19

When Anna did not come back, Patricia was more disappointed than surprised. She already regretted that she had called her. Her weakness before Anna blurred with all her other memories into one great feeling of self-abasement. She had done so many things that made her squirm when she thought of them, that when a letter arrived from Criton in which he begged her once more to let him go, she mobilised her last reserves to turn her mind in a new direction.

At the beginning of the second-term vacation the Barwings went abroad, to Ceylon, where Peter had friends working on the new archaeological survey of Anuradhnapura. The change from Melbourne and the life on the tea plantation where they were staying produced a certain recovery. Buddhism had always had a fascination for Patricia, and now she was offered the chance of meeting sophisticated followers of the doctrine which taught that all was suffering and that liberation lay through acceptance of the inescapable. Essentially unreligious, she could respond to the reasoning of the dhamma, especially when Peter pointed out that it had something in common with Engels’ dictum that freedom was the recognition of necessity. Belatedly she went in search of a personal philosophy. She had long conversations with an American-educated bikhu on the terrace of his retreat overlooking the Indian Ocean. But he was ruthless enough to show her that the Middle Way was not a therapy. The blessing, ‘May all beings be happy’, implied a different happiness from the one she was searching for, though there were aeons of time to win it. But it was precisely this she could not believe. For her there could be no happiness in any world but this.

At the end of the vacation Peter had to fly back to Australia. Patricia persuaded him with great difficulty to let her remain behind. She crossed to India and went on alone, travelling by bus and slow train through the south and thence to Bombay. With Peter gone, her restlessness came back. The bikhu had warned her that wherever a person went the causal law went with him. ‘Neither in the sky nor in the midst of the sea nor by entering into the clefts of mountains is there known a place on earth where, stationing himself, a man can escape the results of his evil deeds.’

In Bombay she renewed an old boarding-school friendship and was drawn into a hectic Christmas round of race parties and beach picnics. Troubled and feeling depressed, she took the train to Benares and from there travelled to Buddhgaya. On New Year’s Day she stood by the bank of the Phalgu, looking at the sacred Bodhi tree, descended from the one in whose shade the Lord had broken the wheel of bondage.

That night, walking into the little town from her hotel, she realised that she had come either too late or much too soon. She bitterly regretted having burned all Criton’s letters, including his last. His image had returned more intense than ever; she could not shake it off, and the more she struggled the more it possessed her. She had to accept the fact that everything was finished, but she could not accept the very idea of acceptance: how could one accept pain and not resist it? All progress came not from acceptance but from resistance. If a child burned his finger at a stove, he withdrew it quickly. She could see the flaw in her reasoning, for even the child had to accept the stove, since not to accept it was to risk being burned a second time. Yet while accepting the stove, it still rejected the pain …

There was no refuge in philosophising. She wandered alone for hours, accosted by beggars, and once by a policeman who asked if she had lost her way. She returned to her room where the ceiling fan was still buzzing monotonously. Afraid for her sanity, she sat down to write to Criton, to tell him of her wanderings and her loneliness. After covering a score of pages she tore them up. Instead she sent a New Year card to Elena Joannides, asking for news of all her Greek friends and casually enquiring after Criton. In a postscript she added that she intended to go to Kashmir for some ski-ing and suggested that she should reply to her at Srinagar.

Elena’s letter reached her in the middle of January, when she felt very low. It was long and affectionate but contained nothing of consequence about Criton—only that he was well. Yannis and Anna were also well; she herself was kept busy by the growing infirmity of her mother-in-law, the proverbial Hellenic matriarch, and the Greek community was still engrossed in its usual squabbles. The letter cryptically mentioned Peter, hinting that sensible wives did not leave their husbands unprotected. Alexis enclosed an introduction to an acquaintance who was running an hotel in New Delhi.

Patricia’s friend and her family had come north for the winter sport, bringing with them their Bombay high spirits. She danced, went for sleigh drives and played bridge, but neither these things nor the sight of eternal peaks, when the shrouded mist lifted, brought her relief. A Parsi importer from Calcutta, a widower and collector of antiques, attached himself to her. He took her into the cavernous, freezing workrooms of silk weavers and silversmiths, continually forcing presents on her. She accepted them because he was amusing and because the poverty of the artisans who made them appalled her. Srinagar was a slum at the foot of the Himalayas. In the end, worn down by his protestations, and touched by his incongruous passion for his children who were accompanying him in the charge of an Anglo-India governess, she allowed him to make love to her. He was considerate and experienced but it would have been better had he been brutal. In his bed she could think only of Criton, and when he began to sense it he became offended and retired in a huff.

Presently a cable arrived from Peter. He simply said that if she did not return soon she would miss the Australian summer. Dreading Melbourne, she spun out the return journey, taking a slow boat from Cochin that put in at unfrequented ports. It was past the middle of February when she set foot in her own house.

She fought against the nagging itch to seek Criton again but she knew that she would give in. Twice she went to meetings of the Buddhist Society in its dusty rooms, in a lane off Collins Street, owned by a moribund political sect, but they were attended by too many old people. She was developing a horror of the esoteric. Buddhism was well enough in Ceylon; in Australia it was an anachronism. Then, as if some unknown joker was making sport of her, she began to receive news about the man she loved.

Peter’s students brought her reports about him. Some had heard that Criton was painting again. He had joined the Artists’ Society; there was talk that he was entering a few water-colours in an exhibition. With these stories came rumours about Anna. They were often seen together. Somebody thought that he was painting her.

She could have rung Anna but she preferred to give rein to an erratic envy, unable to believe that it was the jealousy of a jilted woman for a rival. That Anna was pregnant she had learned soon after her return. At first it was with something like relief that she turned her thoughts from Criton to her, taking a masochistic delight in the pain it produced, until the persistence with which Anna’s name was mentioned put too sharp an edge on her grievance. She had crossed that finest of fine lines that divides pain, knowingly self-inflicted, from the most desperate torture, and was at last reaching the fateful point where pain and pleasure are so terribly one that suffering alone remains conscious. Now she felt humiliated for having thrown herself on Anna’s mercy. In the futility that led to suicide there was still a kind of limp repose, a letting go. This had failed her, along with everything else. What was left was a controlled hysteria. She could still instruct the maid and supervise her house, drive her car and entertain guests. Peter noticed only that she was eating less than usual, though there were times when she devoured everything the cook prepared with absent-minded haste. She was longing for something—a breakdown perhaps—as a boy may long for his school to burn down. Where once she could not stop her thoughts dwelling on Criton, and then on Anna, now she could not stop thinking of them together. They were gay and normal, going about their lives, and she herself had brought it about that they could pity her while they enjoyed each other’s company.

In this mood she ran into Elena one early afternoon, in a store off Swanston Street. She had avoided her since her return, with a variety of excuses. Elena saw her first. She was trying on a blouse, looking poised and elegant even half-undressed. Patricia waited till she had made her purchase and then Elena took her off to one of the small, refreshingly cool, basement restaurants found everywhere in the city. They talked for over an hour. When Patricia left her, Elena went straight to her husband’s office.

Raised voices were issuing from the inner room as she came in. One belonged to Alexis, the other was high and also familiar. Elena waited. After a few minutes the door opened and Papadopoulos emerged, looking more bad-tempered than usual. She greeted him but he walked through with only an insolent stare.

‘What’s happened to that one, Alexi?’ she asked, after the door had closed behind her. ‘Have you at last given him the sack?’

‘That’s exactly what I have done,’ Alexis said. ‘The pig presumes too much. Nobody is irreplaceable.’ ‘Nobody is irreplaceable’ was one of his favourite expressions. ‘If he imagines that because I’ve clothed and fed him all these years … What brings you here? Weren’t we supposed to meet at the cinema?’

‘It’s about your dear brother and your sister-in-law. I’ve just had tea with Pat Barwing. I can’t tell you how worried I am.’

‘Well, don’t stand there; sit down. What’s there suddenly to be worried about? Is he drinking again? The other day, I hear, he got properly boozed up at the Doric.’

‘That’s a lie, of course. But somebody should talk to him, and better a man than a woman. It’s about Anna. Pat asked me not to tell you, but she’s become quite unstable. I mean Pat is unstable. She is insanely jealous. She is talking about Anna and Criton as if there was something wrong, and if she talks like that to me she’ll talk to others. For everybody’s sake it should be stopped.’

‘Criton?’ Alexis said. ‘Elena, I’m not going to interfere. I have just learned something new about him. Papadopoulos says he stole his gun. Not that that impresses me.’

‘Since when has Daddy had a gun?’ Elena said, surprised. ‘You never told me.’

‘I didn’t know myself,’ Alexis said, offhand. ‘It doesn’t matter anyhow. Daddy was bluffing. He is trying to scare me into keeping him on in spite of everything. But your Criton … no, why should I?’

‘It is not for his sake, but Yannis’.

‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘you who know everything, how have I deserved such a family? Do you know that Yannis is going round everywhere, making out I’m bossing a band of gangsters who take money from prostitutes? One of these days he’ll do something that will be the end of Mama. Poor Anna, nothing of this is her fault; she is a child from a village. What has the Barwing woman to say? Is she pointing her dirty fingers at us?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Then I suggest you go and talk to Anna.’

‘I never knew men were such cowards. Anna is in her seventh month. I’m not going to upset her over these stupidities. If you won’t tackle your brother, leave him to me.’

‘I’ll get the girl to ring him tomorrow. He can come and see me here I’m not going out there to invite more of his insults. I’ve done enough for him.’

Alexis’ interview with his brother was very short. Yannis did not even sit down.

‘It’s about Anna,’ Alexis said. ‘She’s going around too much with the Evangelides boy. I thought I had better warn you. You know how busybodies gossip.’

‘What busybodies? Who is poking his nose into my affairs?’

‘Her nose,’ Alexis said. ‘Mrs Barwing has been on to Elena. You can be certain that if she’s noticed it, so have others. Where’s your common sense?’

‘Where is yours?’ Yannis said aggressively. ‘Mrs Barwing has noticed what? That she is a shameless old hag who has scared away a poor decent youngster she’s been running after with her tongue hanging out? Do me a favour! Anna is seven months gone. She’s as big as an elephant. Who do you want me to get excited about? Criton? I’m playing dominoes with him. You never had the right idea about women. Remember when you wanted me to give her your filthy drugs?’

Alexis kept his temper. ‘Nobody is saying anything about your wife. But your poor decent youngster will get himself deported one of these days. If you weren’t such a fathead I would tell you one or two things. The boy was a terrorist, if you didn’t know it. I dare say it was that which put Patricia Barwing off.’

‘Put Patricia Barwing off! One can see you know nothing. He has more self-respect than the whole gang of parasites she belongs to. Criton is a terrorist? What you mean is he didn’t lick the boots of the British. A terrorist!’ He laughed scornfully. ‘I could think of a few things that are worse. You’ve got terror on the brain. No wonder, either! Criton’s seen more terror at Olympic Park than he probably ever saw at home.’

‘I have warned you,’ Alexis said coldly. ‘You’ve let her be careless before. We can’t afford that sort of thing.’

‘We? Who is we? I can afford a lot of things that you can’t.’

‘Well, that’s all,’ Alexis said. ‘I told Elena one couldn’t talk to you. Do you mind if she speaks to Anna?’

‘I can’t stop her if she wants to,’ Yannis said. ‘But what is she supposed to have done wrong? Now I will tell you something. I’m grateful to Criton that he brought her back from that awful party. It wasn’t you who looked after her when she needed the family.’

‘All right,’ Alexis said. ‘God bless you and keep you, you maniac. I won’t withdraw my hand if you need me, whatever happens. Give Anna my love and tell her to get your suits pressed.’

‘Tell Elena to press your own,’ Yannis retorted fiercely. But it was a weak shot. Alexis’ suit was brand new. And as for his own—he had forbidden Anna to handle the heavy iron and, like most men, he was a poor hand at such work.

Yannis said nothing to Anna, though he began to show a certain reserve towards Criton. But then the small cloud seemed to dissolve as quickly as it had formed.

One evening Criton brought up Iris’ name. It happened in Yannis’ presence, in his own kitchen, while Anna was getting ready for a lesson. Iris was coming down shortly to see him and Criton asked if he could bring her along. Diffidently he explained that her people had been kind to him but he had no friends to share with her, except the Pavonis. Iris had expressed a wish to get to know some Greeks—the very word was exotic to her.

Looking at Anna and Criton, and hearing him enquire nervously if he could invite his girl, made Yannis feel ashamed of his suspicions. He immediately pressed Criton to bring Iris to have dinner with them. He had an idea: he would borrow Paul Stephanou’s famous book of Greek recipes, so that they could give her a special treat. In any case he was planning to meet Paul at the club on Friday. He would send him a note to bring his book along. Abakouri would be there as well. The Salonikan wanted to join the Labour Party and needed him to iron out some problems.

But when Friday came everything went wrong. Stephanou had misunderstood his letter. He had left the book at the club but was not coming himself. And instead of Paul there was an uninvited guest.

Daddy Papadopoulos had fallen on hard times. As a wrestler he was nearly played out; the public was tired of the old names, and since his defeat by Johnny Zavallis there had been a succession of younger men against whom his experience did not avail. Up to a point fights could be fixed, but only up to a point, and if Mr Joannides could see no profit in fixing them, they were not. Alexis had dropped him from his unofficial post as bodyguard and nightwatchman. He had so often threatened to do it that Daddy did not believe him until it was too late. An unemployed professional wrestler with no future—nothing could be worse. With his reputation, the Seamen’s Union would not have him, and in any case it was too late to go back to sea. At the Cretan clubs his credit was no longer good. He was already making the rounds of the other clubs, trying to cash in on his waning popularity and sullenly defying the sarcasm of the regulars. He was down to his last few pounds, and thirsty.

He spent long hours loafing in billiard halls—he was an excellent player—cadging games and wondering what to do. In his own way he was not without resource and people, seeing only the shell of flesh and the hairless dome, easily underestimated him. He was pondering whether he knew something about Alexis’ affairs that could be sold to his political enemies, but when he added it all up it did not amount to enough. He had a young Cypriot admirer, a harmless, simple-minded lad who dreamt of making his fortune as a wrestler and who had suggested that he should speak to Constantinos Farmakides of Kypros.

Daddy was sitting at a table with his young satellite and Farmakides, when the latter caught sight of Yannis by the mail rack, reading Paul Stephanou’s note. Farmakides had the recipe book in his office. He called Yannis over.

‘Look who is visiting us, Yannaki,’ he greeted him. ‘The Lion of Sparta, wanting a new cage.’ He laughed at the feeble aphorism and pushed out a chair. ‘Have a coffee. Abakouri has rung. He’ll be late, as usual.’

Yannis sat down. He was disgruntled because of the missed appointment. Nor did it please him to see Papadopoulos. ‘What new cage?’ he said, looking round the table.

‘No jokes, please, Colonel,’ Daddy said, referring to Farmakides’ well-known resemblance to Dighenis. ‘Things are too serious. Couldn’t be more serious, Mr Joannides.’

‘Has he got the sack, Costa?’ Yannis said, addressing himself to his club friend. ‘Does he want to become a Cypriot now?’

‘Yes, I’m tired of being from Crete,’ Daddy conceded. ‘It doesn’t pay at all. Your brother has used me up and thrown me away.’

‘I am very sorry,’ Yannis said ironically. ‘I thought you couldn’t get thrown?’

Farmakides smiled. ‘Don’t be hard on him, my boy. He’s a worker too. He works with his hands.’

‘Really?’ Yannis said, looking at Daddy as for the first time.

The young admirer decided to put his spoke in. ‘I’m as good a Cypriot as any, Mr Joannides. But you must admit your brother has queer notions.’

Yannis did not care for strangers to take liberties with members of his family. ‘We all have,’ he said. ‘You have, I have, everybody has.’

‘He’s been badly treated, though,’ the young man persisted. ‘As for yourself, you have a name for being a democrat.’

‘Democritus, Democritus,’ Yannis muttered. ‘And then, what?’

‘He’s well informed,’ the youth hinted. He was very neatly turned out, with narrow lapels to his jackets and a fashionably narrow tie. His curly hair fitted his skull like a helmet and he had a widow’s peak. Yannis glanced at him: ‘I do not doubt he’s well informed.’

Papadopoulos belched. ‘Pardon me,’ he said. ‘I can see the Joannides clan is all made of the same material. Alexis also thinks he is witty.’

‘Did Abakouri say when he would be here?’ Yannis said to Farmakides. ‘I’m not going to wait very long.’ Turning to the young man he patted his shoulder. ‘Don’t mind me. We’re all well informed here. Have some fetta? Our Costa has his special sources.’ His glance included Daddy. ‘You see, we like to play our cards openly.’

‘Cards,’ the wrestler said, his eyes lighting up and his heavy brows moving. ‘Play rummy? Have a game of yiftiko?’

‘We play prefa here,’ Yannis said comfortably. ‘But count me out. I don’t mind watching you. Costa, do you think you can manage us a drink while we wait?’

‘Thank you,’ Daddy said when Farmakides had gone to fetch a bottle and cups. ‘I don’t believe you are like your brother at all; you’re just pretending. Perhaps we may have a chat some time? You might be able to advise me.’

‘No,’ Yannis said. ‘I don’t wish to be rude but I have no desire to advise you on your affairs.’

Farmakides returned with Paul’s cookery book and an unlabelled bottle. ‘Grappa,’ he announced, putting it down. ‘The Italians sell it. I think they make it in their bathrooms, but as wine goes it’s as good as what you get in the shops. And cheaper. Health, gentlemen.’

‘Who plays?’ the young man asked.

‘I’ve been playing cards all afternoon,’ Constantinos apologised.

‘Dice, then?’

‘All right. I’ll play with you.’

‘And with me afterwards,’ Daddy said.

The game got under way and the others looked on. Yannis was turning the pages of Paul Stephanou’s cookery book, trying to put a menu together. This was the place where he felt most at home; only men came here and he knew everybody. Today the club was fairly crowded. There was no better way of passing an hour, and by and by he grew cheerful. Perhaps it would be more sensible to take a different line with Papadopoulos. He was waiting for a chance to take Farmakides aside.

After ten minutes the youth had won a few shillings and ordered more refreshments. He passed the red leather beaker over to his friend.

The wrestler put the dice to his lips and murmured to them: ‘Don’t let your Daddy down. He’s broke.’

Farmakides shook his head. ‘If you’re broke, I won’t play with you.’

But the man from Crete was already rattling the cup.

‘No difference, brother. It’s when a man is bankrupt that he plays best.’ He pulled three notes and some coins out and laid them in a small heap. ‘When that’s gone, I’m going to knock down a Jew. Let’s not play for peanuts?’

Farmakides grinned. ‘You pick up all the wrong Australianisms. There’s going to be a Jew here any minute. You had better not try it on him.’

The stakes were fixed and Daddy threw. ‘Double five. How is that?’

Yannis grew bored. He had never been fond of gambling, but Farmakides was. He got up and made a round of the tables, stopping to talk to his acquaintances. Then Abakouri came in, full of apologies. All the chairs were occupied by now and he took him over to where he had been sitting before. Daddy’s pile of money had diminished and he was talking to himself at every throw. His youthful follower was attempting to persuade him to give up.

Yannis introduced the new arrival and they began to talk among themselves about Salamis affairs. He paid no attention to the dice game but Abakouri was following it out of the corner of his eye. Daddy’s turn came. He threw. One of the dice rolled under a saucer and as he shifted it it seemed to turn over. The other had fallen close to the table’s edge and showed a six.

‘Double six at last!’ Papadopoulos said, coughing as if his cigarette smoke was getting into his throat.

‘Six and four,’ Abakouri said quietly. ‘I’m sorry.’

Daddy glinted at him. ‘You never saw it.’

‘A six and a four. I did see it. You turned it over with your finger. Try again.’

Daddy grunted, undecided. He picked the dice up, rattled them for a long time, and threw a two and a six. He passed to his opponent the pound which he owed him and turned the cup over. ‘Finished.’

Abakouri looked at him quizzically. ‘Can’t take it?’ he said.

Daddy cracked his fingers. ‘Be quiet, you gipsy. Do we know you?’

‘I know you,’ Abakouri said. ‘I watched what you were doing.’

‘Well, didn’t I throw it again?’ Daddy demanded indignantly.

Yannis found it amusing. ‘Then you did turn it over?’

Papadopoulos gazed sombrely into his eyes. ‘Go and get stuffed. Who invited your help?’

Yannis felt his mouth go dry. ‘What did you say? You will kindly take your departure. We don’t enjoy your company.’

‘Now, please!’ Farmakides intervened. ‘That’s nothing …’

‘Out,’ Yannis commanded.

‘Ah!’ Papadopoulos said, bending towards the young man who was sitting by, smiling with embarrassment. ‘He doesn’t enjoy our company … Did you hear? Just study these types. Famous for their hospitality! What did you drag me here for? It’s like in Russia, I told you.’

‘Out,’ Yannis repeated. ‘Thug!’

‘People like you,’ Daddy said, ‘people like you we used to sit on ice blocks, with their trousers down, eh?’

It had suddenly become Yannis’ quarrel. ‘You impotent gorilla!’ he shouted, so that it could be heard all over the room. ‘Come here to insult us with your baby voice?’ He imitated Daddy’s squeaking falsetto. ‘People like you …’

‘Let him be, Yannaki,’ Farmakides urged. ‘He’s been badly brought up.’

Papadopoulos hated jokes about his voice, for he had had to suffer them all his life.

‘Be careful,’ he warned. ‘Don’t talk about impotence. It doesn’t become you.’

‘Well, my lion,’ Yannis said, sorry for having gone so far, and smiling at Abakouri for confirmation. ‘If you’ll promise to behave yourself you can come to the christening of my kid. You won’t have long to wait. When you have cubs, you can send for me.’

‘Very good!’ Abakouri commented.

‘You’ll be welcome,’ Daddy said. ‘At least you can be sure it will be my kid and not someone else’s.’

There was a hush. Yannis was still smiling.

‘I didn’t get that,’ he said. ‘Let’s hope it will be yours. It certainly wouldn’t be mine. You’re not so old yet, maybe.’

‘He didn’t mean it like that,’ Abakouri said softly. ‘The swine means …’

Yannis stopped smiling.

The Lion of Sparta stuck his right thumb into his left fist and wiggled it. ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘Now do you understand me?’

‘Enough of this,’ Farmakides broke in nervously. ‘That’s not funny, boys.’ He turned sharply to Yannis. ‘You began it,’ he said. ‘Don’t go on.’

But Yannis did not hear him. He moved his hand forward until it touched Papadopoulos’. ‘I don’t bother with you … You’re lying too much.’

The suggestive fist unclasped the suggestive finger and dropped. ‘It’s hard if a man can’t be sure who’s fathering his children. Very sad …’

‘Liar!’ Yannis roared.

‘That’s not funny,’ Farmakides said again.

‘Let him ask—what’s her name?—Mrs Barwing,’ the wrestler grunted.

‘Come on; leave it, Yannaki. Childish slanders.’ Abakouri was also taking alarm.

‘He wouldn’t remember it, anyhow,’ the Cretan said. ‘He was dead drunk and asleep when it happened. But I’m sure he knows the occasion we’re talking about. Ask him if he remembers Williamstown.’

‘What?’ Yannis whispered.

‘Not what. Who,’ Daddy corrected gently.

‘Who?’

‘Never mind. I’ll tell you privately some time.’

Abakouri stood up. ‘You’d best be off, my friend, before you’re kicked out. You have fascinated us enough.’

Daddy rose also, apparently ready to obey. But Yannis had grasped his belt. ‘Who?’

‘Your friend Criton Evangelides. Didn’t you know?’

Abakouri lunged out and struck at Daddy’s chest, but the other caught his hand like a ball and held it.

‘Everybody knows about it,’ he said. ‘He had her dress off when I turned up. Couldn’t have been plainer.’

‘Not true,’ Yannis managed to get out, looking about him as if he expected some confirmation of his denial.

Papadopoulos said: ‘Ask her. And then come back and tell me that I’m impotent.’ He flung Abakouri’s imprisoned hand away and yelled, his head rolling from side to side: ‘Go and ask your brother, go and ask your brother! Eh? Go and ask him!’

‘All lies, every word of it,’ Constantinos Farmakides said. ‘Who’ll believe one like that?’

‘Lies, of course,’ Yannis echoed, but he looked iron grey. ‘Costa, I’m going.’

‘I’m going with you,’ Abakouri said. ‘The son of a whore has spoiled my evening.’

‘I’ll see him home,’ Daddy sneered.

Yannis’ eyes travelled from face to face. Everywhere men had turned in his direction. The whole exchange had been over in a flash; there had been no time for them to interfere. Nobody dared to speak.

‘I can go by myself,’ Yannis said. The colour had come back into his face. ‘I shan’t dirty my hands on him.’

With deliberation he took his jacket from the back of the chair over which he had dropped it. He put it on and buttoned it up, unable to control the trembling of his fingers.

As he walked out, Daddy Papadopoulos called after him: ‘Good night!’

He knew it was a lie. Daddy hated Criton. He hated his brother, and him, Yannis. ‘Then why am I upset?’ he thought. ‘What is it?’

He stopped to clear his mind, and remembered. That night Criton had brought Anna home. No, not home, but to Alexis’ place. And Elena had rung, too, just before he beat Anna. What had she said? He could not recall it.

And Alexis, not long ago. ‘You’ve let her be careless before.’

Could one talk to Elena? Or to Patricia Barwing? No, it was impossible. How could a man talk to a woman about such things?

A telephone box, on the far side of the road. He went in, dialled, heard his pennies drop, and the voice of Elena’s maid. Then his brother’s.

‘Yannis here,’ he said. ‘Alexi, listen, please. This is about Criton … what you said the other day. Was there something else you should have told me?’

Yes,’ Alexis said. ‘I should have told you to go and have your head examined.’

‘You remember the party at the Barwing’s, last year. What happened? Elena must have told you. Did Criton …?’

‘I don’t know what anyone did at that party,’ Alexis said, after a pause. ‘Has Anna not told you? I might say that I’m sick of both of you.’

‘Yes, I don’t blame you. But somebody, at the party … You know! Was it Criton?’

‘What will you do if it was?’

‘That’s my business.’

‘I don’t know who it was, my boy. I wasn’t there at the time. You must ask somebody who was. It’s all over, anyway. You have a good wife; send the lad away and enjoy her. We have guests tonight. Come and see me in the office.’

‘Thank you,’ Yannis said. ‘I understand.’

He took the receiver from his ear and stood, holding it in his hand. His brother’s voice could still be heard, distant and querulous. ‘Thank you,’ he said again, speaking not into the mouthpiece but to the small mirror over the box. Then he hung up.

His house was not far. As he let himself in he called Anna’s name but there was no answer. On the kitchen table, held down by a fork, was a piece of paper. Mrs Mac had left him a note.

‘Johnny, your Missus phoned. She says not to worry, and she is having tea with Mrs Pavoni. She says she wants to come back when it’s cooler. I have put some meat and salad in the fridge for you.’