In the wintry, out-of-doors light, the concrete face of the flats, designed to reflect the sun, looked blotched and gimcrack. The geraniums were shedding their flowers, but Harriet, feeling that admiration was important to her host, admired everything. He touched one of his collection of large-leafed, fleshy plants and said: ‘Soon they must all come indoors. And that, in a way, is a good thing.’ When she looked at him in enquiry, he explained: ‘The snow will come soon and here we shall be, tucked away safe and sound.’
She still did not understand.
He gave an exasperated little laugh: ‘Surely, my dear child, you know that no one invades in the winter! The time to invade is the autumn – after the harvest and before the snow blocks the passes.’
‘Why not this autumn?’
‘Invasions take time to prepare, and there are no preparations. The patrol ’planes report all quiet on all fronts.’
‘That is something to be thankful for.’
Rather to her surprise, he touched her arm. ‘Didn’t I tell you there was no cause for alarm? I do not for a moment believe that anyone wants to invade this country. If they do, it won’t be for six or seven months. A lot can happen in that time.’
He smiled, very amiably. He was, she felt, being more than necessarily pleasant to her, not because he liked women, but because he did not. She suspected, also, that he was relieved to find they could get on so well. She was relieved herself: but she imagined it would always be a relationship that called for careful handling.
While Inchcape leant over the rail and pointed down through the trees to his glimpse of the lake, Harriet heard someone talking quickly and excitedly in the room behind them.
‘Who is with Guy?’ Harriet asked.
‘It’s Pauli, my Hungarian. All the best servants here are Hungarian. The Saxons are also good, but dour. Mean people, the Saxons; not much liked; no fun.’
Pauli came out to them, putting his hands over his face then dropping them to express his delight at the story he had to tell. He was young and very good-looking. He bowed to Harriet, then shot out a hand at her, almost touching her as he begged her to listen. Speaking rapidly in Rumanian, be told all over again the story he had been telling Guy.
Watching him, Inchcape’s smile softened indulgently. When the story was finished, he gave Pauli’s shoulder a small push, dismissive and affectionate. As he made off, Pauli turned several times to comment excitedly on his own story.
Pretending impatience, Inchcape called after him: ‘Where are the drinks?’
‘Ah, ah, I go now and get,’ cried Pauli, shaking repentant hands in the air.
‘That,’ said Inchcape, ‘is the latest story going round about the King. A drunk in a café was reviling the King – calling him lecher, swindler, tyrant; all the usual things – when a member of the secret police, overhearing him, said: “How dare you speak in this manner of our great and glorious Majesty, your King and mine?” “But, but,” stammered the drunk, “I was not speaking of our King. Far from it. I was speaking of another King. In fact – the King of Sweden.” “Liar,” roared the policeman, “everyone knows the King of Sweden is a good man.”’
They returned to the room where Pauli was putting out bottles and glasses. Realising his story was being retold, he stood grinning appreciatively until called away by a ring at the front door.
Clarence had arrived. He entered rather stiffly, greeting Guy and Inchcape, but keeping his glance averted from Harriet.
‘Ah,’ said Inchcape, now both his men were present, ‘I have something to tell you: I shan’t be able to view the funeral with you.’ He rubbed his brow into his hand and laughed at the absurdity of it all. ‘The fact is, your humble servant has been invited to attend the funeral. I shall be in one of the processional cars.’
Guy, too startled to restrain himself, said: ‘Good heavens, why?’
‘Why?’ Inchcape was suddenly serious. ‘Because I am now in an official position.’
‘So you are!’ said Guy.
Clarence, staring down at the carpet, grunted once or twice. This noise seemed to sting Inchcape, who said, off-handedly: ‘It’s a bore, but quite an honour for the organisation. The only other members of the English colony invited are the Minister and Woolley.’
Clarence grunted again, then said with sudden force: ‘Talking of honours, I hope you won’t object to my accepting a little job that’s just been offered me by the Legation?’
‘Oh! What would that be?’
‘The administration of Polish Relief. A large sum has been allocated by the Relief Committee at home and I’ve been recommended as a possible organiser. No salary. Just expenses and use of car. What about it?’
‘Why you?’
‘I did relief work in Spain. I was with the Council in Warsaw. I speak Polish.’
‘Humph!’ Inchcape locked his fingers tightly together, examined them, then snapped them apart. ‘Let’s have a drink,’ he said.
‘So you don’t object?’ Clarence persisted.
‘I do object.’ Inchcape swung round on him. ‘No one can do two jobs properly. You’ve been seconded by the British Council to our organisation. Now you’re recommended for this work.’
‘It’s war work. Someone must do it. I’ll see the two jobs don’t clash.’
‘They’d better not. Well, help yourselves. I must go.’ He went from the room, and a little later they heard him slam the front door as he left the flat.
At the sound, Clarence jerked his head up and accidentally caught Harriet’s eye. He coloured slightly but seemed relieved that he had acknowledged her presence at last. His manner eased. As he poured out the drinks, he laughed and said: ‘When we were merely outcast purveyors of British culture, Inchcape outdid us all in contempt for officialdom. Now, what a change is here! The next thing, he’ll be dining with Woolley.’
Clarence was wearing a tie decorated with the small insignia of his college and a blazer with the badge of his old school. Before they left the flat, he wrapped himself up in a long scarf knitted in the colours of a famous rowing club.
Harriet could not refrain from laughing at him. ‘Are you afraid,’ she asked, ‘that people will think you do not belong anywhere?’
Clarence paused, challenged, then looked gratified as though it had occurred to him this might be not so much criticism as coquetry. Opening the front door, he said: ‘I have a weak chest. I have to take care of myself.’
There was a gleam in his eye. Harriet was aware she had been, as she too often was, misunderstood.
The rain had started. To cross the road, they pushed their way through several rows of spectators waiting under umbrellas. The British Information Bureau, a small building, had its windows whitewashed. The painters were at work inside. Above, in Inchcape’s office, the walls had been stripped and given a first coat of white distemper. In one corner there was a stack of new wood cut for shelves. Clarence took the Pringles into the small back room that had been allotted to him. Nothing had been done there. The walls were still covered with a dirty beige paper of cubist design. A table had been put in to serve as a desk. There was nothing on it but a blotting-pad and a photograph in a frame.
Guy picked up the photograph: ‘Is this your fiancée?’
‘Yep. Brenda.’
‘A nice, good face.’
‘Um.’ Clarence seemed to imply he could offer no excuse for it.
They said no more about Brenda. Harriet went to the window and looked out at a large site being cleared in the parallel road, the new Boulevard Breteanu, that was being developed to draw the crowds off the Calea Victoriei. On either side of the site had been built wafer-thin blocks of flats, against which stood wooden lean-to sheds for the sale of vegetables and cigarettes. These had been put up by the peasants from the bug-ridden wood thrown out of the demolished houses. Other hovels stood about on the site, braced with flattened petrol cans, their vents protected with rags.