5

It was quite some time before Kennedy had an opportunity of speaking alone to the maid at Lydia’s house. Each time he went there for a lesson he hoped for this, but each time he was disappointed. He saw her only briefly when, at a given pitch of boredom, Lydia broke into her harsh cry for water. The lessons, he was compelled to admit, were not proving very successful. The emphasis was still on oral work, as Mrs Logothetis had wished, but it was he, Kennedy, who was orally working. Although he continued to speak confidently to Mrs Logothetis about Lydia’s progress, he had in fact soon ceased to expect any response from her, and now simply talked the hour away, aiming his remarks at various corners of the room. He relied to some extent on her obvious loathing for the subject: since he exacted nothing in the way of work from her, he hoped she would not complain of him to her mother. Thus his dismissal would be postponed until he had had time to get a bit of money together. He felt that at twenty-two-and-six an hour, tax free, the longer it could go on the better. He had five students now, two of them secured for him by Willey, the others by Sophy; and of course there was Eleni Polimenou. Things were building up, but slowly. What he needed, he told himself, was a breakthrough. Somewhere quite near, he could not help feeling, if he could once get through the hedge, there was grass of the most vivid green.

Today he purposely arrived for the lesson a good twenty minutes early. He was shown in and asked to wait by the same elderly retainer, and the horror of the polythene-encased chairs was beginning to close in on him again when Veta appeared at the door and came towards him. Even in this cluttered room the grace and dignity of her walk was apparent. Against the cheap dark cloth of her dress the contours of her figure stood out firmly. Her face was completely expressionless. Kennedy stood up, and this action caused her eyes to widen slightly.

‘O kyrios thelei ena kafe?’ she asked.

‘Yes please.’

‘Nescafé y turkiko?’

‘Nescafé, please. Without milk.’

‘Oriste?’

‘You don’t speak any English, then?’ Now that they were both standing he could see how tall she was, only a few inches shorter than himself. She did not, however, shrink against her height, as many tall girls do, but faced him with shoulders held back and head up. He thought he discerned a speculative look in her large mild eyes, a sort of wonder, as if something had come through the gate into her field and she was trying to relate it to the rest of creation; something expectant also, in a primitive way, as though his foreignness was something potentially startling or comical. He put forth his smile and said rather helplessly, ‘Elleniki, ochi. … I’m afraid I don’t know any Greek.’

After a short pause Veta said slowly, ‘Moi parle un peu français. Pas beaucoup.’

‘But that’s great,’ Kennedy said. ‘How did you learn it?’ he asked in French.

‘I am from Tinos,’ Veta replied, speaking very slowly and hesitantly in her rather deep voice. ‘My mother worked at the convent. Les Sœurs, they helped me. Mais moi suis pas Catholique, suis Chrétienne. …’

Perceiving that she meant Orthodox, Kennedy did not comment on this distinction. ‘Well, it is lucky for me,’ he said.

‘I go now to get the coffee.’

‘Black coffee, please,’ Kennedy said, and watched legs, superb even in the thick black, stockings, move out of the room. She returned within a very few minutes and placed the coffee on a small table beside his chair.

‘What do you do when you’re not working?’ Kennedy asked.

‘Plaît-il?

‘How do you employ your hours of leisure?’

Veta continued to regard him silently, mouth somewhat open.

‘What is the day you do not work?’ he said.

‘In the afternoon and evenings of all the Wednesdays I do not work.’

‘But today is only Thursday,’ Kennedy said.

‘Sometimes I go out for one or two hours. But I do not know this before.’

‘I see,’ Kennedy said. ‘It depends on the family. Not exactly generous amounts of time off. Do you think you could escape for a while on Saturday?’

‘Plaît-il?’

‘Do you think,’ Kennedy said, spacing his words carefully, ‘that you can come out for one or two hours on Saturday?’

‘It is possible, yes, I think.’

‘If you can, will you meet me?’

Before replying she looked at him steadily for some moments. Perhaps some process of calculation was involved, but Kennedy could discern nothing of this on her face. ‘What will we do?’ she said.

‘Well, we could have a drink,’ Kennedy said, ‘and become better acquainted.’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I like.’

‘Good. What time then?’

‘Saturday, that must be the afternoon. Four o’clock is best.’

‘That’s a date then. I’ll wait for you outside that big building they call Zappeion. You’ve got it, haven’t you? Saturday, four o’clock, Zappeion. For God’s sake don’t forget.’

Veta said nothing more, but she nodded quite emphatically to show that she understood all the aspects of their assignation. She smiled at him as she left the room. She smiled again when she came in a little later in answer to Lydia’s raucous and peremptory cry. To excite himself Kennedy sought to detect in it a conspiratorial quality, but it was really not a very expressive smile.

The oral work was even more desultory than usual that day. At the end of the lesson Lydia asked him in muttered tones if he wouldn’t mind waiting a little, her father would like to see him. She herself went out, leaving Kennedy a prey to some apprehension. Had it come then, already, his dismissal? After a very short interval Mr Logothetis came in with a smile that must have started outside, because it was at its meridian when he came through the door; and extended a narrow, yellowish hand, fairly liberally beringed. Kennedy, who had not met Mr Logothetis before, smiled as he had decided English tutors should smile, and for a moment or two they regarded each other with expressions of mutual esteem and gratification. Mr Logothetis was a short, plump and dapper man. He was bald on top and that part of his cranium which was hairless was tanned a pleasant brown. He had melting eyes and a curving, somewhat crafty, nose, and he was wearing a light tweed suit that looked English to Kennedy.

‘I am happy to meet you, Mr Kennedy,’ he said, in quite passable English. ‘For a long time we are seeking a good teacher for Ketty, and now it is clear that we found one.’

‘You are kind,’ Kennedy said tutorishly. ‘She is an apt pupil.’ He looked down with considerable interest at Mr Logothetis, who was said to be one of the richest men in Athens — a city not lacking in rich men.

‘Do you think so, do you think so really? I am glad you say that. Parents, you know, they worry, or perhaps you not know, eh? Not yet?’

‘No, not yet,’ Kennedy said, with his broadest smile. ‘But we all come to it sooner or later I suppose.’

‘You are from London, Mr Kennedy?’

‘Yes.’

‘I have agency there, for shipping. You want a reduction any time, I can get you one.’

‘Thank you very much.’

‘Tell me, Mr Kennedy, in confidence, what do you think are my daughter’s chances for the examination?’

‘Well,’ Kennedy said cautiously, ‘it’s very difficult to say, really. Miss Logothetis has a very good general knowledge of English, but it’s rather difficult to get her to, er, flow, if you follow my meaning.’

‘Yes, yes, this is always her great trouble. In the mathematics, for example, she does well, but for the languages her approach is too … mechanical. Also, of course, for a subject like mathematics, there is a syllabus, you can know what you will be asked. With a language it is more difficult.’ Mr Logothetis nodded his head sadly.

‘Quite so,’ said Kennedy, ‘and of course everyone knows that an examination is a chancy business, if I might put it like that. What I mean is, you may happen to have prepared the right questions or you may not. …’ He had been speaking without design, concerned only to keep up an appearance of academic expertise, but was halted now by what seemed a sudden fixity of Logothetis’ regard.

‘Subject to chance, you think?’ said Mr Logothetis.

‘Up to a point, yes.’

Mr Logothetis drew a gold cigarette case from his inside pocket and offered a cigarette to Kennedy. ‘American cigarettes,’ he said, ‘you like?’

‘Very much.’

‘I can send you some.’

‘That is very good of you.’ Kennedy was beginning to feel quite well disposed towards Mr Logothetis, who was clearly a man of kindly disposition, a good parent too.

‘Subject to chance is not justice,’ Mr Logothetis said.

‘No, I suppose not.’

‘You see, Mr Kennedy, I want Lydia to proceed without loss of time to the higher diplomas. This one is a lower diploma, is it not?’

‘That’s right, yes.’

‘It would be a pity for her to lose time over such elementary matters. Because, let us be frank, she might fail to pass.’

‘She might, yes,’ Kennedy conceded. He felt quite sure that Lydia would fail to pass.

Mr Logothetis regarded the end of his cigarette. ‘I want Lydia,’ he said, ‘to go to the Girton College of Cambridge. For admittance there, certificates are of utmost importance, as I don’t need to tell you, Mr Kennedy. The authorities there, they insist. Quite right too, square and above ground, standards are standards. For a university, only to pay fees is not enough.’ He looked up quickly at Kennedy. ‘I should be most grateful,’ he said, ‘to anyone who could help Lydia to obtain her diploma.’

‘I can assure you,’ said Kennedy, who was beginning now to feel rather bored by all this parental ambition, ‘that I shall do my best to get her through the examination.’

‘My gratitude would be concrete,’ Mr Logothetis said.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I know you will do your best, Mr Kennedy. All reports of you that I have heard assure me of this. From my wife, from my daughter — she looks forward so much to her lessons with you.’

Kennedy realised suddenly that Lydia had at last allowed expression of her boredom, and her loathing for himself, to escape her. He was, as he all at once perceived, on rather dangerous ground. ‘I am pleased with her progress,’ he said.

‘We have every confidence in you,’ Logothetis said, almost tenderly. ‘But since you yourself admit that chance is a strong agent in the matter and since it is agreed that Lydia is not, shall we say, greatly gifted in the subject, although of course she is very keen — she would be most distressed to hear me saying this. …’ Mr Logothetis sighed. ‘Her mother and I sometimes wonder whether it is not too much strain on her, whether it might not be better to put an end to these lessons for the time being.’

This threat, following so closely on the praise and promises, had an almost numbing effect on Kennedy. If they stopped the lessons now it would mean his losing nearly four pounds a week. ‘I did not say,’ he said, striving to keep up an appearance of scholarly dispassion, ‘I did not say I thought she would fail. On the contrary, she has every chance of success. With continued coaching, of course. It would be a great mistake to stop the lessons at this stage, very bad for your daughter’s morale.’ He was aware of a certain dampness inside his shirt. ‘What did you mean just now,’ he said, ‘when you said that about your gratitude being concrete?’

Mr Logothetis sighed again. ‘You will take a drink?’ he said. ‘Scotch?’

‘Thank you.’

Mr Logothetis moved to the cocktail cabinet and busied himself there for some moments. ‘Soda or water?’ he said.

‘Just as it comes, if you don’t mind.’

Stepping lightly in neat crocodile-skin shoes Mr Logothetis advanced on him holding a very large tumbler of whisky. ‘Your good health!’ he said.

‘Sigeia!’ returned Kennedy.

‘Ah, you are learning Greek. That is very good. My people thank you. If only, you know, it was possible for Lydia to know beforehand what she needed to prepare …’ Mr Logothetis laughed a little. ‘Eh, Mr Kennedy?’ he said, still laughing.

Suddenly, belatedly, blindingly, Kennedy saw where all this might be leading. Holding his glass in one hand, he took out as stealthily as possible his by now deplorable handkerchief and wiped his upper lip. ‘That would give her,’ he said, ‘what we British call a sporting chance, wouldn’t it?’

‘Exactly, my dear Mr Kennedy. Anyone who would do that for me, I would be very grateful. And since gratitude alone is not useful to anyone I would be prepared to make mine concrete, to the extent of seven, eight thousand drachmas.’ Mr Logothetis took a drink and looked wistfully round the room. ‘Not of course conditionally on the result,’ he said. ‘That would be too much to expect. No, simply some guidance. …’

There was a pause while Kennedy groped in his mind for a concept of eight thousand drachmas. That was nearly a hundred pounds, surely. If he’d give that much, he’d give a little more. He said slowly, ‘I have, as a matter of fact, a friend who might possibly be of help. I can’t be certain at this stage. And he might ask for a little more than eight thousand, since he would be taking something of a risk, you understand, contravening …’

‘How much more?’

‘He might ask for ten thousand. It would be exact information, if I could persuade him, not simply guidance.’

‘I see, yes. Very well. What a lucky chance I mentioned this to you, Mr Kennedy.’

‘Yes, isn’t it? I’d better speak to my friend, I think, before I can be definite about it.’

‘Of course. In the meantime we continue the lessons. I am glad not to deprive Lydia of such an excellent teacher.’

‘It is good of you to say so,’ said Kennedy. Old boy.’

‘Not at all. I leave everything in your hands then. Always we can trust the English for the fair play. You are renowned for it.’

‘Yes. Well, here’s to you.’

‘And here’s to you, Mr Kennedy.’ Mr Logothetis took a drink, and surveyed Kennedy. His face was only slightly smiling, but some interior jubilation must have disarranged his English, because after a moment he added, with some emphasis, ‘Mud down your jolly hatch.’