But she was wrong in thinking Kotiadis would take me with him. He came out of the tent with a bundle under his arm wrapped in newspaper, and after talking a moment with Cartwright, walked over to where I sat stuffing the food hurriedly into my mouth. "Mr. Cartwright has promised that he and his companions will not leave the camp. You will give the same promise please."
I looked up at him. "Why should I? You've got soldiers here."
"You are not being co-operative."
"Of course not." The plate was shaking in my hand, anger sweeping through me. Why the hell couldn't they leave him alone? "Do you think I don't know what you've got under your arm?"
The firelight glimmered in the pupils of his eyes. "Perhaps if we have some of Dr. Van der Voort's clothes today. ." He gave his habitual little shrug. "But it does not matter. You have indicated where we must search and tomorrow we try again." He was so sure of himself he was actually smiling. "And now I will do as you suggest. I will order the soldiers to watch you. So please do not try to leave the camp. They have guns and they will shoot."
He left then, and shortly afterwards the soldiers arrived with their tent. The corporal sited it on the path leading to the village, and after it was erected and a guard posted, he and the rest sat around watching us. Under surveillance like that, the atmosphere in the camp was strained and there was little conversation until the meal was over. Whilst the others were washing up, Cartwright moved over to where I was sitting. "Mind if I join you?"
I didn't say anything. It was his camp and he could sit where he liked. He pulled out a pipe and sat down, chewing
at the curved stem of it. Finally he said, "I don't know how long you will have to stay here. But since we're forced into each other's company like this, I think I should tell you that I'm not responsible for what Kotiadis is doing. I knew, of course, that Dr. Van der Voort had been in Russia, that he had had books published there and that he spoke the language. By inference, I suppose, you could say that I knew he was a Communist. But I did not inform the authorities."
It was a categorical statement and I did not doubt for a moment that it was true. "Then why did he attack you?"
He hesitated, his owl-like eyes staring straight at me. "That evening-" He began to fumble for his tobacco pouch. "I had to telephone Athens-an archaeological friend, Leo Demotakis. I made the call from the taverna and was in bed shortly after nine. Dr. Van der Voort had gone off on his own — he often walked alone at night. But he was in the taverna around ten o'clock and by then somebody from the Public Order Ministry had phoned Andreas to check on the expedition and the identity of its leader. He's the village headman. The enquiry was political and he admits that he warned Dr. Van der Voort." He began to fill his pipe. "It's not easy to explain. Dr. Van der Voort and I-" He hesitated. "You know Professor Holroyd sponsored this expedition. I'm his assistant and Dr. Van der Voort hated Bill Holroyd-a quite unreasoned, pathological hatred. I found that out very early on, when we were still in Macedonia. Anyway, when Andreas told him I had phoned Athens earlier, I suppose he leapt to the c-c-concl-clusion. ." He turned to me suddenly. "I wasn't given a chance to explain. He seemed driven by a f-fury of rage, words pouring out of him-" Hans called to us that tea was ready and he got quickly to his feet as though glad of the opportunity to escape. "I thought you ought to know. That's all." And he added, "I can tell you, it was a most unpleasant experience."
He went over to the fire then, and I sat there trying to understand my father's behaviour, the violence of his reaction. Cartwright's explanation of what had happened had been quite direct. I didn't like the man, but I was certain that what he had told me was the truth.
"Here's your tea."
Sonia stood there, holding an enamel mug out to me. It steamed in the cool night air. I took it and she hesitated, as though about to say something. I wanted to have a talk with her, but alone, not in front of the others. Our eyes met for a moment, then she turned abruptly and went back to them. The fire had died to embers, the glow of it on their faces, and behind them, and all around, the olive grove was dark in shadow. Somewhere a bird, or perhaps it was a frog, repeated and repeated its single fluting note, regular as a metronome, while I continued to sit there, withdrawn and alone, thinking of that tired old man preparing to make his nightly journey to the reservoir for water. And tomorrow Kotiadis would pick him up and that would be the end of all his dreams, all the years of wandering and searching. It would finish him. I felt that very strongly, and when eventually I went to the tent and crawled into his sleeping bag, it was with a feeling of resentment, almost a physical sickening, at the way the pattern of both our lives was being drawn inexorably closer.
So far my involvement in my father's affairs fiad been largely accidental, and in writing about what happened during that hot summer in the Mediterranean, I find it difficult to decide exactly when and how I stopped fighting against the inevitable and decided to let myself become engaged emotionally in his affairs. Certainly Holroyd's arrival in the camp at Despotiko was a decisive factor. It personalized the old man's struggle for recognition and made me realize for the first time the powerful forces he had to contend with.
Holroyd was a member of the academic Establishment. It was typical of him that, instead of coming straight out to the scene of operations, he had spent a whole day in Athens first. And when he did arrive, it was in an official car and accompanied by one of the directors of the General Direction of Antiquities. They had stopped the night somewhere on their way up from Athens and Holroyd had taken the trouble to telephone ahead to say he would be arriving at eleven o'clock.
As a result, nobody went up to the dig that morning and Cart-wright fussed around the camp, making certain that everything was in order. The folding table and the two canvas chairs were brought out from the mess tent, mugs laid ready, a bottle of ouzo, glasses. They had even purchased some mocha coffee from the taverna. Hans dug a new latrine and then appeared, transformed in blue trousers and pale shirt, with his fair hair slicked down with water. Sonia put on a short white dress and Cartwright a tie to go with his grey flannels and elbow-patched sports jacket.
It was a little before eleven that Holroyd came into the camp. He had his pipe in his mouth and he was smiling, his round, babyish face looking pink and newly scrubbed. Cart-wright went forward to meet him, holding himself very erect in an effort to conceal that slouching, gangling walk of his. I almost expected him to salute. It was all very old-fashioned and English, the two of them in grey flannels and sports jackets formally shaking hands against the exotic background of the olive grove, and the Greek official standing beside them, neat in a dark blue suit and dark glasses.
I now knew a little more about Holroyd's background, for the night before Sonia had settled down on the grass outside my tent and we had talked for nearly an hour. He was the son of a Bradford spinning mill operator and all through the early 'thirties, when he had been growing up, his father had been unemployed. He had been newspaper boy, errand boy, and then his father had got part-time work at another mill and they had moved out to Cleckheaton. Through voluntary work at a local library he had managed to bring himself to the notice of one of the founders, a rich mill owner, who had supplemented his scholarships and seen him through grammar school and then university. Anthropology was not a very popular subject at the time, and with the war just over, he had got himself appointed to a department of the Allied Military Government in Germany that was dealing with papers and documents of scientific interest.