Strangers in Company Page 8

  Mrs. Adams hung back as they made the usual slow, awkward descent from the bus. “I don’t believe I’ll bother,” she said. “I’m a bit tired after yesterday.”

  “Nonsense.” Her husband’s tone was surprisingly brisk, for a honeymoon. “It gets better as you go on, I expect”

  “It does indeed,” said the professor. “You’d better come, Mrs. Adams. And it’s not much of a climb either.”

  In the end, they left the Adamses still arguing, and straggled after Cairnthorpe, in the familiar fits and starts of passing and repassing, as, one after another, people dropped out to admire a flower or take a picture. Turning to look back at the car park they had left, Marian saw a small red car pulling in beside their bus. “That looks like our friends from yesterday,” she said, as two young men emerged briskly.

  “Friends?” Stella’s temper had not been improved by breakfast, when they had shared a table with Mrs. Duncan and the professor, and he had talked exhaustively about Greek birds.

  Marian turned away from her impatiently and found Mrs. Duncan at her elbow. They exchanged the tolerant glances of the middle-aged over the temperamental young and moved onward, by silent consent, together. Doing so, Marian suppressed a quick pang of guilt. Miss Oakland at Jobs Unlimited had stressed that Stella should be protected from outside contacts. Well, she thought, Stella seemed to be able to protect herself pretty adequately. She had fallen back, on some pretext, and was walking, now, ostentatiously alone at the very rear of the party.

  “Prickly young thing.” Mrs. Duncan’s eyes had followed Marian’s.

  “Yes, poor creature. She’s had a hard time, I think.” Marian had meant to end the discussion there but could not help an amused exclamation as she saw yesterday’s two young men catch up with Stella and, apparently, attempt to engage her in conversation.

  “Good-looking.” Mrs. Duncan was watching too. “In rather a Greek kind of way, had you noticed?”

  “No.” It was true, she realised. “But I do see what you mean.”

  “Like a Greek with European top dressing,” Mrs. Duncan summed it up. “You’ll probably have your hands full fending off the local talent when we get out into the wilds.”

  “I should think she could take care of herself.” She did not mean to expatiate on the precise nature of her relationship with Stella and was relieved to find that they had come to the top of the site and that Cairnthorpe was already speaking, rather inaudibly, against the wind.

  “Hopeless,” Mrs. Duncan summed it up. “Let’s read it up in the guidebook afterwards. I’d rather save my strength for Epidaurus anyway. Now that’s a place I really do long to see. It’s why I came on this trip, as a matter of fact. You can have Delphi—we did that from my cruise, and a very exhausting day it was—but I’ve always wanted to see Epidaurus. Here”—she settled herself on a patch of flower-sprinkled turf—“come and have a second breakfast with me. I don’t know about you, but I could do with it after that travesty of a first one.” She opened her capacious bag and produced a small hoard of chocolate and biscuits. “I saved the biscuits from the plane.” She unwrapped the celophane packet and put it carefully away in her bag. “You never know when you’ll need a little something. Pretty soon we’ll have learned to live off the country. I mean to go shopping in Nauplia this afternoon, after I’ve done the Palamede. Do you want to come too, by the way?”

  Teach Stella a lesson in good manners? Why not? “Yes, I’d like to.”

  “Good. Looks like we’re on the move again.”

  Tiryns, like Mycenae, it seemed, had had its secret postern and concealed spring, and Cairnthorpe, leading them through an arched tunnel greasy with the wool of centuries’ sheltering sheep, admitted with an engaging honesty that he had no idea what it had been used for. “Storage, perhaps,” he suggested. “But no one knows, and what with the shepherds using it through the ages there wasn’t a thing left as evidence.” Wisely, he did not pause in this darkling spot, with its inevitable memories of yesterday’s tragedy, but hurried them back into the sunshine. “And now for Epidaurus.” He led the way down towards the bus, and Stella rose from a lump of rock to greet Marian.

  “I hope it was worth it.” Her tone held almost an apology. “I decided I couldn’t be bothered.”

  “We’re all a bit tired this morning,” said Marian. “You got rid of your followers all right?”

  “Followers?” Stella looked puzzled, then laughed. “Oh, them! No trouble at all. Their English! You should have heard it. But you were quite right, Mrs. F. They were the ones from Mycenae. What d’you bet we meet them at Epidaurus, too?”

  The red car was still parked beside their bus, but its occupants had vanished somewhere up the hillside. Marian looked around. “What happened to the Adamses?”

  “Oh, didn’t they catch up? They meant to. After a brief matrimonial discussion, they decided unanimously that it would be a pity to miss a single bit of a trip that cost so much. Or rather he decided, and she agreed—unanimously.”

  “They must have missed us up top somewhere. There’s much more to it than it looks. I’m sorry you didn’t see it.”

  “Never mind,” said Stella. “There will be plenty more.”

  It was their turn to move forward in the slow, inevitable queue and climb the high step of the bus. Andreas was waiting, as usual, with a beaming smile and an outstretched hand for any lady who needed help. Cairnthorpe was already in his seat, counting them in. He turned round as the professor appeared, last and hurrying. “Is that the lot?”

  “No.” It was a chorus. “The Adamses aren’t back yet.”

  “Oh, dear, nor are they. I thought they stayed behind here.”

  “Miss Marten says they changed their minds.”

  “Blast,” said Cairnthorpe, winning the sympathy of half his flock and shocking the other half. He turned and made gestures to Andreas, who grinned his comprehension and leaned obligingly on the horn.

  “Horrible noise,” said Stella.

  “But useful,” said Marian. “Look!” Two small, distant figures had appeared at the top of the hill and were waving with what must be accepted as apology.

  “I’m sorry, ladies and gentlemen.” Cairnthorpe looked at his watch. “But we’ll just have to wait for them.”

  “Tedious.” From the seat behind Marian and Stella, Mrs. Spencer voiced the feelings of the whole party. “But not your fault,” she added fairly.

  “Thanks.” Cairnthorpe coloured. “While we wait, has anyone any questions?”

  “Yes.” It was the schoolmistress called Pam, egged on by her companions, who occupied a whole block of seats in front of Marian and Stella. “Where’s the fountain of Kanathos?”

  “You’ve been reading your guidebook.” Cairnthorpe’s colour rose a little higher. Then he laughed. “Mike would tell you about it so much better. The fountain of Kanathos, ladies and gentlemen, is the one where Hera used to bathe every spring and thus renew her virginity. I believe the Greek guides make a good deal of play with the story. Well, you can see its possibilities.… But in fact, the difficulty is that no one quite knows which spring it was. Otherwise, no doubt, there would be special springtime conducted tours.”

  “You can just bet there would be,” said Stella. “This way for the fountain of eternal virginity.” To Marian’s relief it was Mike’s voice she was imitating, not Cairnthorpe’s.

  “Yes.” He entered into the spirit of the thing. “Like the monastery on Rhodes you read about—the one women go to”—he paused, but then went bravely on—“when they want a child. You can imagine what a time the guides have with that. But luckily it’s way up on top of the mountains, so they just make their jokes and drive by.”

  Stella laughed. “With a bunch of disappointed tourists. And talking of driving, here come the Adamses.”

  “At last,” said Cairnthorpe, and leaned over to open the door for the couple, who climbed in brimming over with apologies.

  “We met such a charming pair of young Greeks up there,
” explained Mr. Adams, “that we quite forgot the time.”

  “Their guidebook was in Greek,” said his wife. “It all seemed quite different. Ooh, dear”—she was working her way down the silent aisle—“have we kept you all waiting? I’m ever so sorry.”

  “What I would like to know,” said Stella, sotto voce, as the bus started to move, “is how they talked to those ‘charming young Greeks,’ who couldn’t get beyond ‘beautiful miss’ with me.”

  Chapter Six

  Marian would always remember Epidaurus as the high point of that disastrous tour. From the moment that they filed out of the bus into a pine-scented grove, she felt the special quality of the place and felt it, too, begin to take effect on the rest of the party. The Adamses, who, she suspected, had spent their time at Tiryns in one of those first, terrifying quarrels of married life, were arm in arm again, her fake blond curls snug against his shoulder. The loud voices of the schoolmistresses hushed suddenly as a cuckoo called, somewhere away among the trees.

  “It’s a short walk,” Cairnthorpe explained. “They’ve very sensibly kept the car park away from the site. We come back to the café over there, so anyone who gets exhausted can always come on ahead, but I doubt if you will want to. I’ve always felt there was something special about Epidaurus. The Greeks knew what they were doing when they made it into a place of healing.” He had told them, in the bus, about the cult of Aesculapius, the great healer, who was struck down by Jove for his temerity in bringing the dead back to life, but finally became immortal himself, his shrine a kind of classical Lourdes.

  “Except they seem to have been much more practical about it,” said Stella, as she and Marian set off side by side through the grove. “I mean, you just go to Lourdes and pray for a miracle, don’t you? While here you really got some treatment.”

  “Exactly.” Cairnthorpe, who was just ahead of them, turned eagerly to agree with her. “It was a kind of psychoanalysis, when you come to think of it. If you were ill enough, the priests actually let you sleep in the sacred site, and then, in the morning, discussed your dreams with you.”

  “Oh, God,” said Stella. “Freud. I bet the journey did them as much good as anything. And getting away from home.”

  “Very likely. That must always have been part of the point of pilgrimages, mustn’t it?”

  “A change is as good as a rest,” put in Marian.

  “Mike would tell us there was a Greek proverb for that,” said Stella.

  “Or if there wasn’t, he’d undoubtedly make one up,” agreed Cairnthorpe. They turned a corner of the path. “Well, here’s the theatre. Is it worth the pilgrimage, Miss Marten?”

  “I wish you’d call me Stella.” Cross tone contradicted friendly words. “It’s ridiculous for us all to be so formal with you and calling Mike ‘Mike.’”

  And, “Well worth every step of it,” said Marian. “May we call you David?”

  “I wish you would.” He moved forward to the centre of the theatre and began to explain about its amazing acoustics. The schoolmistresses were already hurrying up the tiers of seats, ready to hear him strike a match from the bottom.

  “I’ll take their word for it,” said Stella. “What do you think, Mrs. F.?”

  “I think it’s the most heavenly place I ever saw. Let’s find a quiet corner and just enjoy it.”

  It was easier said than done, since two other parties were already scrambing up and down the great amphitheatre, but they settled at last in two of the surprisingly comfortable stone seats. “Heavenly sun,” said Stella. “There’s that cuckoo again. I wonder if the professor will see his wet-winged warbler or whatever it was? Lord, didn’t he go on at breakfast?”

  “I found it very interesting,” said Marian.

  Stella laughed her short, surprising gurgle. “Touché. And apologies. Not your fault if he talks a blue streak to you and treats me like something out of kindergarten.”

  “Oh, but.…” Marian began a protest, but was laughed down.

  “I believe you hadn’t even noticed. Really, Mrs. F., you’re incorrigible. Do you honestly think he goes round imparting all that information to every stray female he meets? If you ask me, he finds you a good listener. Fatal!”

  Fatal indeed. How often, in the past, had she sat, interminably listening as Mark made up his own mind about a new act. And her reward at the end? A quick pat on whichever bit of her came handy, a loving phrase and a dive to the telephone for one of those equally endless talks with his manager. Sometimes, bitterly putting herself to bed while the eager voice went on and on in the next room, and she had wondered what Mark wanted with a wife.… Strange how this tour was bringing back the old, unhappy memories she had managed to keep battened down for so long. But perhaps time they were faced?

  The cuckoo called again. Stella was sitting moodily throwing little stones at a spiky plant that grew out of the seat below them. “Don’t.” Marian put a gentle hand on hers. “It might spoil David’s demonstration.”

  “Oh—” Stella swallowed the next word. “Sorry, I’m sure.” She reached for a more friendly tone. “I really am sorry. To tell you the truth, I had a rather hellish night.”

  “Oh, dear.…”

  “A dream for Aesculapius. Do you think if I take him an offering he’ll send me the interpretation?” She stood up and began to climb the few remaining tiers to the top of the amphitheatre. “Come and help me look, Mrs. F.?”

  It was, unmistakably, an olive branch, and Marian followed with an inward sigh of relief. “What kind of offering?” She caught the spirit of the thing.

  “Goodness knows.” Stella threw back her head. “Oh, Aesculapius, send me a sign.”

  “You’ll be expecting an eagle next,” said Marian.

  “No, no,” Stella corrected her. “That’s at Delphi. And, don’t you remember, the professor says they’re vultures anyway.”

  “Very disillusioning.” Marian thought that Stella must have been paying more attention at breakfast than she had let show. “How about a pine cone?” She bent to pick one up.

  “Pretty.” Stella took it and tossed it thoughtfully in the air, caught it again, then threw it away with one of her swift, violent gestures. “But I must find my own thing.”

  “Of course.” They had reached a path that circled the top of the amphitheatre, then curved down its side. “Shall we go down this way? I find steps a bit exhausting. Specially downwards.” Marian turned to lead the way. “I must say I rather wish I hadn’t said I’d go up to the Palamede with Mrs. Duncan this afternoon. Do you want to come? It’s eight hundred and something steps apparently. There ought to be quite a view from the top.”

  “There certainly should. But, no, thanks. I thought I’d go swimming. It’s the last chance till Aegina.”

  “You’ll be careful? It looks rough to me.” But it was a relief to have Stella’s afternoon so pleasantly taken care of.

  “Don’t worry. I swim like a dolphin. It’s my talent. But why struggle up all those steps with that dreary Mrs. Duncan if you don’t want to? If you ask me, you’d do much better to rest for a while. You look as if you’d had about the same kind of night I did. Why don’t you do that, and then when I get back from my swim, we could go down and explore Nauplia?”

  “I’ll see.” Marian was touched by the suggestion. “I must admit it’s tempting.”

  “Just to be alone,” said Stella. “‘And the sound of the hollow sea.’”

  “It’s marvellous, isn’t it?” Marian recognised the misquotation with pleasure. “I’d like to come back to Nauplia sometime, on my own.” Or with the twins, went her mental parenthesis. “And come over here every day.”

  “Why not stay here? There’s a tourist pavilion, I believe.”

  “Is there?” Marian was surprised at this sudden bit of local knowledge.

  “Somebody said so. Oh, look! There’s my offering.” Stella bent down to pick a flower from beside the path. “What is it, do you think?”

  “I haven’t any idea.”
Marian examined the exotic-looking flower with careful ignorance. “I’m afraid I’m as bad at flowers as I am at birds. But it looks like a bee.”

  “Yes, doesn’t it? One of those ingenious dodges plants get up to, I suppose. Anyway, I’m sure it’s just the thing for Aesculapius. Isn’t there something a bit magic about bees?”

  “You have to tell them things, I know.”

  “I’d hate to try it.”

  Thank God, thought Marian, she’s cheering up. “Me, too,” she said. “Oh, look.” They had emerged from a thicket of pine and blossoming Judas trees at the bottom of the slope. “They’re moving.”

  “This way for the museum,” said Stella.

  But when they reached the museum, it was to see the tail end of a crocodile of blue-clad Greek schoolgirls vanishing into the entrance. “Blast,” said Cairnthorpe for the second time. “Perhaps we’d better go down to the site first.”

  “By all means.” Mrs. Duncan was positive as usual. “We wouldn’t be able to hear ourselves think with all those noisy children in there.” And then, “Where in the world did you find that?” She was looking with apparent rage at the flower in Stella’s hand.

  “On the path above the theatre. Why? Do you know what it is?”

  “Of course I do. It’s a bee orchid. A Very Rare Flower.” She gave each word capital letters. “And if you pick one, it doesn’t flower again, or seed again, for seven years.”

  “Well,” said Stella reasonably, “I suppose if it didn’t flower it would be bound not to seed.”

  “Intolerable ignorance,” said Mrs. Duncan between her teeth.

  “I believe they aren’t quite so rare here as they are in England.” Cairnthorpe intended, obviously, to pacify.

  “They will be if every ignorant tourist who sees one picks it,” said Mrs. Duncan.

  Suddenly, amazingly, David Cairnthorpe lost his temper. “Personally, I think people are more important than plants.” In anger, he went white, rather than red, and looked a good deal older. “Of course”—belatedly he remembered his position—“you’re perfectly right, really.”