Landlocked. Doris Lessing

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      ‘What’ll happen if Binkie still wants you back?’

      ‘He’s a decent kid, he’s not their kind, he’ll see right done. And anyway, he won’t be back for ages yet. Perhaps years. How do we know how long the war’ll go on? Perhaps he’ll be killed, how do we know? Anyway, I’ve got to get down to work. My boss will be flaming mad as it is. You’re a pal, helping me like this, and I don’t like turning you out, but money’s got to be earned, when all’s said and done.’

      Martha got up, the two young women kissed, and Martha went out, saying: ‘Yes of course,’ in reply to Maisie’s anxious: ‘If Mr Maynard comes after you again, you’ll let me know, won’t you?’

      In every city of the world there is a café or a third-rate restaurant called Dirty Dick’s. Or Greasy Joe’s; or – In this case Dirty Dick’s was called so because Black Ally’s, beloved of the RAF, had closed down last year and there had to be somewhere to feel at home. The old one had been run by a good-humoured Greek who served chips and eggs and sausages and allowed the local Reds to put newspapers and pamphlets on the counter for sale to anyone interested. This restaurant was run by a small, sad, grey-haired man who was going home to Salonika when the war was over, and who would not allow his counter to be used as a bookshop because, as he said, he had a brother fighting against the communists in Greece at that very moment – and where was the sense in it? No hard feelings against you personally, Mrs Hesse …

      When he knew that his place was called Dirty Dick’s, his sound commercial sense exulted and he at once made plans for taking the floor over his present one; which second restaurant, to be on an altogether smarter level than this, would be called ‘Mayfair’ to distinguish it from ‘Piccadilly’, the name which was painted in gold on the glass frontages that faced a waste lot where second-hand cars were sold.

      He nodded at Martha as she came into the large room, recently a warehouse, which had one hundred tables arranged in four lines. Every table was occupied by the RAF, so that the place looked like a refectory or mess for the armed forces. ‘Mr Cohen is in the back room,’ he said.

      ‘You don’t mind us plotting in your restaurant, but you won’t sell our newspapers?’

      ‘I can’t stop you plotting, but I won’t sell your newspapers.’

      The private room at the back had a large table in its centre, covered with a very white damask cloth on which stood every imaginable variety of sauce and condiment. Solly was waiting.

      ‘I can’t sit down,’ said Martha, ‘because I’m late.’

      ‘Oh go on …’ Solly pushed forward a chair, and Martha sat, suddenly, closing her eyes, and scrabbling for a cigarette which Solly put between her lips already lit. ‘If you’ll take a cigarette from a dirty Trotskyist.’

      ‘I thought Joss was going to be here?’

      ‘Ah you’ll take a cigarette from a dirty Trotskyist if protected by a clean Stalinist?’

      ‘Oh Lord, Solly, I’ve only just come, have a heart.’

      Here entered Johnny Capetenakis, smiling.

      ‘What have you got to eat?’ asked Solly.

      ‘Fried eggs, chips and sausages,’ said Johnny, wiping the glittering white of the cloth with another cloth.

      ‘I mean food.’

      ‘Ah, why didn’t you say so? A nice kebab? Saffron rice? Stuffed peppers?’

      ‘How about you, Matty?’

      ‘I’ve got to go.’

      ‘Everything you’ve got that’s food – twice. My brother’ll be here in a minute.’

      ‘Right, Mr Cohen.’

      He stood smiling, but Joss had turned to Martha, and the Greek switched on a couple more lights and drew a curtain across panes that showed a sudden dark where the stars already blazed.

      He stood looking out, his hand on the sill, an ageing man glad of a moment’s chance to rest. Solly turned to see why he was still there and said: ‘Sit with us a minute, Johnny?’

      ‘Thanks for inviting me, but I’m a cook short tonight.’

      ‘Heard anything from home?’

      Johnny shook his head. ‘Nothing good for your side or for mine and nothing will be.’

      ‘There’ll be a communist government in Greece after the war,’ said Solly. ‘But I’m as much against it as you are.’

      Johnny looked to see if he were joking; then he shrugged. ‘My brother was always the one for politics. It’s not for me. My brother’s wounded.’

      ‘I’m sorry,’ said Martha, politely.

      ‘My cousin in Nyasaland got a letter but it was from last year, it came down from Cairo. My brother was wounded, but only in his leg.’

      As Solly said nothing Martha said: ‘I’m sorry,’ again, and took Solly’s critical look with a smile.

      ‘Yes, Mrs Hesse, I suppose the good God knows what he is doing. But there’s not much left of my family, there’s not much left of Greece by the time the war ends. Communist or not communist. If the war ever does end.’ He nodded at them, sombre, and went out.

      ‘All right then,’ said Martha, ‘but then why do we use this place practically as another office?’

      ‘Get as much out of the dirty little fascists as we can, that’s why.’

      ‘Oh, is that it? Well, what did you get me here for?’

      ‘Don’t be in such a hurry.’

      ‘I am in a hurry.’ She got up, to prove it.

      ‘All right, all right. I’m in contact with some contacts in the Coloured quarter. As of course you know. There’s a group of decent types. The point is, they’ve got a study group going with some Africans. Joss and I met them.’

      ‘Joss?’ said Martha, disbelieving.

      Here Joss came in, with a brief smiling nod at both of them. He sat down opposite his brother. He was in civilian clothes. The only sign he had been in the army was a red scar down his right hand – a gun had exploded in Somaliland last year and for him the war was already over. Four years in the army had burned out his youth. He had been an earnest student: now one could already see what he would look like in middle age. Except when you looked him straight in the eyes, you were looking at a Jewish business man.

      Solly on the other hand had not changed at all: he was still like a student.

      ‘I’ve ordered,’ said Solly to his brother.

      ‘Good.’

      Joss waited, smiling. Martha waited. Solly said nothing.

      ‘I’m in an awful hurry,’ Martha said.

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