

  “Oh? Why?”

  “Didn’t you know? There was a frightful massacre there after the last war. You must know about the Communist rebellion, Mrs. F.?”

  “Well”—shamefacedly—“I do remember reading something. In a life of Churchill, would it be?”

  “Very likely. He flew out at Christmas, 1944, to try and settle it, but it went on for ages just the same. There was a time when the Communists held most of southern Greece.” Stella looked up and down the placid street. “Odd to think this might have been a Communist country now.”

  “Thank God it’s not. But what happened? At Mistra, I mean.”

  “The Communists holed out there in the ruins after the tide had turned. They’d”—she paused for a moment—“they’d been pretty bloody. I suppose they knew what was coming to them. The army moved in, and hunted them down like animals. I don’t know where they buried them, but I’m sure the place must be haunted. God! Isn’t this a dump! Shall we try one of the side roads?”

  “Might as well.” Marian, too, had seen Mrs. Duncan just ahead and sympathised with Stella’s wish to avoid her. But it was too late. Mrs. Duncan had turned, seen them and waved.

  “Blast,” said Stella.

  “Never mind. It must be about time we got back anyway.”

  Mrs. Duncan, too, had found nothing of interest in Tripolis, and they turned to walk back towards the centre of the town together. “Not even any shops.” She dismissed the place as hopeless. “I like to get a small souvenir everywhere we stop—something characteristic for choice—but what one earth would one get here?”

  “A Turk’s head?” suggested Stella. “But it would be even more awkward to pack than your corn dolly.” Mrs. Duncan had bought one of these when they stopped by the Corinth Canal and had been tenderly carrying it about ever since.

  “Gruesome child.” Mrs. Duncan shuddered. “Interesting to have young Cairnthorpe come out so strong about the first massacre, wasn’t it?”

  “Massacre?” Marian was thinking of what Stella had told her about the Communists at Mistra.

  “Oh, he was too polite to use the word, with Mike right in front of him, but that’s what it came down to. When the Greeks took Tripolis for the first time. In the War of Independence they boast about so much. They were the ones who began the killing and sacking, and don’t let anyone tell you different.”

  “What about Mistra?” Stella put in, adding still further to Marian’s confusion.

  “Oh, that first rebellion in the eighteenth century,” said Mrs. Duncan. “That was doomed from the start. Poor things,” she added perfunctorily.

  “What about Mistra?” asked Marian. “And what first rebellion?”

  “It was the Russians,” Mrs. Duncan explained. “They liked to stir things up down here, to keep the Turks busy. They sent a naval force to encourage a Greek rebellion in 1770 and then changed their minds and took it away again just when the thing had got off the ground. Meanwhile, the Greeks had taken Mistra, and, no doubt, killed off a lot of Turks while they were at it.”

  “And then the Turks came back,” said Stella, “retook Mistra and killed the lot of them. It’s been in ruins ever since. Not my idea of a lucky place.”

  “But beautiful.” Mrs. Spencer had joined them from a side turning. “It really is worth seeing, Mrs. Frenche.” She fell into step beside Marian, leaving Stella and Mrs. Duncan to follow behind. “Come with me if Miss Marten doesn’t want to.”

  “Thanks.” It was a useful reminder that whatever one said in the bus was inevitably heard by the people in the seat behind. Well, Marian thought, it was not too bad to have Mrs. Spencer and the professor there. But she had a question for Mrs. Duncan as they came to a halt beside the bus. “How on earth do you know so much about Greece?”

  “I read it up, of course, before I came away,” said Mrs Duncan. “It’s a waste of money to come on holiday without doing one’s homework first.”

  “Crushed again,” said Stella sotto voce as Mrs. Duncan reached up a hand to be helped on board by Andreas.

  “But you know all about it too.” Marian had been impressed by this.

  “I did it at school. God knows why. Or why I remember, come to that. But one couldn’t help feeling sorry for those poor Greeks. They were always being used as tools by the great powers. So called. Really it’s no wonder they’re a bit difficult by now.”

  “It’s time we got back into the bus,” said Mrs. Spencer.

  It was a long way from Tripolis to Sparta. “We should have stopped later.” Stella sounded cross.

  “Yes.” Marian had thought this, too. But did you notice? Mike had friends to meet there.”

  “Oh? Did he?” Stella was profoundly uninterested.

  Mike, in fact, was being surprisingly quiet. He used the microphone once to warn them to look out for the first views of the great snowcapped mountain of Taygetus ahead, then lapsed into a silence that was shared by most of the passengers. From time to time, someone would point out a round threshing floor or a donkey almost invisible under its load, and necks would crane in that direction, but mostly they all sat silent and, Marian thought, a little glum, a little anxious, even, as she was?

  “I suppose we don’t get the lecture on Sparta till this afternoon,” said Stella.

  “He’s got a right to be tired, poor thing.” They were far enough back in the bus by now so that there was no chance of Mike’s overhearing what they said. And yet, once again, Marian found herself embarrassed by memories of what the two psychiatrists had told her. Had Stella and Mike, in fact, sat up again last night making it up after th
at odd “drowning” episode? But the professor had seen her with David Cairnthorpe. It was all very confusing.…

  “I hope he’s exhausted.” Stella’s cross remark cast little light on the situation.

  Their hotel, which they reached in time for a late lunch, was on a hill outside Sparta, and Mike picked up the microphone as the bus slowed down to urge them to eat quickly and leave their unpacking until the evening. “Leonidas and his gallant three hundred and all their history await you, ladies and gentlemen:

  Go tell the Spartans, thou that passeth by,

  That here, obedient to their laws, we lie.

  I will tell you more about them this afternoon, when we will visit first the museum, where you will see Leonidas himself, and then the shrine at Amyclae, where Apollo killed his beloved Hyacinthus by an unlucky throw of the discus.” He jumped lightly down from the bus.

  Stella stood up and stretched herself. “Do you know. I believe he actually likes the Spartans.”

  “Why not?” asked Marian.

  “A dreary lot.” Stella dismissed them with one of her angry shrugs.

  “Sordid.” Charles Esmond had been standing in the gangway, trying to catch her attention. “I wonder if we’ll get to see the theatre where they whipped the Spartan boys.”

  “Better than actually sacrificing them,” said Professor Edvardson from behind.

  “Come on, Charles,” said his mother. “You’re holding everyone up.”

  “After you.” Charles made way gallantly for Stella, then fell in behind her, leaving his mother and Marian to follow as best they might. Letting Mrs. Esmond go first, Marian thought she looked far from pleased at this development. In fact, she was not altogether happy about it herself. And she was appalled, when she and Stella entered the dining room ten minutes later, to find that they were the last and the two inevitable vacant places were at the Esmonds’ table.

  Received with little enthusiasm by Mrs. Esmond, and with too much by her son, Marian wondered whether this could possibly have been arranged between him and Stella. If so, it seemed extraordinary, considering that Stella, with her gift for inventing nicknames for their fellow tourists, had so far christened him, aptly enough, “Mother’s Boy.” Now, however, she was listening patiently while he expatiated on the rigorous training of Spartan boys, the swims in the icy Eurotas, the barrack life, the blood brotherhood of youths who lived and died together.

  “You’re as bad as Mike,” she said at last, but quite tolerantly. “You don’t care that I’d probably have been exposed on Taygetus.”

  “Of course I care.” He put far too much feeling into his voice, and Marian felt his mother stiffen beside her and rather suspected herself of doing the same. How very tedious if Mother’s Boy was going to develop a first passion for Stella, who, wretched girl, seemed to be egging him on. How many conquests must she make? Yes, now she was agreeing that they should all four visit the museum together. “I want you to see the Leonidas,” said Charles eagerly. “I came here with a party from school—a long time ago,” he hurried to add. “But our classic master was super; he told us”—he coloured, aware of his mother’s baleful glance—“oh, all kinds of things.”

  It was an uncomfortable afternoon. There seemed no way of avoiding the unwelcome foursome, and Marian, listening to Mike explain that the Spartans had not gone in for noble buildings like the Athenians, hence the paucity of remains, rather wished that she had pleaded headache and stayed behind. She could not like Mrs. Esmond, to whose company she was reduced, nor could she like the sight of Stella so obviously leading young Charles on. After having been silent to the point of glumness all morning, Stella now seemed in tearing spirits and was really, Marian thought, flirting outrageously. She was aware of Mrs. Esmond’s increasingly irate reaction to this and also of an occasional glance from Cairnthorpe. At least Mike seemed to be taking no notice. Presumably, the relationships between the tourists were Cairnthorpe’s affair, not his, and he was busy singing the praises of Spartan simplicity.

  “They lived their own life, ladies and gentlemen, keeping themselves to themselves and avoiding foreign trade as much as possible. The simple life was their ideal.”

  “Yes.” Professor Edvardson spoke from behind them. “The simple life with paederasts and slaves.”

  “Oh.” Marian turned to him. “Tell me!”

  “And a secret police,” said Edvardson. “You look tired, Mrs. Frenche.” They were straggling after Mike from the museum towards the bus. “Can I persuade you to cut the rest of Sparta? It’s honestly not worth seeing, still less hearing about from that young enthusiast.” His dismissal of Mike was firm but kind. “I thought I’d walk up the Eurotas a bit and see what I could see in the way of birds. How about coming, too? It’s pretty there, and quiet.”

  “Oh, I’d love to.” She spoke impulsively, then directed a quick, anxious glance to where Stella was walking between the two Esmonds, her entire attention fixed on Charles. “I don’t know,” she began doubtfully.

  “I do. Let it work itself out. The best thing you can do. She’ll be bored to tears in a day or so.”

  “That’s what I think,” said Marian gratefully. “As long as his mother.…”

  “I don’t suppose she’ll actually take a hatchet to your protégée, though I admit she looks as if she’d like to. You tell them, and I’ll tell young Cairnthorpe. We should be back about the same time as they are. I don’t suppose your ewe lamb can get in much trouble between now and then. No sea here, at least.”

  Of course he had heard about yesterday’s “rescue.” One must face it, gossip would spread like wildfire in a group like this. No doubt there would be gossip, too, if she went off for the afternoon with the professor. For some curious reason, this decided her to do it, and she caught up with Stella to announce her decision.

  “Really? You don’t want to see the grove where the hyacinths grow?” Stella looked disconcerted and pressed her hard to change her mind, but having made her decision, Marian was firm. It would do them both good, she thought, to have an afternoon apart, and, after all, it was Stella who had initiated it by involving them with the Esmonds. Besides, with luck, a whole afternoon of them might well hasten the cure the professor had predicted.

  She found him wonderfully pleasant, easy company. He talked a good deal about birds and insisted on her trying to see a golden oriole through his binoculars. “It’s no good”—she handed them back to him—“I can never use these things. It’s like opera glasses at the theatre. Hopeless.”

  “You like the theatre?”

  “Love it.”

  “So do I.” He turned out to be surprisingly knowledgeable. “I always make a point of going when I’m in London,” he explained. “And a few weekends a winter in New York. You can have the movies,” he added.

  She laughed. “I don’t want them.” Would the twins miss going to the theatre with her? Why should they? They had their father and all his glamour. They would be going to first nights, no doubt. “I’m sorry?” She had missed something the professor said.

  “Not important.” He had a kind face, she thought, in its craggy way. “Lonely people like you and me do a lot of our talking to ourselves anyway.”

  “Are we lonely?”

  “Of course we are. And I often find a crowd makes it worse.”

  “Well.” She thought about it. “Certainly a crowd like ours. Goodness, I’m grateful to you for getting me away for a while.” She paused to listen to the rush of the Eurotas, a surprisingly lively river.

  “It’s a pleasure.” It was formally spoken, but he sounded as if he meant it, and she felt an unaccustomed warmth steal through her. It seemed a long time since her company had been a pleasure to anyone.

  “Thank you.” She too spoke formally, and yet it did not come out quite as she had expected. “They’re a curious mixture, aren’t they?” She hurried it a little.

  “Not quite the usual,” he agreed. “I come on these tours—ones like this—all the time,” he explained.
“And I must admit some of our fellow travellers baffle me a little. Those Adamses, for instance. They’re the most unusual honeymoon couple I ever saw.”

  “They’ve had some ups and downs,” she agreed. “But then—” She stopped. She had been going to say, “One does,” but—had he ever been married? Extraordinary how little she knew about this man who was now holding out a helpful hand to get her over a rough bit of path.

  “Oh, yes.” He was no fool. “I’ve been through it. I know what you mean. She died.”

  There was a little silence, then, “Children?” asked Marian.

  “No. That’s why I come on tours like this. Look! There’s a bee-eater.”

  “Where?” She recognised the subject as closed.

  “They nest in riverbanks,” he explained. “Look! Down there. Come on, try the binoculars. I’ll adjust them for you. There” He put a steadying hand on her shoulder as he held the glasses to her eyes. “How’s that?”

  “Oh, my goodness!” Was the exclamation for the tiny, fast moving bird or for the extraordinary, long-forgotten surge of emotion that rose to his touch? “I wish I’d brought my glasses.” She was babbling and knew it. “I’m all right for a museum, but when it comes to birds I really need them.”

  “You’re not nearly so bad as poor Mrs. Esmond.” The professor had clearly felt nothing. His voice was matter-of-fact as he put the binoculars back in their case. “I can’t think why she doesn’t wear glasses—or even contact lenses. Have you noticed?”

  “No.” Her voice was under control again.

  “She can’t read a notice or recognise a face at more than a few yards. I think it’s partly why she clings to that unfortunate son of hers.”