Strangers in Company Page 12

  “Much better to wear glasses.” Marian wondered whether, if he had seen her with Sebastian and Viola, he would have thought she clung to them.

  She was considering the temptation to talk to him about them, when they heard a shout from behind and turned to see Stella and Charles hurrying along the little path by the river. “Caught you,” said Stella. “We got bored with old Sparta, too, and Mike very kindly dropped us off at a convenient corner. Seen any good birds, Mrs. F.?”

  “No, alas. I was just telling Professor Edvardson. I’m not much good without my glasses.”

  “Just like my mamma.” Charles looked guilty.

  “She’ll be all right,” said Stella bracingly. “That competent Mrs. Spencer is looking after her.”

  “Amazing woman,” said the professor. “I don’t know how she endures this heat in those woollies of hers.”

  Stella laughed. “I call her ‘Twinset a Day.’ I suppose nobody told her about the Greek climate.”

  “It’s odd about her,” began Edvardson, but Stella interrupted him.

  “I say, what’s that?” She pointed at a black and white bird, large enough so that even Marian could see it, hovering over the water, its long beak at the ready.

  “Good God!” said the professor. “It’s a pied kingfisher. I never saw one before, but it must be; look at the way it’s watching the water! There it goes!” The bird had plunged swiftly into the water and emerged with a small, wriggling fish. “I do congratulate you, Miss Marten.” He turned to her warmly. “I never even hoped to see one of those.”

  After this stroke of luck their slightly odd quartet proved more of a success than Marian had feared. Stella seemed genuinely interested, now, in what Edvardson could tell her about the birds she spotted with her sharp eyes, and Charles was apparently prepared to take an interest in anything Stella cared about. Enjoying themselves, they walked farther than they realised and got back to the hotel a good deal later than the rest of the party, to find Mrs. Esmond sitting like a thundercloud in the hotel lobby.

  She looked at them muzzily for a moment, then her eyes focussed on Charles. “There you are at last.” It was the scolding tone appropriate for a small child. “I was beginning to be afraid of another accident.”

  “Another?” asked Stella. “You don’t mean—”

  “No, no,” Mrs. Esmond interrupted her rudely. “Nothing new. But you could hardly say this was a lucky tour, could you? Not so far. That poor Miss Gear’s beginning to look like death. I thought she was crazy to insist on coming today. Much better to have stayed at Nauplia the way that guide suggested.” Marian had noticed that she refused to call Mike, or anyone else, by his first name.

  “‘Hermes means death,’” quoted Charles lightheartedly. “Do you think the old thing’s going to kick the bucket?”

  “Charles!” said his mother.

  Chapter Eight

  Stella was very late down that evening. Marian had finished her ouzo, and the rest of the party was already in the dining room, when she appeared. “Sorry, Mrs. F., we’d better go right in, hadn’t we? I wonder what our doom will be tonight.”

  In fact, they found a whole empty table awaiting them and dined, restfully, alone. Miss Gear and Miss Grange were absent, and an empty place at another table caught Stella’s eye. “Mike’s out on the tiles again. Let’s be devils and have a bottle of wine, Mrs. F. After all, I missed my ouzo.” She caught a hurrying waiter’s eye and ordered white Demestica. “I warn you, in a night or so I’m going to make you try the retsina.”

  “That pine-flavoured stuff? Must I?”

  “You’ll like it in the end. It’s like oysters—habit-forming. And good for you. What about Mistra tomorrow, by the way?” She had waited until the wine arrived, been poured and happily sipped. “Do we still think we’ll opt out?”

  “Well—” Marian had been thinking about this. “What do you think? Granted that we went off on our own this afternoon, perhaps we ought to go along tomorrow? Unless you’d really hate it, that is.”

  “Ghoulies and ghosties?” She thought about it. “Better to face them, perhaps? And Mistra does sound quite a place. Besides, what would we do here all day?”

  “I know.” Marian had thought of this, too. “We could go back to the museum, I suppose, but really, Sparta—”

  “Just so. I gather most coach parties stay in Mistra itself. Mrs. Spencer did last time. She says it’s a heavenly little place—the new village, that is, with a stream flowing out of a tree. I’d quite like to see it.”

  “In that case—”

  “Yes.” Stella settled it. “Let’s go. And let’s go to bed early, too. I don’t know about you but that long drive this morning has left me stiff as a post.”

  “Me, too.” Marian could not help wondering if Stella, after seeing her to her room, meant to go down again and keep some assignation—With Charles? With Mike? With David? She flicked an apologetic mental glance at Miss Oakland and Jobs Unlimited. But how in the world could she chaperone Stella’s every waking minute? Besides, it had been coming over her since halfway through dinner, that old, horrible feeling from which she had been free since Epidaurus. Why, suddenly, here, should she be plagued by the illusion that hostile eyes were upon her? She drank the last of her wine quickly. Absurd to give way to it. But, “Let’s go for a quick stroll—” Anything to get out of this crowded, hostile room. “And then bed.”

  Since it was only a few miles from Sparta to Mistra, they made a blessedly late start next morning, but even so Miss Gear and Miss Grange failed to appear. The long drive the day before had, predictably, been too much for Miss Gear, and Miss Grange was staying behind to nurse her. “Poor thing,” Stella summed it up as they settled in the bus. “What on earth’s going to happen to her when we go over the mountains tomorrow?”

  “Let’s hope a day’s rest will fix her.” They were over the wheels today, and Marian was grateful for Stella’s insistence that she take the most uncomfortable seat by the window.

  “We’re in luck,” Stella pointed out. “There’s hardly any driving today, and tomorrow we’ll be on the back seat.” She laughed. “It’s really hopelessly unfair.”

  “But restful.” The polite pushing and making way were tiresome enough, Marian thought, without an unspoken, perpetual battle for the best seats.

  Mike had picked up the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, today you are on your own. I am a classical guide, and Mistra, as you doubtless know, is Byzantine. So—get out your guidebooks, or ask Mr. Cairnthorpe to tell you about the emperor who was crowned her in Mistra and which of all its many churches are worth visiting. He will tell you, I have no doubt, about Christ the Pantokrator, and no one needs to tell you about the views of the valley and of Taygetus, for they are there for all to see. But as your loving and devoted guide, I do beg that you will be careful how you go. It is a long time since they repaired the roads in Mistra.” This was a joke; he waited for their laugh. “The walking is not easy. And when you get toward the top, watch yourselves; there are no guardrails there to protect the unwary. It is not a place to which I would bring my children.” He beamed at them. “If I had any children.”

  The bus stopped outside a small café, where, Mike told them, they would all meet for lunch. “You are in luck. Most tours come from further; you have the place to yourselves, probably until about twelve o’clock. So, enjoy yourselves, my children.” He jumped out of the bus, was greeted warmly by the heavy-jowled proprietor of the café and disappeared into its kitchen with him.

  “Mike’s got a friend in every port,” said Stella.

  “Poor Cairnthorpe.” It was restful being so far back in the bus and able to speak freely. “I wonder if Mike warned him.”

  “It doesn’t look like it.” Cairnthorpe, too, had alighted and was already surrounded by a small crowd of eager questioners.

  “At least he’s got a proper guide,” said Marian. “My Fodor only gives the place a couple of paragraphs.”

  “Never mind.”
They were out of the bus now, and Stella took a great breath of mountain air. “Why don’t we just wander and enjoy ourselves, Mrs. F.? I don’t know about you, but I feel unsociable today. And it’s not going to break my heart if we never do see where that emperor was crowned.”

  “Nor mine.” Marian was delighted at this outbreak of unsociability on Stella’s part. The professor had already announced his intention of going right up to the fortress at the very top. “After all,” he had explained from behind them, “it’s a foothill of Taygetus. My first chance at the mountain birds. Who knows? If I’m as lucky as you, Miss Marten, I may even see a bearded vulture.” He had not suggested that they accompany him, however, and had gone off with the long, loping stride of the practised walker.

  “It looks as if we must have held him up a bit yesterday, poor man,” said Stella. “He travels the fastest who travels alone, and all that.”

  “Yes,” said Marian irritably, surprised at her own sense of abandonment. “Let’s go.” The Esmonds were on the other side of the group round Cairnthorpe, who was doling out tickets. “Get ours, would you, and let’s get on ahead.”

  “OK.”

  Marian watched with amusement as Stella made her ruthless way through the crowd and collected the tickets. Charles Esmond, she could see, was watching, too, but helplessly. His mother was leaning heavily on his arm this morning.

  “Mrs. Esmond’s afraid of turning an ankle.” Stella returned with two tickets and a mischievous grin. “Onwards and upwards.”

  They were quite high already, since the bus had been climbing steadily since they passed the small, comparatively modern village of Mistra, the Marian paused to admire the view across the olive-studden plain below. “Heavenly day,” she said.

  “Yes, but do come on, Mrs. F.” The impatience in Stella’s tone was so out of proportion that Marian gave her a quick glance. “Well,” said Stella in explanation, “you don’t want one of the old tabbies for the day, do you?”

  “I’m an old tabby.” Marian fell into step beside Stella on the rocky path.

  “You’re a honey,” said Stella, and then, “Oh, damnation.”

  “Hullo there.” Mrs. Duncan was waiting for them at a turn in the street of grey, ruined stone houses. “Did you decide to go it alone, too? But you’ll never get anywhere without the guide.” She held out her own. “We mustn’t miss the frescoes in the Perivleptos.” She turned to lead the way, making it impossible for them to do anything but follow.

  Aware of Stella simmering beside her, Marian found it hard to listen to Mrs. Duncan’s competent readings from the local guide. She did notice the double-headed eagle in the Metropolis, where, it appeared, the last Byzantine emperor might or might not have been crowned, and she could not help enjoying the constant views out over the valley. The churches, Mrs. Duncan told them, had been carefully built so that in most cases a cloister or arcade would take advantage of this extraordinary vista.

  “A vista from Mistra,” said Stella, and got quick looks from both the older women for her bitter tone. But of course, Marian reminded herself, she must be remembering the bloody history of the place. She was broodingly silent for a while, and when they got up, at last, to the palace that loomed above the ruined streets of the town, she broke rudely into Mrs. Duncan’s remarks about the unusual oriel windows. “I’ve had it! I’m going to pass out here in the sun.”

  “Not going on to the top?” Mrs. Duncan’s voice was shocked. “Think of the views across to the heart of Taygetus.”

  “This is near enough its heart for me.” Stella had found a patch of short grass among the high, grey-pink flowers that filled the palace yard, almost like sea in a bay. “We’ll wait for you here. Right, Mrs. F.?”

  “Right,” said Marian, with relief. “It’s so beautiful.…” She sat down on the grass beside Stella. “What’s this extraordinary flower?”

  “You don’t know asphodel?” Mrs. Duncan sounded as if it were a crime of the first water.

  “The Common Asphodel,” said Stella.

  “There’s nothing common about it.” Marian lay down so that she could look through delicate flowers towards blue sky. “Now I know what the blessed spirits felt like.”

  “You’re lucky.” Once again, Stella’s tone reminded Marian of the Communists who had hidden here, among these bleak, waterless, ruined houses, and been hunted down. “Like animals,” Stella had said. Horrible. Had they come up here, higher and higher, in panic-stricken flight, to plunge, at last, over the cliff edge beyond the palace?

  She shivered in the hot sun but was silent. No need to remind Stella of this, if she was merely in one of the sullen fits Miss Oakland had predicted. They lay there silent and apparently peaceful for a while until the rising babble of sound warned them of the approach of the rest of the party.

  “Oh, damn!” Stella sat up with a jerk. “What now?”

  “Nothing,” said Marian. “Just let them wash over us.”

  “Like this sea of flowers?” It was not the first time that Stella had surprised Marian by the almost psychic sharing of an idea. She lay down again. “Very well then. Let’s lie doggo.”

  “Eternal sleep,” Marian closed her eyes. “Like Cleobis and Biton.”

  “Horrible story.” Mike had told it to them the day before. “Think of asking for the best thing for your children and having them killed. Honestly, Mrs. F., don’t you think those Greek gods were a nasty lot?”

  “Very.” The story of the mother who had asked for the best thing for her sons had shocked Marian too.

  “‘As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods,’” quoted Stella surprisingly. “‘They kill us for their sport.’” And then, “Have you ever wished you were dead, Mrs. F.?”

  “No.” And then, “Yes.” Impossible to lie about this.

  “The sin against the Holy Ghost. If you believe in all that.” And then, “Here they come. I’m asleep.” She rolled over on her face, burying it in the short, sweet grass, and Marian, feeling like a middle-aged fool, did likewise. They were a little way from the path, in a clear patch among the glimmering asphodel. No reason why anyone should disturb them.

  Voices passed. Cairnthorpe, talking earnestly, and the schoolmistresses plying him with questions. As they moved away, a new group of voices took up the theme.

  “… Higher up.” That must be Mrs. Spencer, but for a moment Marian could not think who the man was who answered her.

  “Better spread out,” he said.

  “My feet hurt.” That was Mrs. Adams, so presumably the man had been her husband.

  “Fuck your feet,” he said.

  And, “Hush,” said Mrs. Spencer.

  As well she might, thought Marian, looking down a whole depressing new vista of the Adamses’ honeymoon. “A vista from Mistra.” Stella was very still and quiet beside her. Well, it was embarrassing to have put themselves in this position of unintentional eavesdroppers. They must be less visible from the path than she had realised; probably some piece of fallen masonry was just high enough to hide them. More voices: Charles Esmond, angry. “I tell you, I mean to go on to the top. You sit here, if you like, and I’ll pick you up on the way down. And, by the way, you’ve been limping on the wrong foot ever since we stopped to look at that blasted Pantokrator.”

  “Fancy your noticing,” said his mother imperturbably. “Very well, go off on your wild-goose chase if you must. I just hope you find the little bitch and she spits in your eye.” Alone with her son, Mrs. Esmond let her voice slip several degrees down the social scale.

  “Good-bye.” Charles’s voice was both angry and farther off.

  Now what? thought Marian. How intensely uncomfortable it would be for them all if Mrs. Esmond were to look about her for somewhere to await her son and happen on them. But, thank goodness, here must be Cairnthorpe and the schoolmistresses returning to join her.

  “You’re not going up to the top?” Cairnthorpe’s voice.

  “Not likely.”

  “Then come up to the
chapel with us. It’s only a step, and I believe there’s another Pantokrator you might like to see. Extraordinary place, isn’t it?” His voice was dwindling as he led his little party off in a new direction.

  Silence again for a while, and then two men’s voices speaking, by the sound of it, in Greek. Beside Marian, Stella stirred restlessly for a moment, then was still again. There were plenty more of their party still to come. Or had the others boggled at even this much of a climb? It was possible. There was a large, indeterminate group of middle-aged ladies given to soft shoes and plastic macs and a habit of opting out and sitting on them at a fairly early stage of any climb. Marian rolled over and sat up cautiously.

  “They’ve all gone.” Instinctively, she spoke low. “Shall we move on a little? I wouldn’t mind seeing that chapel David was talking about. If there really is another Pantokrator. I think they’re magnificent. Why, Stella!” She looked down in amazement at her companion. “What’s the matter?”

  For a moment, she had thought that Stella’s shoulders were shaking with laughter; now, horrified, she realised that it was silent tears that wracked her. She put a tentative hand on the shaking shoulder. “Do you want to talk about it, pet?” How strange to use Viola’s endearment.

  “No!” The voice came, muffled from between Stella’s arms, which encircled her head. “No! But—please—you won’t leave me, Mrs. F.?”

  “Of course not. Gently now; gently.…” She kept her hand, comfortingly, she hoped, on the still-shaking shoulders and felt them gradually quieten. “Handkerchief?” She felt in her bag with her left hand and produced one of the large ones she found invaluable when travelling.

  “Thanks.” One of Stella’s hands groped for it. Her voice sounded steadier. She raised herself just enough to use the handkerchief on her invisible face, then subsided again with a long sigh. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. F. I haven’t done that for ages. The ghoulies and ghosties got me, after all. Didn’t you feel it?”

  “A little,” Marian admitted. The trouble was, she felt so many things. Stella’s hysteria had brought on a bout of her own horrors, and she could feel the cold sweat that meant the onset of one of her worst attacks, doubly unpleasant, somehow, in the hot sun. Passionately, desperately, she wished she was at home, safe in the London house, with Dr. Brown round the corner to tell her it was all nothing, all nerves…