Strangers in Company (6 page)

She turned to look when the bus pulled up at long last outside the hotel and saw an elderly woman she had not noticed before, the kind of woman, in fact, that one tended not to notice, a small, neat creature in what must be an unsuitably hot twinset and matching skirt. She, too, had been sleeping but now opened blue eyes in a surprisingly brown face and smiled muzzily up at Marian. “Catching up on my sleep,” she said. “Did you get any last night?”

“Not much.” Grateful for the excuse to escape from
Mrs. Hilton, Marian paused to introduce herself. “I'm Marian Frenche.”

“How do you do.” She spoke what Mark used to describe, with dislike, as University English. “Kay Spencer. Mrs. I hope you haven't got a burn.”

“I don't think so. It takes me quite a while. You're lucky; you're brown already.”

“Yes.” She had a pleasant light laugh. “I'm a mad gardener. To tell you the truth, I come as much for the flowers as the ruins. Did you see the mullein at Sounion?”

“No.” Turning to lead the way down the emptying bus, Marian did not confess that she would not know a mullein from an aspidistra. They walked into the hotel together, chatting idly, and Marian, picking up her key at the desk, had a prick of conscience, remembering Miss Oakland's instructions to keep Stella away from the other members of the party. But Mrs. Spencer was turning briskly away at the foot of the stairs. “I'm in the annexe,” She lifted a friendly hand.

It was well after seven, and by the time Marian had made a quick change into a light cotton and terylene dress the queue was already forming in the lobby. Once again she dived through, with a faintly apologetic smile for Mrs. Spencer, and again found Stella in the little bar, but this time alone, reading a book and sipping an ouzo. She looked, for her, relaxed and almost cheerful. “Are you having one? You'd better. You look whacked.”

“I am. Yes, thanks, I think I will. And it was worth it,” she added firmly, as Stella rose to get her drink.

It took a little time, and taking her first, reviving sip, Marian heard commotion in the lobby. “Oh, dear, the dining room must be open already.”

“Never mind,” said Stella firmly. “Drink up. You need it.” She laughed. “Even if it does mean Useless and Glamour-puss again.” And then, as Marian looked her question, “Oh, well, Cairnthorpe and Edvardson, if you must have it. But I like them better as Useless and Glamour-puss. I ask you, though! Birds! With a face like that he ought to be one of those iron-willed TV heroes,
but it must be all surface. I expect he's soft as butter inside. Look at the dear little dicky-birds! Ugh—”

“You young are so ruthless.”

“Just honest, Mrs. F. And you're not exactly a grandmother yourself.”

The silent wound bled a bitter drop. What use would grandchildren be in America? Not for the first time, she found herself wondering if Mark had stopped her money partly to make it impossible for her to visit the twins. It would be like him.… She pushed back her chair. Don't think about the twins. “I'm famished again. Shall we eat?”

They found Cairnthorpe alone at the table that they had had at lunchtime. Rising to greet them, “I think the professor must be revisiting old haunts,” he said.

“Professor?”

“Yes. He was telling me after lunch. Classics at Harvard. I hope our guide knows his stuff!” And then, as an afterthought, “Do you think everyone knows about the early start tomorrow, Mrs. Frenche?”

“I didn't.”

“Oh, dear … I hoped they'd pass the word on.”

“Better make an announcement” Stella was suddenly brisk. She clapped her hands. “Pray silence for our courier,” she said into a surprised hush.

“Just to say”—he was on his feet, his colour high but his voice steady—“that I'm sorry about the muddle this morning, and I hope you all enjoyed your afternoon. And to break it to you that we've an early start tomorrow. Breakfast at seven thirty; leave at eight thirty.”

“Ouch,” said one of the schoolmistresses louder than she intended, and he sat down amid a ripple of sympathetic laughter.

“You could make an announcement at the end of the bus ride every day,” said Marian thoughtfully. “While you've got us captive.”

“Yes, I'd thought of that. The trouble is,” he confided, “I don't know how the microphone works. And the driver doesn't speak a word of English. That's why I didn't
know about the bus moving to the car park today. I must learn some modern Greek.… I feel a fool.”

“Yes, isn't it tiresome?”

“
Kalemera
,” said Stella surprisingly.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Good morning,” she explained. “And
kalespera
is good afternoon. It's all in the phrase book, but it actually works. I tried it on the chambermaid.”

Seven thirty seemed very early, and eight thirty not much better. It was a subdued party that climbed into the bus to be greeted, once again, with muddle. Someone, it seemed, had decided that they must rotate (“like crops,” whispered Stella crossly) so that everyone had his fair share of front windows and wheels. But, naturally, since not everyone had gone to Sounion the day before, there was considerable confusion about who should be sitting where. When they were finally sorted out, the schoolmistresses were sitting enmasse in front of Marian and Stella, and the professor and Mrs. Spencer behind them. She looked hotter than ever today, in another twinset, this time blue to match her eyes. Had no one told her, Marian wondered, about the Greek climate? The professor had stood in the aisle for a moment, looking puzzled. Now he sat down beside her. “Funny,” Marian heard him say, and then, “I guess I was tireder than I knew.”

“
Kyriae kai kyrii
.” A new voice drew all attention to the front of the bus.

“Wow,” said Stella.

He was beautiful as only Mediterranean young men can be beautiful: brown skin, dark hair, flashing teeth all adding up to the glossy look of perfect health and, Marian thought, perfect self-confidence. His gleaming smile was an impartial benison. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he went on. “Let me introduce myself. I am your devoted guide, Mihailos Angelou. You will call me Mike of course; everyone does, and we will be dear friends before many days. You will help me with my English”—his accent was sometimes difficult—and I will teach you many many things
about our beautiful Greece, birthplace of the gods and of democracy.” There was a challenging sparkle in his eye now. He laughed. “Do you know what one of my ladies said to me last year? ‘What is your Greek word for politics?' she asked me. And, ‘Madam,' I said, ‘Politics is our word. What is yours?' And that,” he went on, “is all the politics we are going to talk. We have a proverb, here in Greece, that if you have two Greeks, you have two political parties, and if you have two of
them
, you have a quarrel. So, we shall not quarrel, you and I.” Once again, the warm smile embraced them. “This is a classical tour, and we have more interesting things to do. We shall talk of Zeus and his cross wife Hera, and I will tell you tales of the old days, when gods were jealous and men were heroes.” He turned and spoke rapid Greek to the bus driver. “Now we start. Our driver is Andreas, and he bids you
kalemera
, which is good morning. You will all say, ‘
Kalemera
, Andreas.'”

They did, rather sheepishly, and Mike beamed approval. “Now our first stop is at Eleusis. Most tours, as perhaps you know, go first to the ancient Byzantine church at Daphne, but it is not ancient as we are going to think of antiquity.” The bus had pulled away from the hotel, but he still stood, swaying to its motion, the microphone in his hand. “We are going far far back into the dark past, and now, if you please, you will shut your eyes to modern Athens, and your ears to its noise, and you will imagine yourselves as pilgrims, torches in hand, walking, in the dark, the Sacred Way to Eleusis. Perhaps you are an initiate and know what is to come. Perhaps not, and you are afraid of what awaits you. And do not ask me what it is, for no one knows. The mystery of Eleusis has never been solved. The initiates swore a terrible oath not to reveal what they did and saw, and, my friends, they kept it. So this is a mystery story, if you like, with no ending. Only we know that the great goddess Demeter, the earth mother, was worshipped there, because it was there, while she searched for her lost daughter Persephone, that she taught her host, King Celeus, the art of husbandry. The first
corn grew at Eleusis, ladies and gentlemen. I am afraid you will find no corn there now. The sacred site lies between an aerodrome and some very useful modern factories. But if you keep looking to your right, you will see the votive niches in the rock, where once stood statues, no doubt of gold and precious work, and presently, the sacred lakes of Rhiti. And if you look to your left, ladies and gentlemen, you will see the island of Salamis, where the Persian king sat on his golden throne to watch his fleet destroy the Greeks. As your poet says,

He counted them at break of day—

And when the sun set where were they?

The united Greeks beat him, ladies and gentlemen, and sent him back to Persia, where he belonged.” He smiled once more. “And now, remember, you are pilgrims, torch-bearing, on your way to the Great Mystery of Eleusis.”

He sat down in his seat beside the driver, and a little buzz of conversation broke out in the bus. “I know another quote from Byron.” Marian recognied Mrs. Duncan's brisk voice.

The mountains look on Marathon—

And Marathon looks on the sea;

And musing there an hour alone,

I dream'd that Greece might still be free.

“Apposite,” said the professor quietly from behind Marian, “but perhaps not tactful? I reckon we've had our warning about politics. Let's take it, shall we? After all, we're here to enjoy ourselves, and I'm sure we don't want to make trouble for anybody.”

“No, no, of course not.” She sounded surprised at the idea, but subsided into silence.

“How did Demeter come to lose her daughter?” asked Stella.

“I'm sure I don't know.” The knife twisted once more in the wound. “It does seem careless.” She made her voice light as she turned round to speak to Professor Edvardson. “Can you tell us?”

“About Persephone? Well, there are dozens of stories, but the gist of it is that she had a loving mother who didn't want to part with her and kept her safe in a garden, maybe on Crete; only unluckily, Hades, King of the Underworld, happened to see her, fell in love and carried her off. Poor Demeter hunted all over for her, and in the end she only got her back for part of each year. That's why we have the seasons, you see. It's winter when Persephone's underground with her husband.”

“It sounds like an awful warning to mothers,” said Stella. “But I'm not quite sure what kind.”

Marian clenched her hands on the strap of her bag. Is it better to lose your daughter to a husband or a father? And how should one be warned? What should one have done? Her head was beginning to throb: the bad night, the hurried breakfast, the confused start, and now this.… Soon, she knew, the throb would be an ache, the ache a migraine. She closed her eyes and tried to make herself relax. “Just relax,” Dr. Brown would say. Relax? You might as well say it to someone on the rack.

The bus was slowing down. “Here we are, ladies and gentlemen.” Mike was on his feet again, microphone in hand. “This way for the Mysteries.”

More talk about Demeter and Persephone? About lost daughters? Viola … Sebastian … I can't. She was in the window seat. Just stay there? Why not? Stella, surprisingly, had already pushed her way forward down the aisle to speak to Cairnthorpe. The professor and Mrs. Spencer were moving out to follow. Marian leaned forward. “I say.” She spoke to both of them. “Would you very kindly tell Miss Marten that I think I'll sit this one out. I've got a bit of a head.”

“I'll stay with you.” Little Mrs. Spencer spoke with surprising authority.

“No, please.… I just need to rest.… It's very good of you.”

“Migraine.” The professor's eyes were kind under the bushy brows. “You'll be much better on your own. Come along, Mrs. Spencer; we don't want to miss young Mike
on the Mysteries. I hope he's got another genuine homegrown Greek proverb for us.” He shepherded her, firm but polite, forward down the bus. It was quiet at last Marian leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes. Her conscience told her that she should have gone with Stella; her reason replied that in that case she would have been useless for the rest of the day. Traffic hummed; a factory siren sounded; voices drifted past as other buses let out their loads of tourists. It was nothing to do with her; it was peace. For a few minutes, exquisitely, she slept.

“You poor thing.” Mrs. Hilton's voice jerked her back to wakefulness. “I came back the minute I heard. Fancy leaving you all on your own. Why! Anything might have happened to you. The driver's over at that bar, drinking God knows what with a lot of friends. I had to make him unlock the bus to let me in. No Greek, mind you, but I managed. So here I am, the little nurse, and here's a glass of water and a pill you're going to take.”

Not a small woman, she loomed surprisingly large in the corridor of the empty bus. “No!” It came out with a vehemence that surprised Marian. “Thank you very much. But all I need is to be quiet for a bit.”

“Nonsense.” Mrs. Hilton sat down in the seat beside her. “I know those heads; they go on forever if you don't take something. My doctor gives me these—” She held the pill firmly in one hand and offered the water with the other.

“No, really. It's very kind of you.” Marian searched wildly for an explanation for her deep, irritational reluctance to accept the kindly proferred medicine. “I've got an odd kind of allergy.” She found the perfect formula. “My doctor told me never to take anything without his permission. It brings me out in the most dreadful spots.”