Winter in Madrid

Chapter One

London, September 1940

A BOMB HAD FALLEN in Victoria Street. It had gouged a wide crater in the road and taken down the fronts of several shops. The street was roped off; ARP men and volunteers had formed a chain and were carefully moving rubble from one of the ruined buildings. Harry realized there must be someone under there. The efforts of the rescuers, old men and boys caked with the dust that hung round them in a pall, seemed pitiful against the huge piles of brick and plaster. He put down his suitcase.

Coming into Victoria on the train, he had seen other craters and shattered buildings. He had felt oddly distanced from the destruction, as he had since the big raids began ten days before. Down in Surrey, Uncle James had almost given himself a stroke looking at the photographs in the Telegraph. Harry had scarcely responded as his uncle snarled red-faced over this new example of German frightfulness. His mind had retreated from the fury.

It could not retreat, though, from the crater in Westminster suddenly and immediately before him. At once he was back at Dunkirk: German dive-bombers overhead, the sandy shoreline exploding. He clenched his hands, digging the nails into his palms as he took deep breaths. His heart began pounding but he didn’t start shaking; he could control his reactions now.

An ARP warden strode across to him, a hard-faced man in his fifties with a grey pencil moustache and ramrod back, his black uniform streaked with dust.

‘You can’t come up ’ere,’ he snapped briskly. ‘Road’s closed. Can’t you see we’ve ’ad a bomb?’ He looked suspicious, disapproving, wondering no doubt why an apparently fit man in his early thirties was not in uniform.

‘I’m sorry,’ Harry said. ‘I’m just up from the country. I hadn’t realized it was so bad.’

Most Cockneys confronted with Harry’s public school accent would have adopted a servile tone, but not this man. ‘There’s no escape anywhere,’ he rasped. ‘Not this time. Not in the tahn, not in the country either for long, if yer ask me.’ The warden looked Harry over coldly. ‘You on leave?’

‘Invalided out,’ Harry said abruptly. ‘Look, I have to get to Queen Anne’s Gate. Official business.’

The warden’s manner changed at once. He took Harry’s arm and steered him round. ‘Go up through Petty France. There was only the one bomb round here.’

‘Thank you.’

‘That’s all right, sir.’ The warden leaned in close. ‘Were you at Dunkirk?’

‘Yes.’

‘There’s blood and ruin down the Isle of Dogs. I was in the trenches last time, I knew it’d come again and this time everyone’d be in it, not just soldiering men. You’ll get the chance to fight again, you wait and see. Bayonet into Jerry’s guts, twist and then out again, eh?’ He gave a strange smile, then stepped back and saluted, pale eyes glittering.

‘Thank you.’ Harry saluted and turned away, crossing into Gillingham Street. He frowned; the man’s words had filled him with disgust.

AT VICTORIA it had been as busy as a normal Monday; it seemed the reports that London was carrying on as usual were true. As he walked on through the broad Georgian streets everything was quiet in the autumn sunlight. But for the white crosses of tape over the windows to protect against blast, you could have been back before the war. An occasional businessman in a bowler hat walked by, there were still nannies wheeling prams. People’s expressions were normal, even cheerful. Many had left their gas masks at home, though Harry had his slung over his shoulder in its square box. He knew the defiant good humour most people had adopted hid the fear of invasion, but he preferred the pretence that things were normal to reminders that they now lived in a world where the wreck of the British army milled in chaos on a French beach, and deranged trench veterans stood in the streets happily forecasting Armageddon.

His mind went back to Rookwood, as it often did these days. The old quadrangle on a summer’s day, masters in gowns and mortarboards walking under the great elms, boys strolling by in dark blue blazers or cricket whites. It was an escape to the other side of the looking glass, away from the madness. But sooner or later the heavy painful thought would always intrude: how the hell had it all changed from that to this?

SST ERMIN’S hotel had once been grand but the elegance was faded now; the chandelier in the entrance hall was dusty and there was a smell of cabbage and polish. Watercolours of stags and Highland lochs covered the oak-panelled walls. Somewhere a grandfather clock ticked somnolently.

There was nobody at the reception desk. Harry rang the bell and a bald, heavily built man in a commissionaire’s uniform appeared. ‘Good morning, sir,’ he said in the relaxed, unctuous voice of a lifetime in service. ‘I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.’

‘I’ve an appointment at two thirty with a Miss Maxse. Lieutenant Brett.’ Harry pronounced the woman’s name ‘Macksie’ as the caller from the Foreign Office had instructed.

The man nodded. ‘If you would follow me, sir.’ His footsteps soundless on the thick dusty carpet, he led Harry to a lounge full of easy chairs and coffee tables. It was empty apart from a man and woman sitting in a bay window.

‘Lieutenant Brett, madam.’ The receptionist bowed and left.

The two rose to their feet. The woman extended a hand. She was in her fifties, small and fine-boned, smartly dressed in a blue two-piece suit. She had tightly curled grey hair and a sharp, intelligent face. Keen grey eyes met Harry’s.

‘How do you do, so nice to meet you.’ Her confident contralto made Harry think of a girls’ school headmistress. ‘Marjorie Maxse. I’ve been hearing all about you.’

‘Nothing too bad, I hope.’

‘Oh, quite the contrary. Let me introduce Roger Jebb.’ The man took Harry’s hand in a hard grip. He was about Miss Maxse’s age, with a long tanned face and thinning black hair.

‘What about some tea?’ Miss Maxse asked.

‘Thank you.’

A silver teapot and china cups had been laid out on a table. There was a plate of scones too, pots of jam and what looked like real cream. Miss Maxse began pouring tea. ‘Any trouble getting here? I gather one or two came down round here last night.’

‘Victoria Street’s closed off.’

‘It is a nuisance. And it’s going to go on for some time.’ She spoke as though it were a spell of rain. She smiled. ‘We prefer to meet new people here, for the first interview. The manager’s an old friend of ours, so we won’t be disturbed. Sugar?’ she continued in the same conversational tone. ‘Do have a scone, they’re awfully good.’

‘Thanks.’ Harry scooped up jam and cream. He looked up to see Miss Maxse studying him closely; she gave him a sympathetic smile, unembarrassed.

‘How are you getting on now? You were invalided out, weren’t you? After Dunkirk?’

‘Yes. A bomb landed twenty feet away. Threw up a lot of sand. I was lucky; it shielded me from the worst of the blast.’ He saw Jebb studying him too, from flinty grey eyes.

‘You had a bit of shell shock, I believe,’ he said abruptly.

‘It was very minor,’ Harry said. ‘I’m all right now.’

‘Your face went blank there, just for a second,’ Jebb said.

‘It used to be a lot more than a second,’ he replied quietly. ‘And both hands used to tremble all the time. You might as well know.’

‘And your hearing suffered, too, I believe?’ Miss Maxse asked the question very quietly, but Harry caught it.

‘That’s almost back to normal as well. Just a little deafness in the left one.’

‘Lucky, that,’ Jebb observed. ‘Hearing loss from blast, that’s often permanent.’ He produced a paperclip from his pocket and began absent-mindedly bending it open as he continued looking at Harry.

‘The doctor said I was lucky.’

‘The hearing damage means the end of active service, of course,’ Miss Maxse went on. ‘Even if it is minor. That must be a blow. You joined up straight away last September, didn’t you?’ She leaned forward, teacup enfolded in her hands.

‘Yes. Yes, I did. Excuse me, Miss Maxse, but I’m a bit in the dark …’

She smiled again. ‘Of course. What did the Foreign Office tell you when they rang?’

‘Only that some people there thought there might be some work I could do.’

‘Well, we’re separate from the FO.’ Miss Maxse smiled brightly. ‘We’re Intelligence.’ She gave a tinkling laugh, as though overcome by the strangeness of it all.

‘Oh,’ Harry said.

Her voice became serious. ‘Our work is crucial now, quite crucial. With France gone, the whole Continent is either allied to the Nazis or dependent on them. There aren’t any normal diplomatic relationships any more.’

‘We’re the front line now,’ Jebb added. ‘Smoke?’

‘No, thanks. I don’t.’

‘Your uncle’s Colonel James Brett, isn’t he?’

‘Yes, sir, that’s right.’

‘Served with me in India. Back in 1910, believe it or not!’ Jebb gave a harsh bark of laughter. ‘How is he?’

‘Retired now.’ But judging by that tan you stayed on, Harry thought. Indian police, perhaps.

Miss Maxse put down her cup and clasped her hands together. ‘How would you feel about working for us?’ she asked.

Harry felt the old shrinking weariness again; but something else too, a spark of interest.

‘I still want to help the war effort, of course.’

‘D’you think you’re fit to cope with demanding work?’ Jebb asked. ‘Honestly, now. If you’re not you should say. It’s nothing to be ashamed of,’ he added gruffly. Miss Maxse smiled encouragingly.

‘I think so,’ Harry said carefully. ‘I’m almost back to normal.’

‘We’re recruiting a lot of people, Harry,’ Miss Maxse said. ‘I may call you Harry, mayn’t I? Some because we think they’d be suited to the kind of work we do, others because they can offer us something particular. Now, you were a modern languages specialist before you joined up. Good degree at Cambridge, then a fellowship at King’s till the war came.’

‘Yes, that’s right.’ They knew a lot about him.

‘How’s your Spanish? Fluent?’

It was a surprising question. ‘I’d say so.’

‘French literature’s your subject, isn’t it?’

Harry frowned. ‘Yes, but I keep my Spanish up. I’m a member of a Spanish Circle in Cambridge.’

Jebb nodded. ‘Academics mainly, is it? Spanish plays and so on.’

‘Yes.’

‘Any exiles from the Civil War?’

‘One or two.’ He met Jebb’s gaze. ‘But the Circle’s not political. We have a sort of unspoken agreement to avoid politics.’

Jebb laid the paperclip, tortured now into fantastic curls, on the table, and opened his briefcase. He pulled out a cardboard file with a diagonal red cross on the front.

‘I’d like to take you back to 1931,’ he said. ‘Your second year at Cambridge. You went to Spain that summer, didn’t you? With a friend from your school, Rookwood.’

Harry frowned again. How could they know all this? ‘Yes.’

Jebb opened the file. ‘One Bernard Piper, later of the British Communist Party. Went on to fight in the Spanish Civil War. Reported missing believed killed at the Battle of the Jarama, 1937.’ He took out a photograph and laid it on the table. A row of men in untidy military uniforms stood on a bare hillside. Bernie stood in the middle, taller than the others, his blond hair cut short, smiling boyishly into the camera.

Harry looked up at Jebb. ‘Was that taken in Spain?’

‘Yes.’ The hard little eyes narrowed. ‘And you went out to try and find him.’

‘At his family’s request, as I spoke Spanish.’

‘But no luck.’

‘There were ten thousand dead at the Jarama,’ Harry said bleakly. ‘They weren’t all accounted for. Bernie’s probably in a mass grave somewhere outside Madrid. Sir, might I ask where you got this information? I think I’ve a right—’

‘You haven’t actually. But since you ask, we keep files on all Communist Party members. Just as well, now Stalin’s helped Hitler butcher Poland.’

Miss Maxse smiled placatingly. ‘No one’s associating you with them.’

‘I should hope not,’ Harry said stiffly.

‘Would you say you had any politics?’

It wasn’t the sort of question you expected in England. Their knowledge of his life, of Bernie’s history, disturbed him. He hesitated before answering.

‘I suppose I’m a sort of liberal Tory if anything.’

‘You weren’t tempted to go and fight for the Spanish Republic, like Piper?’ Jebb asked. ‘The crusade against fascism?’

‘So far as I’m concerned, Spain before the Civil War was rotten with chaos, and the Fascists and Communists both took advantage. I came across some Russians in ’37. They were swine.’

‘That must have been quite an adventure,’ Miss Maxse said brightly. ‘Going to Madrid in the middle of the Civil War.’

‘I went to try and find my friend. For his family, as I said.’

‘You were close friends at school, weren’t you?’ Jebb asked.

‘You’ve been asking questions at Rookwood?’ The thought angered him.

‘Yes.’ Jebb nodded, unapologetic.

Harry’s eyes widened suddenly. ‘Is this about Bernie? Is he alive?’

‘Our file on Bernard Piper’s closed,’ Jebb said, his tone unexpectedly gentle. ‘So far as we know he died at the Jarama.’

Miss Maxse sat upright. ‘You must understand, Harry, if we’re to trust you to work for us, we do need to know all about you. But I think we’re happy.’ Jebb nodded, and she went on. ‘I think it’s time we got down to brass tacks. We wouldn’t normally dive straight in like this but it’s a question of time, you see. Urgency. We need information about someone. We think you can help us. It could be very important.’

Jebb leaned forward. ‘Everything we tell you from now on is strictly confidential, is that understood? In fact, I have to warn you that if you discuss any of it outside this room, you’ll be in serious trouble.’

Harry met his eyes. ‘All right.’

‘This isn’t about Bernard Piper. It’s another old schoolfriend of yours, who’s also developed some interesting political connections.’ Jebb delved in his case again and laid another photograph on the table.

It was not a face Harry had ever expected to see again. Sandy Forsyth would be thirty-one now, a few months older than Harry, but he looked almost middle-aged. He had a Clark Gable moustache and heavily oiled hair, already starting to recede, swept back from his brow. His face had filled out and acquired new lines but the keen eyes, the Roman nose and wide thin-lipped mouth were the same. It was a posed photograph; Sandy was smiling at the camera with a film star’s smile, half enigmatic and half inviting. He wasn’t a handsome man but the photograph made him appear so. Harry looked up again.

‘I wouldn’t have called him a close friend,’ he said quietly.

‘You were friendly for a time, Harry,’ Miss Maxse said. ‘The year before he was expelled. After that business involving Mr Taylor. We’ve spoken to him, you see.’

‘Mr Taylor.’ Harry hesitated a moment. ‘How is he?’

‘He’s all right these days,’ Jebb said. ‘No thanks to Forsyth. Now, when he was expelled, did you part on good terms?’ He jabbed the paperclip at Harry. ‘This is important.’

‘Yes. I was Forsyth’s only friend at Rookwood, really.’

‘I wouldn’t have thought you had an awful lot in common,’ Miss Maxse said with a smile.

‘We didn’t, in a lot of ways.’

‘Bit of a bad hat wasn’t he, Forsyth? Didn’t fit in. But you were always a steady chap.’

Harry sighed. ‘Sandy had a good side too. Though …’ He paused. Miss Maxse smiled encouragingly.

‘I sometimes wondered why he wanted to be friends with me. When a lot of the people he mixed with were – well, bad hats, to use your phrase.’

‘Anything sexual in it, Harry, d’you think?’ Her tone was light and casual, as when she spoke of the bombs. Harry stared at her in astonishment for a moment, then gave an embarrassed laugh.

‘Certainly not.’

‘Sorry to embarrass you, but these things happen at public schools. You know, crushes.’

‘There was nothing like that.’

‘After Forsyth left,’ Jebb said, ‘did you keep in touch?’

‘We exchanged letters for a couple of years. Less and less as time went on. We hadn’t much in common once Sandy left Rookwood.’ He sighed. ‘In fact, I’m not sure why he went on writing for so long. Maybe to impress – he wrote about clubs and girls and that sort of thing.’ Jebb nodded encouragingly. ‘In his last letter he said he was working for some bookie in London. He wrote about doping horses and fake bets as though it was all a joke.’ But now Harry was remembering Sandy’s other side: the walks over the Downs in search of fossils, the long talks. What did these people want?

‘You still believe in traditional values, don’t you?’ Miss Maxse asked with a smile. ‘The things Rookwood stands for.’

‘I suppose so. Though …’

‘Yes?’

‘I wonder how the country got to this.’ He met her eyes. ‘We weren’t ready for what happened in France. Defeat.’

‘The jelly-backed French let us down.’ Jebb grunted.

‘We were forced to retreat too, sir,’ Harry said. ‘I was there.’

‘You’re right. We weren’t properly prepared.’ Miss Maxse spoke with sudden feeling. ‘Perhaps we behaved too honourably at Munich. After the Great War we couldn’t believe anyone would want war again. But we know now Hitler always did. He won’t be happy till all of Europe’s under his heel. The New Dark Age, as Winston calls it.’

There was a moment’s silence, then Jebb coughed. ‘OK, Harry. I want to talk about Spain. When France fell last June and Mussolini declared war on us, we expected Franco to follow. Hitler had won his Civil War for him, and of course Franco wants Gibraltar. With German help he could take it from the landward side and that’d be the Mediterranean choked off to us.’

‘Spain’s in ruins now,’ Harry said. ‘Franco couldn’t fight another war.’

‘But he could let Hitler in. There are Wehrmacht divisions waiting on the Franco-Spanish border. The Spanish Fascist Party wants to enter the war.’ He inclined his head. ‘On the other hand, most of the Royalist generals distrust the Falange and they’re scared of a popular uprising if the Germans come in. They’re not Fascists, they just wanted to beat the Reds. It’s a fluid situation, Franco could declare war any day. Our embassy people in Madrid are living on their nerves.’

‘Franco’s cautious,’ Harry ventured. ‘A lot of people think he could have won the Civil War earlier if he’d been bolder.’

Jebb grunted. ‘I hope you’re right. Sir Samuel Hoare’s gone out there as ambassador to try and keep them out of the war.’

‘I heard.’

‘Their economy’s in ruins, as you say. That weakness is our trump card, because the Royal Navy can still control what goes in and out.’

‘The blockade.’

‘Fortunately the Americans aren’t challenging it. We’re letting in just enough oil to keep Spain going, a bit less actually. And they’ve had another bad harvest. They’re trying to import wheat and raise loans abroad to pay for it. Our reports say people are collapsing from hunger in the Barcelona factories.’

‘It sounds as bad as during the Civil War.’ Harry shook his head. ‘What they’ve been through.’

‘There are all sorts of rumours coming out of Spain now. Franco’s exploring any number of schemes to gain economic self-sufficiency, some of them pretty crackpot. Last year an Austrian scientist claimed to have found a way of manufacturing synthetic oil from plant extracts and got money out of him to develop it. It was all a fraud, of course.’ Jebb gave his bark of a laugh again. ‘Then they claimed to have found huge gold reserves down at Badajoz. Another mare’s nest. But now we hear they really have found gold deposits, in the sierras not far from Madrid. There’s a geologist with South African experience working for them, one Alberto Otero. And they’re keeping it quiet, which makes us more inclined to think there’s something in it. The boffins say that geologically it’s a possibility.’

‘And that would make Spain less dependent on us?’

‘They’ve no gold reserves to back the currency. Stalin made the Republic send the gold reserve to Moscow during the Civil War. And kept it, of course. That makes buying anything on the open market very difficult for them. At the moment they’re trying to get export credits from us and the Yanks.’

‘So if the rumours are true – they’d be less dependent on us?’

‘Exactly. And therefore more inclined to enter the war. Anything could tip the balance.’

‘We’re trying to perform a high-wire act out there,’ Miss Maxse added. ‘How much of a stick to wave, how many carrots to offer. How much wheat to allow through, how much oil.’

Jebb nodded. ‘The point is, Brett, the man who introduced Otero to the regime was Sandy Forsyth.’

‘He’s in Spain?’ Harry’s eyes widened.

‘Yes. I don’t know if you saw the adverts in the newspapers a couple of years ago, tours of the Civil War battlefields?’

‘I remember. The Nationalists ran the tours for English people. A propaganda stunt.’

‘Somehow Forsyth got involved. Went to Spain as a tour guide. Franco’s people paid him quite well. Then he stayed on, got involved in various business schemes, some of them pretty shady I would imagine. He’s a clever businessman apparently, of the flashy sort.’ Jebb’s mouth crinkled with distaste, then he stared keenly at Harry. ‘He has some important contacts now.’

Harry took a deep breath. ‘May I ask how you know all this?

Jebb shrugged. ‘Sneaky beakies working out of our embassy. They pay minor functionaries for information. Madrid’s full of spies. But no one’s got near Forsyth himself. We’ve no agents in the Falange and it’s the Falangist faction in the government that Forsyth’s with. And word is he’s clever, likely to smell a rat if a stranger appeared and started asking questions.’

‘Yes.’ Harry nodded. ‘Sandy’s clever.’

‘But if you were to turn up in Madrid,’ Miss Maxse said. ‘As a translator attached to the embassy say, and run across him in a cafe? The way people do. Renew an old friendship.’

‘We want you to find out what he’s doing,’ Jebb said bluntly. ‘Perhaps get him on our side.’

So that was it. They wanted him to spy on Sandy, like Mr Taylor had all those years ago at Rookwood. Harry looked out of the window at the blue sky, where the barrage balloons floated like huge grey whales.

‘How’d you feel about that?’ Miss Maxse’s voice was gentle.

‘Sandy Forsyth working with the Falange.’ Harry shook his head. ‘It’s not as if he needed to make money – his father’s a bishop.’

‘Sometimes it’s the excitement as much as the politics, Harry. Sometimes the two go together.’

‘Yes.’ He remembered Sandy coming breathless into the study from one of his forbidden betting trips, opening his hand to show a five-pound note, white and crinkled. ‘Look what I got from a nice gee-gee.’

‘Working with the Falange,’ Harry said reflectively. ‘I suppose he was always a black sheep, but sometimes – a man can do something against the rules and get a bad name and that can make him worse.’

‘We’ve nothing against black sheep,’ Jebb said. ‘Black sheep can make the best agents.’ He laughed knowingly. Another memory of Sandy returned to Harry: staring angrily across the study table, his voice a bitter whisper. ‘You see what they’re like, how they control us, what they do if we try to break away.’

‘I think you’re someone who likes to play the game,’ Miss Maxse said. ‘That’s what we expected. But we can’t win this war playing a straight bat.’ She shook her head sadly, the short curls bobbing. ‘Not against this enemy. It means killing, you know that already, and it means deception too, I’m afraid.’ She smiled apologetically.

Harry felt opposing emotions churn inside him, panic beginning to stir. The thought of going back to Spain both excited and appalled him. He had heard things were very bad from the Spanish exiles at Cambridge. In the newsreels he had seen Franco addressing ecstatic crowds who responded with Fascist salutes, but behind that, they said, was a world of denunciations and midnight arrests. And Sandy Forsyth in the middle of it all? He looked at the photo again. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said slowly. ‘I mean, I’m not sure I could carry it off.’

‘We’d give you training,’ Jebb said. ‘Bit of a crash course because the powers that be want an answer to this one ASAP.’ He looked at Harry. ‘People at the highest level.’

Part of Harry wanted to retreat now, go back to Surrey, forget it all. But he had spent the last three months fighting that panicky urge to hide.

‘What sort of training?’ he asked. ‘I’m not sure I’d be any good at deception.’

‘It’s easier than you think,’ Miss Maxse replied. ‘If you believe in the cause you’re lying for. And you would be lying, deceiving, let’s not mince words. But we’d teach you all the black arts.’

Harry bit his lip. There was silence in the room for a long moment.

Miss Maxse said, ‘We wouldn’t expect you just to go in cold.’

‘All right,’ he said at length. ‘Perhaps I could bring Sandy round. I can’t believe he’s a Fascist.’

‘The hard part will be early on,’ Jebb said. ‘Working your way into his confidence. That’s when it’ll feel strange, difficult, and that’s when you’ll most need to pass it off.’

‘Yes. Sandy’s got the sort of mind that can see round corners.’

‘So we gather.’ Miss Maxse turned to Jebb. He hesitated a moment, then nodded.

‘Good,’ Miss Maxse said briskly.

‘We’ll need to move quickly,’ Jebb said. ‘Make some arrangements, put things in place for you. You’ll need to be vetted properly, of course. Are you staying up tonight?’

‘Yes, I’m going to my cousin’s.’

He looked at Harry sharply again. ‘No ties here, apart from your family?’

‘No.’ He shook his head.

Jebb took out a little notebook. ‘Number?’ Harry gave it to him.

‘Someone will ring you tomorrow. Don’t go out, please.’

‘Yes, sir.’

They rose from their chairs. Miss Maxse shook Harry’s hand warmly. ‘Thank you, Harry,’ she said.

Jebb gave Harry a tight little smile. ‘Be ready for the siren tonight. We’re expecting more raids.’ He threw the twisted paperclip into a wastepaper basket.

‘Dear me,’ Miss Maxse said. ‘That was government property. You are a squanderbug, Roger.’ She smiled at Harry again, a smile of dismissal. ‘We’re grateful, Harry. This could be very important.’

Outside the lounge Harry paused a moment. A sad heavy feeling settled on his stomach. Black arts: what the hell did that mean? The term made him shudder. He realized that half consciously he was listening, as Sandy used to do at masters’ doors, his good ear turned towards the door to catch what Jebb and Miss Maxse might be saying. But he could hear nothing. He turned to find the receptionist had appeared, his steps unheard on the dusty carpet. Harry smiled nervously and allowed himself to be led outside. Was he falling already into the habits of a – what? Sneak, spy, betrayer?

Chapter Two

THE JOURNEY TO Will’s house normally lasted under an hour, but today it took half the afternoon, the tube continually stopping and starting. In the underground stations little knots of people sat on the platforms, huddled together, whey-faced. Harry had heard some of the bombed-out east-enders had taken up residence in the tubes.

He thought of spying on Sandy Forsyth and a sick, incredulous feeling lurched through him. He scanned the pale tired faces of his fellow passengers. He supposed any one of them might be a spy – what could you tell from people’s looks? The photo kept coming back to his mind: Sandy’s confident smile, the Clark Gable moustache. The train lurched slowly on through the tunnels.

IT HAD BEEN Rookwood that gave Harry his identity. His father, a barrister, had been blown to pieces on the Somme when Harry was six years old, and his mother had died in the influenza epidemic the winter the First War – as people were starting to call the last war – ended. Harry still had their wedding photograph and often looked at it. His father, standing outside the church in a morning suit, looked very like him: dark and solid and dependable-looking. His arm was round Harry’s mother, who was fair like Cousin Will, curly tresses falling round her shoulders under a wide-brimmed Edwardian hat. They were smiling happily into the camera. The picture had been taken in bright sunlight and was slightly overexposed, making haloes of light around their figures. Harry had little memory of them; like the world of the photograph they were a vanished dream.

After his mother died, Harry had gone to live with Uncle James, his father’s elder brother, a professional army officer wounded in the first battles of 1914. It had been a stomach wound, nothing you could see, but Uncle James’s innards troubled him constantly. His discomfort worsened an already peppery disposition and was a constant source of worry to Aunt Emily, his nervous, anxious wife. When Harry came to their house in the pretty Surrey village they were only in their forties, but they seemed much older already, like a pair of anxious, fussy pensioners.

They were kind to him, but Harry had always felt unwanted. They were childless and never seemed quite to know what to do with him. Uncle James would clap him on the shoulder, almost knocking him over, and ask heartily what he was playing at today, while his aunt worried endlessly about what he should eat.

Occasionally he went to stay with Aunt Jenny, his mother’s sister and Will’s mother. She had been devoted to his mother and found it difficult to be reminded of her, although she showered him, guiltily perhaps, with food parcels and postal orders when he went to school.

As a child Harry had been taught by a tutor, a retired teacher his uncle knew. He spent much of his free time roaming the lanes and woods around the village. There he met the local boys, sons of farmers and farriers, but though he played cowboys and Indians and hunted rabbits with them he was always apart: Harry the Toff. ‘Say “awful”, Harry,’ they would goad him. ‘Or-ful, or-ful.’

One summer day when Harry came home from the fields, Uncle James called him into his study. He was just twelve. There was another man there, standing by the window, the sun directly behind him so that at first he was just a tall shadow framed by dust motes. ‘I’d like you to meet Mr Taylor,’ Uncle James said. ‘He teaches at my old school. My alma mater. That’s the Latin right, eh?’ And to Harry’s surprise he laughed nervously, like a child.

The man moved forward and took Harry’s hand in a firm grip. He was tall and thin and wore a dark suit. Black hair receded from a widow’s peak on his high forehead and keen grey eyes studied him from behind a pair of pince-nez.

‘How do you do, Harry.’ The voice was sharp. ‘You’re a bit of a ragamuffin, aren’t you?’

‘He’s been running a little wild,’ Uncle James said apologetically.

‘We’ll soon tidy you up if you come to Rookwood. Would you like to go to Public School, Harry?’

‘I don’t know, sir.’

‘Your tutor’s report is good. Do you like rugger?’

‘I’ve never played, sir. I play football with the boys in the village.’

‘Rugger’s much better. A gentleman’s game.’

‘Rookwood was your father’s old school as well as mine,’ Uncle James said.

Harry looked up. ‘Father’s?’

‘Yes. Your pater, as they say at Rookwood.’

‘Do you know what pater means, Harry?’ Mr Taylor asked.

‘It’s Latin for father, sir.’

‘Very good.’ Mr Taylor smiled. ‘The boy might just do, Brett.’

He asked more questions. He was friendly enough but had an air of authority, of expecting obedience, which made Harry cautious. After a while he was sent from the room while Mr Taylor talked with his uncle. When Uncle James called him back Mr Taylor had gone. His uncle asked him to sit down and looked at him seriously, stroking his greying moustache.

‘Your aunt and I think it’s time you went away to school, Harry. Better than staying here with a couple of old fogeys like us. And you should be mixing with boys from your own class, not the village lads.’

Harry had no idea what a Public School was like. Into his head came a picture of a big building full of light, bright like the light in his parents’ photograph, welcoming him.

‘What do you think, Harry, would you like to go?’

‘Yes, Uncle. Yes, I would.’

WILL LIVED IN a quiet street of mock-Tudor villas. A new air-raid shelter, a long low concrete building, stood incongruously by the grass verge.

His cousin was home already and answered the doorbell. He had changed into a brightly patterned jumper and beamed at Harry through his glasses.

‘Hello, Harry! Made it all right, then?’

‘Fine, thanks.’ Harry clasped his hand. ‘How are you, Will?’

‘Oh, bearing up, like everyone. How are the old ears?’

‘Just about back to normal. A bit deaf on one side.’

Will led Harry into the hall. A tall, thin woman with mousy hair and a long disapproving face came out of the kitchen, drying her hands on a tea towel.

‘Muriel.’ Harry made himself smile warmly. ‘How are you?’

‘Oh, struggling on. I won’t shake hands, I’ve been cooking. I thought we might skip high tea, go straight on to dinner.’

‘We’ve got a nice steak for dinner, though. Got an arrangement with the butcher. Now, come on up, you’ll want a wash.’

Harry had stayed in the back bedroom before. There was a big double bed and little ornaments on doilies on the dressing table. ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Will said. ‘Have a wash, then come down.’

Harry washed his face at the little sink, studying it in the mirror as he dried himself. He was putting on weight, his stocky frame starting to become fat through recent lack of exercise, the square jaw rounding out. People told him it was an attractive face, though he always thought the regular features under his curly brown hair a little too broad to be handsome. There were new lines around the eyes these days. He tried to make his face as expressionless as he could. Would Sandy be able to read his thoughts behind such a mask? It had been the done thing at school to hide your feelings – you showed them only through a set mouth, a raised eyebrow. People looked for little signs. Now he must learn to show nothing, or untrue things. He lay on the bed, remembering school and Sandy Forsyth.

HARRY HAD LOVED the school from the start. Set in an eighteenth-century mansion deep in the Sussex countryside, Rookwood had originally been founded by a group of London businessmen trading overseas to educate the sons of their ships’ officers. The House names reflected its naval past: Raleigh and Drake and Hawkins. Now the sons of civil servants and minor aristocrats went there, with a leavening of scholarship boys funded by bequests.

The school and its orderly routines had given Harry a sense of belonging and purpose. The discipline could be harsh but he had no desire to break the rules and seldom got lines, let alone the cane. He did well in most classes, especially French and Latin – languages came easily to him. He enjoyed games too, rugger and especially cricket with its measured pace; in his last year he had been captain of the junior team.

Sometimes he would walk on his own round Big Hall, where the photos of each year’s sixth forms hung. He would stand looking at the photograph for 1902, where his father’s boyish face stared out from a double row of stiffly posed prefects in tasselled caps. Then he would turn to the tablet behind the stage to the Great War fallen, the names picked out in gold. Seeing his father’s name there as well set tears pricking in his eyes, quickly brushed away lest someone see.

The year Sandy Forsyth came, in 1925, Harry entered the fourth form. Although the boys still slept in a big communal dormitory, they had had studies since the previous year, two or three each to a little room with antiquated armchairs and scarred tables. Harry’s friends were mostly the quieter, more serious boys, and he had been glad to share a study with Bernie Piper, one of the scholarship boys. Piper came in as he was unpacking.

‘ ’Ello, Brett,’ he said. ‘I see I’ve got to put up wiv the smell of your socks for the next year.’ Bernie’s father was an East End grocer and he had spoken broad cockney when he arrived at Rookwood. It had gradually mutated into the upper-class drawl of the others, but the London twang always reasserted itself for a while when he came back from the hols.

‘ ’Ave a good summer?’

‘Bit boring. Uncle James was ill a lot of the time. Glad to be back.’

‘You ought t’ave spent it serving in my dad’s shop. Then you’d know wot boring is.’

Another face appeared in the doorway, a heavily built boy with black hair. He put down an expensive-looking suitcase and leaned against the doorpost with an air of supercilious detachment. ‘Harry Brett?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

‘I’m Sandy Forsyth. New boy. I’m in this study.’ He hauled in the suitcase and stood looking at them. His large brown eyes were keen and there was something hard in his face.

‘Where have you come from?’ Bernie asked.

‘Braildon. Up in Hertfordshire. Heard of it?’

‘Yes,’ Harry said. ‘Supposed to be a good school.’

‘Yeah. So they say.’

‘It’s not bad here.’

‘No? I hear they’re quite hot on discipline.’

‘Cane you as soon as look at you,’ Bernie agreed.

‘Where are you from?’ Forsyth asked.

‘Wapping,’ Bernie said proudly. ‘I’m one of the proles the ruling class allow in.’ Bernie had declared himself a socialist the term before, to general disapproval. Forsyth raised his eyebrows.

‘I bet you got in more easily than I did.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘I’m a bit of a bad lad.’ The new boy took a packet of Gold Flake from his pocket and pulled out a cigarette. Bernie and Harry glanced at the open door. ‘You can’t smoke in the studies,’ Harry said quickly.

‘We can shut the door. Want one?’

Bernie laughed. ‘You get caned for smoking here. It’s not worth it.’

‘OK.’ He gave Bernie a sudden broad grin, showing large white teeth. ‘You a red, then?’

‘I’m a socialist, if that’s what you mean.’

The new boy shrugged. ‘We had a debating society at Braildon, last year one of the Fifth spoke for Communism. It got pretty rowdy.’ He laughed. Bernie grunted, giving him a look of dislike.

‘I wanted to lead a debate in favour of atheism,’ Forsyth went on. ‘But they wouldn’t let me. Because my dad’s a bishop. Where do people go here if they want a smoke?’

‘Behind the gym,’ Bernie answered coldly.

‘Right-ho then. See you later.’ Forsyth got up and sauntered out.

‘Arsehole,’ Bernie said as he disappeared.

AND THEN, later that day, Harry was asked to spy on Sandy for the first time. He was in the study alone when a fag appeared with a message Mr Taylor wanted to see him.

Taylor was their form master that year. He had a reputation as a disciplinarian and the junior boys held him in awe. Seeing his tall, thin figure striding across the quad, the habitual severe expression on his face, Harry would think back to the day he had come to Uncle James’s house; they had scarcely spoken since.

Mr Taylor was in his study, a comfortable room with carpets and portraits of old headmasters on the wall; he was devoted to school history. A large desk was strewn with papers for marking. The master stood in his black gown, sorting through papers.

‘Ah Brett.’ His tone was cordial as he waved a long arm to beckon Harry in. Harry stood in front of the desk, hands behind his back in the approved manner. Taylor’s hair was receding fast, the widow’s peak now a separate black tuft beneath a balding crown.

‘Did you have good holidays? Aunt and Uncle OK?’

‘Yes, sir.’

The master nodded. ‘You’re in my form this year. I’ve had good reports of you, I shall expect great things.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

The master nodded. ‘I wanted to talk to you about the studies. We’ve put the new boy in with you in place of Piper. Forsyth. Have you met him yet?’

‘Yes, sir. I don’t think Piper knows.’

‘He’ll be told. How are you getting on with Forsyth?’

‘All right, sir,’ Harry said neutrally.

‘You may have heard of his father, the bishop?’

‘Forsyth mentioned him.’

‘Forsyth comes to us from Braildon. His parents felt Rookwood, with its reputation for – ah – order, was better suited to him.’ Taylor smiled benignly, making deep creases appear in his thin cheeks. ‘I’m telling you in confidence. You’re a steady boy, Brett; we think you could be prefect material one day. Keep an eye on Forsyth, will you?’ He paused. ‘Keep him on the straight and narrow.’

Harry gave the master a quick look. It was an odd remark; one of the studied ambiguities the masters spoke in more and more as the boys got older. You were expected to understand. Officially it was frowned on for boys to sneak on one another, but Harry knew many masters had particular pupils whom they used as sources of information. Was this what Taylor was asking him to do? He knew instinctively he didn’t want to; the whole idea made him uneasy.

‘I’ll certainly help show him around, sir,’ he said carefully.

Taylor eyed him keenly. ‘And let me know if there are any problems. Just a quiet word. We want to help Forsyth develop in the right direction. It’s important to his father.’

That was clear enough. Harry said nothing. Mr Taylor frowned a little.

Then an extraordinary thing happened. Something tiny moved on the master’s desk, among the papers; Harry saw it out of the corner of his eye. Taylor gave a sudden shout and jumped away. To Harry’s amazement he stood almost cringing, eyes averted from a fat house spider scuttling across his blotter. It stopped on top of a Latin textbook, standing quite still.

Taylor turned to Harry, his face bright red. His eyes strayed momentarily to the desk and he looked away with a shudder.

‘Brett, get rid of that thing for me. Please.’ There was a pleading note in the master’s voice.

Wonderingly, Harry took out his handkerchief and reached for the spider. He picked it up and held it gently.

‘Ah – thank you, Brett.’ Taylor swallowed. ‘I – ah – we shouldn’t have such – er – arachnids in the studies. Spread disease. Kill it, please kill it,’ he added rapidly.

Harry hesitated, then squeezed it between finger and thumb. It made a faint pop, making him wince.

‘Get rid of it.’ For a moment, Taylor’s eyes seemed almost wild behind the gold-rimmed pince-nez. ‘And don’t tell anyone about this. Do you understand? You may go,’ he added brusquely.

AT WILL’S HOUSE the soup at dinner was tinned, heavy with watery vegetables. Muriel apologized as she passed it round.

‘I hadn’t time to make any, I’m sorry. Of course, I’ve no woman to help now. I have to deal with the cooking, looking after the children, the ration books, everything.’ She pushed back a stray hair and gave Harry a challenging stare. Will and Muriel’s children, a thin dark boy of nine and a little girl of six, sat watching Harry with interest.

‘It must be difficult,’ he replied solemnly. ‘But the soup’s fine.’

‘It’s scrumptious!’ Ronald called loudly. His mother sighed. Harry didn’t know why Muriel had had children; he supposed because it was the done thing.

‘How’s work?’ he asked his cousin to break the silence. Will worked in the Foreign Office, at the Middle East desk.

‘There could be problems in Persia.’ The eyes behind the thick glasses were troubled. ‘The Shah’s leaning towards Hitler. How was your meeting?’ he asked with exaggerated casualness. He had phoned Harry a few days before to tell him some people connected with the Foreign Office had spoken to him and would be in touch but had said he didn’t know what it was about. From his manner now, Harry thought he had guessed who the ‘people’ were. He wondered whether Will had talked about him in the office, mentioned a cousin who had been to Rookwood and spoke Spanish, and someone had passed the information on to Jebb’s people. Or was there some huge filing system about citizens somewhere, which the spies had consulted?

He nearly answered, they want me to go to Madrid, but remembered he mustn’t. ‘Looks like they’ve got something for me. Means going abroad. A bit hush-hush.’

‘Careless talk costs lives,’ the little girl said solemnly.

‘Be quiet, Prue,’ Muriel snapped. ‘Drink your soup.’

Harry smiled reassuringly. ‘It’s nothing dangerous. Not like France.’

‘Did you kill many Germans in France?’ Ronnie piped up.

Muriel set her spoon in her plate with a clang. ‘I told you not to ask questions like that.’

‘No, Ronnie, I didn’t,’ Harry said. ‘They killed a lot of our men, though.’

‘We’ll get them back for it, though, won’t we? And for the bombing?’

Muriel sighed deeply. Will turned to his son.

‘Did I ever tell you I met Ribbentrop, Ronnie?’

‘Wow! You met him? You should have killed him!’

‘We weren’t at war then, Ronnie. He was just the German ambassador. He was always saying the wrong thing. Brickendrop, we used to call him.’

‘What was he like?’

‘A silly man. His son was at Eton and once Ribbentrop went to the school to meet him. Ribbentrop stood in the quad with his arm raised and shouted, “Heil Hitler!” ’

‘Crumbs!’ Ronnie said. ‘He wouldn’t have got away with that at Rookwood. I’m hoping to go to Rookwood next year, did you know that, cousin Harry?’

‘If we can afford the fees, Ronnie, maybe.’

‘And if it’s still there,’ Muriel said suddenly. ‘If it’s not been requisitioned or blown up.’ Harry and Will stared at her. She wiped her mouth with her napkin and rose.

‘I’m going to get the steaks. They’ll be dry, they’ve been under the grill.’ She looked at her husband. ‘What are we going to do tonight?’

‘We won’t go to the shelter unless the siren goes,’ he replied. Muriel left the room. Prue had gone tense. Harry noticed that she had a teddy bear on her lap and was clutching it tightly. Will sighed.

‘When these raids began we started going up to the shelter after dinner. But some of the people there – well, they’re a bit common, Muriel doesn’t like them, and it’s pretty uncomfortable. Prue gets frightened. We stay at home unless Wailing Winnie starts.’ He sighed again, staring out of the French windows across the back garden. Dusk was deepening into night and a clear full moon was rising. ‘It’s a bomber’s moon. You go over, if you like.’

‘It’s all right,’ Harry said. ‘I’ll stay with you.’

His uncle’s village was on the ‘bomber’s run’ from the Channel up to London; the sirens often went as the planes passed overhead, but they ignored them. Harry hated Wailing Winnie’s swirling howl. It reminded him of the sound dive-bombers made: when he first came home after Dunkirk he would clench his teeth and clench his hands till they turned white every time the sirens went off.

‘If it goes in the night, we’ll get up and make for the shelter,’ Will said. ‘It’s just over the road.’

‘Yes, I saw it.’

‘It’s been bad. Ten days of it leaves you so bloody tired, and God knows how long it’s going to go on for. Muriel’s thinking of taking the children to the country.’ Will got up and drew the heavy blackout curtains. There was a sound of breaking glass from the kitchen, followed by an angry cry. He hurried out. ‘Better go and help Muriel.’

THE SIRENS STARTED at one a.m. They began in Westminster and, as other boroughs followed, the wailing moan rippled outwards to the suburbs. Harry woke from a dream, in which he was running through Madrid, darting in and out of shops and bars, asking if anyone had seen his friend Bernie. But he was speaking in English, not Spanish, and nobody understood. He rose and dressed in moments, as he had learned to do in the army. His mind was clear and focused, no panic. He wondered why he had been asking for Bernie, not Sandy. Someone had phoned from the Foreign Office at ten, asking him to go to an address in Surrey tomorrow.

He twitched the curtain open a crack. In the moonlight shadowy figures were running across the road, making for the shelter. Huge searchlight beams stabbed the sky as far as the eye could see.

He went out into the hall. The light was on and Ronnie stood there in pyjamas and dressing gown. ‘Prue’s upset,’ he said. ‘She won’t come.’ He looked at the open door of his parents’ bedroom. A loud, terrified child’s sobbing could be heard.

Even now, with the siren wailing in his ears, Harry felt reluctant to invade Will and Muriel’s bedroom, but he made himself go in. They were both in dressing gowns too. Muriel sat on the bed, her hair in curlers. She nursed her sobbing daughter in her arms, making soothing noises. Harry wouldn’t have thought her capable of such gentleness. One of the little girl’s arms hung down, still clutching the teddy bear. Will stood looking at them uncertainly; with his thin hair sticking up and his glasses askew he seemed the most vulnerable of them all. The sound went on; Harry felt his legs begin to tremble.

‘We should go,’ he said brusquely.

Muriel looked up. ‘Who the bloody hell asked you?’

‘Prue won’t go to the shelter,’ Will explained quietly.

‘It’s dark,’ the little girl wailed. ‘It’s so dark there, please let me stay at home!’

Harry stepped forward and grasped Muriel’s bony elbow. This was what the corporal had done on the beach after the bomb fell, picked him up and led him gently to the boat. Muriel gave him an astonished look.

‘We have to go. The bombers are coming. Will, we have to get them up.’ His cousin took Muriel’s other arm and they raised her gently. Prue had buried her head in her mother’s breast, still sobbing and holding the teddy bear tightly by its arm. Its glass eyes stared up at Harry.

‘All right, all right, I can walk by myself,’ Muriel snapped. They released her. Ronnie clattered down the stairs and the others followed. The boy switched off the light and opened the front door.

It was strange to be in a night-time London without streetlamps. There was no one outside now, but the dark shape of the shelter was visible in the moonlight across the road. There was a distant sound of ack-ack fire and something else, a low heavy drone from the south.

‘Hell,’ Will said. ‘They’re coming this way!’ He looked suddenly confused. ‘But it’s the docks they go for, the docks.’

‘Maybe they’re lost.’ Or want to hit civilian morale, Harry thought. His legs had stopped shaking. He had to take charge. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s get over the road.’

They began running but Muriel was slowed by the little girl. In the middle of the road Will turned to help her and slipped. He went down with a crash and a yell. Ronnie, ahead, paused and looked back.

‘Will, get up!’ Muriel’s cry was hysterical. Will tried to lift himself but fell back. Prue, the teddy bear still dangling from her arm, began screaming. Harry knelt by Will’s side.

‘I’ve twisted my ankle.’ Will’s face was full of pain and fear. ‘Leave me, get the others into the shelter.’ Behind him Muriel held the keening Prue tightly. Muriel was swearing, over and over again, language Harry wouldn’t have thought she knew.

‘Bloody fucking bastard Hitler oh God Christ!’

Still the siren wailed. The planes were almost overhead. Harry heard the whine of bombs falling, growing louder and ending in a sudden loud crump. There was a flash of light from a few streets away, a momentary tug of hot air at his dressing gown. It was so like Dunkirk. His legs were shaking again and there was a dry acid taste at the back of his mouth but his mind was very clear. He had to get Will up.

There was another whine and crump, closer, and the ground shook with the impacts. Muriel stopped swearing and stood stock still, eyes and mouth wide open. She bent her thin dressing-gowned body over to protect her still weeping daughter. Harry took her arm and looked into her terrified eyes. He spoke to her slowly and clearly.

‘You have to take Prue into the shelter, Muriel. Now. See, there’s Ronnie; he doesn’t know what to do. You have to get them in. I’ll bring Will.’

Life came back into her eyes. She turned wordlessly and began walking rapidly towards the shelter, stretching out her other hand for Ronnie to take. Harry bent and took Will’s hand. ‘Come on, old chap, get up. Put your good leg down, take the weight.’

He hauled his cousin to his feet as another great crash sounded, no more than a street away. There was a brief yellow flash and a wave of blast almost toppled them over but Harry had his arm round Will and managed to keep him steady. There was a feeling of pressure and a whining noise in Harry’s bad ear. Will leaned into him and hopped on his good leg, smiling through gritted teeth.

‘Don’t get blown up,’ he said. ‘The sneaky beakies will be furious!’ So he had guessed who wanted me, Harry thought. More bombs fell, yellow flashes lighting the road, but they seemed more distant now.

Someone had been watching from the shelter, holding the door open a crack. Arms reached out, taking hold of Will, and they fell together into the crowded darkness. Harry was guided to a seat. He found himself next to Muriel. He could just make out her thin form, still bent over Prue. The little girl was still sobbing. Ronnie was huddled against her as well.

‘I’m sorry, Harry,’ Muriel said quietly. ‘I just couldn’t bear any more. My children, every day I think about what could happen to them. All the time, all the time.’

‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘It’s OK.’

‘I’m sorry I went to pieces. You got us through.’ She raised an arm to touch Harry’s, but let it fall, as though the effort were too much.

Harry leaned his throbbing head against the gritty concrete wall. He had helped them, taken control, he hadn’t fallen apart. He would have a few months ago.

He remembered his first sight of the beach at Dunkirk, walking over a sand dune then seeing the endless black columns of men snaking into a sea dotted with boats. They were all sizes – he saw a pleasure steamer next to a minesweeper. There were smoking wrecks too, and German dive-bombers buzzing overhead, shrieking down and dropping their bombs on the boats and the men. The retreat had been so fast, so chaotic, the horror and shame of it had been almost too much to take in. Harry was ordered to help line the men up on the beach for evacuation. Sitting in the shelter, he felt again the numb shame that came then, the realization of total defeat.

Muriel muttered something. She was on his deaf side and he turned to her. ‘What?’

‘Are you all right? You’re shaking all over.’ There was a tremble in her voice. He opened his eyes. The gloom was spotted with the red pinpoints of cigarette ends. The shelterers were quiet, trying to hear what was happening outside.

‘Yes. It just – brought everything back. The evacuation.’

‘I know,’ she muttered.

‘I think they’ve gone now,’ someone said. The door opened a crack and someone peered out. A draught of fresh air cut through the odour of sweat and urine.

‘It’s dreadful, the smell in here,’ Muriel said. ‘That’s why I don’t like to come over, I can’t stand it.’

‘Sometimes people can’t help it – they lose control when they’re frightened.’

‘I suppose so.’ Her voice softened. Harry wished he could make out her face.

‘Is everyone all right?’ he asked.

‘Fine,’ Will answered from Muriel’s other side. ‘Good work there, Harry. Thanks, old man.’

‘Did the soldiers – lose control?’ Muriel asked. ‘In France? It must all have been so frightening.’

‘Yes. Sometimes.’ Harry remembered the smell as he approached the line of men on the beach. They hadn’t washed for days. Sergeant Tomlinson’s voice came back to him.

‘We’re lucky – things are going faster now the little boats are coming over. Some poor sods have been standing here three days.’ He was a big, fair-haired man, his face grey with exhaustion. He nodded towards the sea, shaking his head. ‘Look at those stupid buggers, they’ll capsize that boat.’

Harry followed his gaze to the head of the queue. Men stood shoulder deep in the cold Channel. At the head of the line men were piling into a fishing smack, their weight already tipping it over at an angle.

‘We’d better go down,’ Harry said. Tomlinson had nodded, and they began marching to the shore. Harry could see the fishermen remonstrating with the men still piling in.

‘I suppose it’s lucky discipline hasn’t broken down completely,’ Harry had said. Tomlinson turned to him, but his reply was lost in the scream of a dive-bomber, right above them, drowning the fainter whine of the falling bombs. Then there was a roar that felt as though it would burst Harry’s head as he was lifted off his feet in a cloud of red-stained sand.

‘Then he wasn’t there,’ Harry said aloud. ‘Just bits. Pieces.’

‘Sorry?’ Muriel asked, puzzled.

Harry squeezed his eyes closed, trying to shut out the images. ‘Nothing, Muriel. It’s OK, sorry.’

He felt her hand find his and clutch it. It felt work-roughened, hard, dry. He blinked back tears.

‘We made it tonight, eh?’ he said.

‘Yes, thanks to you.’

The warble of the all-clear was audible. The entire shelter seemed to exhale and relax. The door opened fully and the leader stood silhouetted against a starry sky lit with the glow of fires.

‘They’ve gone, folks,’ he said. ‘We can go home again.’

Chapter Three

THE PLANE LEFT CROYDON at dawn. Harry had been driven there straight from the SIS training centre. He had never flown before. It was an ordinary civil flight and the other passengers were English and Spanish businessmen. They chatted easily among themselves, mostly about the difficulties the war had made for trade, as they flew out over the Atlantic before turning south, avoiding German-occupied France. Harry felt a moment’s fear as the plane took off and he realized the railway lines he could see far below, smaller than Ronnie’s train set, were real. That passed quickly, though, as they flew into a bank of cloud, grey like thick fog against the windowpane. The cloud and the steady drone of the engines grew monotonous and Harry leaned back in his seat. He thought of his training, the three weeks’ coaching and preparation they had given him before, this morning, they put him in a car to the airport.

The morning after the bombing Harry had been driven from London to a mansion in the Surrey countryside, where he had spent the entire three weeks. He never knew its name or even where it was exactly. It was a Victorian redbrick pile; something about the layout of the rooms, the uncarpeted floors and a faint, indefinable smell, made him think it had once been a school.

The people who trained him were mostly young. There was something eager and adventurous about them, a quickness of reaction and an energy that made them seize your attention, hold your eye, take charge of the conversation. Sometimes they reminded Harry oddly of eager salesmen. They taught him the general business of spying: letterdrops, how to tell if you were being watched, how to get a message out if you were on the run. Not that that would happen to Harry, they reassured him – he had diplomatic protection, a useful by-product of his cover.

From the general they moved to the specific: how to deal with Sandy Forsyth. They made him do what they called role-plays, a former policeman from Kenya playing Sandy. A suspicious Sandy, doubting his story; a drunk and hostile Sandy asking what the fuck Brett was doing here, he had always hated him; a Sandy who was himself a spy, a secret Fascist.

‘You don’t know how he’ll react to you, you have to be prepared for every possible eventuality,’ the policeman said. ‘You have to adapt yourself to his moods, reflect what he’s thinking and feeling.’

Harry had to be absolutely consistent in his own story, they said, it had to be watertight. That was easy enough. He could be absolutely truthful about his life up to the day Will had received the telephone call from the Foreign Office. In the cover story they had rung looking for a translator to replace a man in Madrid who had to leave suddenly. Harry soon had it pat, but they told him there was still a problem. Not with his face, but with his voice; there was an uncertainty, almost a reluctance, when he told his story. A sharp operator, as Forsyth appeared to be, might pick up that he was lying. Harry worked at it and satisfied them after a while. ‘Of course,’ the policeman said, ‘any oddness in tone could be put down to your little bit of deafness, that can affect the voice. Play that up, and tell him about the panics you had after Dunkirk as well.’

Harry was surprised. ‘But those have gone, I don’t get them any more.’

‘You feel them coming still, don’t you? You manage to suppress them but you feel them coming?’ He glanced at the file on his knees; Harry had his own buff file with a red cross and ‘secret’ on it now. ‘Well, play up to that – a moment’s confusion, like pausing to ask him to repeat something, can play to your advantage. Gives you time to think and fixes you in his mind as an invalid, not someone to be afraid of.’

The information about his panics had come, Harry knew, from the odd woman who had interviewed him one day. She never said who she was but Harry guessed she was some sort of psychiatrist. She had something of the busy eagerness of the spies about her. The gaze from her blue eyes was so penetrating that Harry recoiled for a second. She shook his hand and cheerfully asked him to sit down at the little table.

‘Need to ask a few personal questions, Harry. I may call you Harry?’

‘Yes – er …’

‘Miss Crane, call me Miss Crane. You seem to have led a pretty straightforward life, Harry. Not like some of the rum ’uns we get here, I can tell you.’ She laughed.

‘I suppose I have. An ordinary life.’

‘Losing both parents when you were so young, though, that can’t have been easy. Passed around between uncles and aunts and your boarding school.’

That made him suddenly angry. ‘My aunt and uncle have always been kind. And I was happy at school. And Rookwood’s a public school, not a boarding school.’

Miss Crane eyed him quizzically. ‘Is there a difference?’

‘Yes, there is.’ The heat that came into his voice surprised Harry. ‘A boarding school makes it sound like a place where you’re just left, to mark time. Rookwood – a public school, you’re part of a community, it becomes part of you, shapes you.’

She still smiled but her reply was brutal. ‘Not the same as having parents who love you, is it?’

Harry felt his anger being replaced by heavy weariness. He lowered his gaze. ‘You have to deal with things as they are, make the best of things. Soldier on.’

‘On your own? There isn’t a girlfriend, is there? Anyone?’

He frowned, wondering if she was going to start making suggestions about his sex life, like Miss Maxse had. ‘There isn’t now. There was someone at Cambridge, but it didn’t work out.’

‘Why was that?’

‘Laura and I got bored with each other, Miss Crane. Nothing dramatic.’

She changed the subject. ‘And after Dunkirk? The shell shock, when you found you were having panic attacks, were frightened of loud noises. Did you decide to soldier on then, too?’

‘Yes, not that I was a soldier any more. I won’t be again.’

‘Does that make you angry?’

He looked at her. ‘Wouldn’t you be?’

She inclined her head reprovingly. ‘It’s you we’re here to talk about, Harry.’

He sighed. ‘Yes, I decided to soldier on.’

‘Were you tempted not to? To retreat into – being an invalid?’

He looked at her again. God, she was sharp. ‘Yes, yes, I suppose I was. But I didn’t. I started by going into the hospital grounds, then crossing the road, then walking into town. It got easier. I wasn’t as badly affected as some poor sods.’

‘Must have taken courage, guts. Like helping your cousin’s family in the bombing the night before you came here.’

‘You go on or go under. That’s life these days, isn’t it?’ he replied sharply. ‘Even when you’ve seen everything you took for granted, believed in, smashed to pieces.’ He gave a long sigh. ‘I think the sight of everyone retreating on that beach, the chaos, all that affected me as much as the shell that nearly hit me.’

‘But soldiering on, it must be very lonely.’

Her voice was suddenly gentle. Harry found his eyes filling with tears. He said, without intending to, ‘That night in the shelter, it was so strange. Muriel, Will’s wife, she took my hand. We’ve never got on, I always felt she resented me, but she took my hand. Yet …’

‘Yes?’

‘It felt so dry. So cold. I felt – sad.’

‘Perhaps it wasn’t Muriel’s hand you wanted.’

He looked at her. ‘No, you’re right,’ he said in surprise. But I don’t know whose I did want.’

‘We all need someone’s hand.’

‘Do we?’ Harry laughed uneasily. ‘This is a long way from my mission.’

She nodded. ‘Just getting to know you, Harry, just getting to know you.’

HARRY WAS JERKED out of his reverie as the plane tilted. He clutched at the arms of his seat and looked out of the window, then leaned forward and stared out. They had come out into sunshine again, they were over land. Spain. Harry looked down at the Castilian landscape, a sea of yellow and brown dotted with patchwork fields. As the plane circled lower he made out white empty roads, red-tiled houses, here and there a jumble of ruins from the Civil War. Then the pilot said they were about to land at Barajas airport and a few minutes later they were down on the runway, the engines stopped and he was here, in Spain. He felt a mixture of excitement and fear; he could still hardly believe he was actually back in Madrid.

Looking out of the window he saw half a dozen civil guards standing outside the terminal building, staring over the runway. Harry recognized their dark green uniforms, the yellow holsters clipped to their belts. They still wore their sinister, archaic leather hats, round with two little wings at the back, black and shiny like a beetle’s carapace. When he first came to Spain in 1931 the civiles, old supporters of the right, had been under threat from the Republic and you could see the fear and anger in their hard faces. When he returned in 1937, during the Civil War, they were gone. Now they had returned and Harry felt a dryness in his mouth as he looked at their faces, their cold, still expressions.

He joined the passengers heading for the exit. Dry heat enveloped him as he descended the steps and joined the crocodile crossing the tarmac. The airport building was no more than a low concrete warehouse, the paint flaking away. One of the civiles came across and stood by them. ‘Por allí, por allí,’ he snapped officiously, pointing to a door marked ‘Inmigración’.

Harry had a diplomatic passport and was waved quickly through, his bags chalked without a glance. He looked round the empty entrance hall. There was a whiff of disinfectant, the sickly smelling stuff they had always used in Spain.

A solitary figure leaning against a pillar reading a newspaper waved and came across.

‘Harry Brett? Simon Tolhurst, from the embassy. How was the flight?’

He was about Harry’s age, tall and fair, with an eager friendly manner. He was built like Harry, solidity turning to fat, although with the embassy man the process had gone further.

‘Fine. Cloudy most of the way, but not too bumpy.’ Harry noticed Tolhurst wore an Eton tie, the bright colours clashing with his white linen jacket.

‘I’ll drive you to the embassy, take about an hour. We don’t use Spanish drivers; they’re all government spies.’ He laughed and lowered his voice, though there was no one around. ‘The way they bend their ears back to listen, you’d think they’re going to meet in the middle. Very obvious.’

Tolhurst led him out into the sun and helped put his case in the back of a highly polished old Ford. The airport was out in the country, fields all around. Harry stood looking over the harsh brown landscape. In a field across the road he saw a peasant leading a couple of skinny oxen, ploughing the stubble in with a wooden plough as his ancestors had in Roman times. In the distance the jumbled peaks of the Guadarrama mountains stood out against the harsh blue sky, shimmering in heat haze. Harry felt sweat prickling at his brow.

‘Hot for October,’ he said.

‘Been a bloody hot summer. They’ve had a dreadful harvest; they’re very worried about the food situation. That may help us, though – makes them less likely to enter the war. We’d better get on. You’ve got an appointment with the ambassador.’

Tolhurst eased out onto a long deserted road flanked by dusty poplars, the leaves yellowing at the tips like giant torches.

‘How long have you been in Spain?’ Harry asked.

‘Four months. Came when they expanded the embassy, sent Sir Sam over. Did a spell in Cuba before. Lot more relaxed. Fun.’ He shook his head. ‘This is one awful country, I’m afraid. You’ve been before, haven’t you?’

‘Before the Civil War, then briefly during it. To Madrid both times.’

Tolhurst shook his head again. ‘It’s a pretty grim place now.’

As they drove over the stony, potholed road they talked about the Blitz, agreeing Hitler had abandoned his invasion plans for now. Tolhurst asked Harry where he had gone to school.

‘Rookwood, eh? Good place, I believe. Those were the days, eh?’ he added wistfully.

Harry smiled sadly. ‘Yes.’

He looked out at the countryside. There was a new emptiness to the landscape. Only the occasional peasant driving a donkey and cart passed them, and once an army truck going north, a group of tiredlooking young soldiers staring vacantly from the back. The villages were empty too. It was siesta time, but in the old days there would have been a few people about. Now even the once ubiquitous skinny dogs had gone and only a few chickens were left foraging round closed doorways. One village square had huge posters of Franco all over the cracked, unpainted walls, his arms folded confidently as his jowly face smiled into the distance. ¡HASTA EL FUTURO! Towards the future. Harry took a deep breath. The posters, Harry saw, covered older ones whose tattered edges were visible beneath. He recognized the bottom half of the old slogan, ¡NO PASARAN! They shall not pass. But they had.

Then they were in the rich northern suburbs. From the look of the elegant houses the Civil War might never have happened. ‘Does the ambassador live out here?’ Harry asked.

‘No, Sir Sam lives in the Castellana.’ Tolhurst laughed. ‘It’s a bit embarrassing, actually. He’s next door to the German ambassador.’

Harry turned, open-mouthed. ‘But we’re at war!’

‘Spain’s “non-belligerent”. But it’s crawling with Germans, the scum are all over the place. The German embassy here’s the largest in the world. We don’t speak to them, of course.’

‘How did the ambassador end up next door to the Germans?’

‘Only big house available. He makes a joke of glaring at von Stohrer over the garden wall.’

They drove on into the town centre. Most of the buildings were unpainted and even more dilapidated than Harry remembered, though once many must have been grand. There were posters everywhere, Franco and the yoke-and-arrows symbol of the Falange. Most people were shabbily dressed, even more than he remembered, many looking thin and tired. Men in overalls with scrawny weather-beaten faces walked by, and women in black shawls, patched and mended. Even the barefoot skinny children playing in the dusty gutters had pinched watchful faces. Harry had half expected to see military parades and Falangist rallies like in the newsreels, but the city was quieter than he had known it, as well as dingier. He saw priests and nuns among the passers-by; they were back, too, like the civiles. The few wealthier-looking men wore jackets and hats despite the heat.

Harry turned to Tolhurst. ‘When I was here in ’37 wearing a jacket and hat on a hot day was illegal. Bourgeois affectation.’

‘You’re not allowed to go out without a jacket now, not if you’re wearing a shirt. Point to remember.’

The trams were running but there were few cars and they weaved their way among donkey carts and bicycles. Harry jerked round in amazement as a familiar shape caught his eye, a hooked black cross.

‘Did you see that? The bloody swastika’s flying beside the Spanish flag on that building!’

Tolhurst nodded. ‘Have to get used to that. It’s not just swastikas – the Germans run the police and the press. Franco makes no secret he wants the Nazis to win. Now, look over there.’

They had stopped at an intersection. Harry noticed a trio of colourfully dressed girls wearing thick make-up. They caught his glance and smiled, turning their heads provocatively.

‘There are tarts everywhere. You have to be very careful, most of them have the clap and some are government spies. Embassy staff aren’t allowed near them.’

A pith-helmeted traffic policeman waved them on. ‘Do you think Franco will come into the war?’ Harry asked.

Tolhurst ran a hand through his yellow hair, making it stick up. ‘God knows. It’s a terrible atmosphere; the newspapers and radio are wildly pro-German. Himmler’s coming on a state visit next week. But you just have to carry on as normal, as much as you can.’ He blew out his cheeks and smiled ruefully. ‘But most people keep a suitcase packed, in case we have to get out in a hurry. Oh, I say, there’s a gasogene!’

He pointed to where a big old Renault was puttering along, slower than the donkey carts. Fixed to the back was what looked like a large squat boiler, clouds of smoke pouring from a little chimney. Pipes led under the car from the thing. The driver, a middle-aged bourgeois, ignored stares from the pavement as people stopped to look. A tram clattered by hooting and he swerved wildly to avoid it, the unwieldy vehicle almost teetering over.

‘What the hell was that?’ Harry asked.

‘Spain’s revolutionary answer to the petrol shortage. Uses coal or wood instead of petrol. OK unless you want to go uphill. The French have them too, I hear. Not much chance of the Germans being after that design.’

Harry studied the crowd. A few people were smiling at the bizarre vehicle, but it struck Harry that none were laughing or calling out, as Madrileños would have done before at such a thing. Again he thought how silent they were, the background buzz of conversation he remembered gone.

They drove into Opera district, catching glimpses of the Royal Palace in the distance. It stood out brightly amid the general shabbiness, the sun reflected from its white walls.

‘Does Franco live there?’ Harry asked.

‘He receives people there but he’s established himself in the Pardo Palace, outside Madrid. He’s terrified of assassination. Drives everywhere in a bullet-proof Mercedes Hitler sent him.’

‘There’s still opposition then?’

‘The civiles have security sewn up in the towns. But you never know. After all, Madrid was only taken eighteen months ago. In a way, it’s an occupied city as much as Paris. There’s still resistance in the north, from what we hear, and Republican bands hiding out in the countryside. The vagabundos, they call them.’

‘God,’ Harry said. ‘What this country’s been through.’

‘It might not be over yet,’ Tolhurst observed grimly.

They drove into a street of large nineteenth-century houses, outside one of which a Union Jack hung from a flagpole, blessedly familiar. Harry remembered coming to the embassy in 1937, to ask for Bernie after he was reported missing. The officials had been unhelpful, disapproving of the International Brigades.

A couple of civiles were posted at the door. Cars were drawn up outside the entrance so Tolhurst stopped a little way up the road.

‘Let’s get your bag,’ he said.

Harry looked warily at the civiles as he climbed out. Then he felt his leg tugged from behind. He looked round to see a thin boy of ten, dressed in the rags of an army tunic, sitting on a kind of wheeled wooden sled.

‘Señor, por favor, diez pesetas.’

Harry saw the child had no legs. The boy clung to his turn-ups. ‘Por el amor de Dios,’ he pleaded, thrusting out his other hand. One of the civiles marched sharply down the street, clapping his hands. ‘¡Vete! ¡Vete!’ At his shout the little boy slapped his hands on the cobbles, rolling his cart backwards into a side street. Tolhurst took Harry’s elbow.

‘You’ll have to be quicker than that, old boy. Beggars don’t usually get as far out as this, but they’re thick as pigeons round the Centro. Not that there are any pigeons left, they’ve eaten them all.’

The civil who had chased the boy away escorted them to the embassy door. ‘Gracias por su asistencia,’ Tolhurst said formally. The man nodded, but Harry saw a look of contempt in his eyes.

‘It’s a bit of a shock at first, the children,’ Tolhurst said as he turned the handle of the big wooden door. ‘But you have to get used to it. Now, time to meet your reception committee. The big guns are waiting for you.’ He sounded jealous, Harry thought, as Tolhurst led the way into the hot, gloomy interior.

THE AMBASSADOR sat behind an enormous desk in an imposing room cooled by quietly whirring fans. There were eighteenth-century prints on the wall, thick rugs on the tiled floor. Another man, in the uniform of a naval captain, sat to one side of the desk. A window looked on to an interior courtyard full of potted plants, where a little group of men in shirtsleeves sat talking on a bench.

Harry recognized Sir Samuel Hoare from the newsreels. He had been a minister under Chamberlain, an appeaser dismissed when Churchill took over. A small man with delicately pointed, severe features and thin white hair, he wore a morning coat with a blue flower in the buttonhole. He stood and leaned across the desk, thrusting out a hand.

‘Welcome, Brett, welcome.’ The handshake was surprisingly strong. Cold, pale blue eyes stared into Harry’s for a moment, then the ambassador waved at the other man. ‘Captain Alan Hillgarth, our naval attaché. He has overall responsibility for Special Services.’ Hoare pronounced the final words with a touch of distaste.

Hillgarth was in his forties, tall and darkly handsome with large brown eyes. They were hard but there was something mischievous, almost childlike, about them and about the wide sensual mouth. Harry remembered Sandy reading adventure stories at Rookwood by a man called Hillgarth. They were about spies, adventures in dark backwaters of Europe. Sandy Forsyth had liked them but Harry had found them rather garbled.

The captain shook his hand warmly. ‘Hello, Brett. You’ll be directly responsible to me, through Tolhurst here.’

‘Sit, please; sit, all.’ Hoare waved Harry to a chair.

‘We’re glad to see you,’ Hillgarth said. ‘We’ve had reports of your training. You seemed to pick up everything reasonably well.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Ready to spin your yarn to Forsyth?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘We’ve got you a flat, Tolhurst here will take you round afterwards. Now, you know the drill? The cover story?’

‘Yes, sir. I’ve been seconded as an interpreter, after the illness of the previous man.’

‘Poor old Greene,’ Hillgarth said with a sudden laugh. ‘Still doesn’t know why he was rushed off home.’

‘Good interpreter,’ Hoare interjected. ‘Knew his job. Brett, you’ll have to be very careful what you say. As well as your – ah – other work, you’ll be interpreting for some senior people, and things are delicate here. Very delicate.’ Hoare looked at him sharply and Harry felt suddenly intimidated. He still couldn’t get used to the fact that he was talking to a man he had seen on the newsreels. He took a deep breath.

‘I understand, sir. They briefed me in England. I translate everything into the most diplomatic language possible, never add comments of my own.’

Hillgarth nodded. ‘He’s doing a session with the junior trade minister and me on Thursday. I’ll keep him in order.’

‘Maestre, yes.’ Hoare grunted. ‘We don’t want to upset him.’

Hillgarth produced a gold cigarette case and offered it to Harry. ‘Smoke?’

‘I don’t, thanks.’

Hillgarth lit up and blew out a cloud of smoke. ‘We don’t want you to meet Forsyth straight away, Brett. Take a few days to get yourself known on the circuit, settle in. And get used to being watched and followed – the government put spies on all embassy staff. Most of them are pretty hopeless, you can spot them a mile off, though a few Gestapo-trained men are coming through now. Watch out for anyone on your tail, and report to Tolhurst.’ He smiled as though it were all an adventure, in a way that reminded Harry of the people at the training school.

‘I will, sir.’

‘Now,’ Hillgarth went on. ‘Forsyth. You knew him well for a time at school, but you haven’t seen him since. Correct?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘But you think he might be well disposed towards you?’

‘I hope so, sir. But I don’t really know what he’s been up to since we stopped writing. That was ten years ago.’ Harry glanced out at the courtyard. One of the men there was looking in at them.

‘Those bloody airmen!’ Hoare snapped. ‘I’m fed up of them peering in here!’ He waved a hand imperiously and the men got up and walked off, disappearing through a side door. Harry saw Hillgarth gave Hoare a quick look of dislike before turning back to him.

‘Those are pilots who had to bale out over France,’ Hillgarth said pointedly. ‘Some of them have walked here.’

‘Yes, yes, yes,’ Hoare said pettishly. ‘We must get on.’

‘Of course, ambassador,’ Hillgarth said with heavy formality. He turned back to Harry. ‘Now, we first heard about Forsyth two months ago. I’ve an agent in the Industry Ministry here, a junior clerk. He let us know they were all very excited there about something that was going on out in the country, about fifty miles from Madrid. Our man can’t get to the papers but he overheard a couple of conversations. Gold deposits. Large ones, geologically verified. We know they’re sending mining equipment out, and mercury and other chemicals; scarce resources.’

‘Sandy was always interested in geology,’ Harry said. ‘At school he had a thing about fossils, he used to go off and try to find dinosaur bones.’

‘Did he now?’ Hillgarth said. ‘Didn’t know that. He never got himself any formal qualifications that we know of, but he’s working with a man who has. Alberto Otero.’

‘The man with experience in South Africa?’

‘Just so.’ Hillgarth nodded approvingly. ‘Mining engineer. They gave you some reading up on gold mining back home, I believe.’

‘Yes, sir.’ It had been odd, grappling with the heavy textbooks in the evening in his little room.

‘So far as Forsyth’s concerned, of course, you know nothing about gold. Babe in arms on the subject.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Harry paused. ‘Do you know how Forsyth and this Otero came together?’

‘No. There are a lot of gaps. We only know that while he was working as a tour guide Forsyth got in with the Auxilio Social, the Falange organization that handles what passes for social welfare here.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘It’s corrupt as hell. Rich pickings, with supplies so short.’

‘Does Forsyth still keep in touch with his family?’

Hillgarth shook his head. ‘His father hasn’t heard from him in years.’

Harry remembered the one time he had seen the bishop; he had come down to the school after Sandy’s disgrace to plead for his son. Looking from the classroom Harry had seen him in the quadrangle, recognized him by the red episcopal shirt under his suit. He looked solid and patrician, nothing like Sandy.

‘Forsyth supported the Nationalists, then?’ Harry asked.

‘I think it was the rich pickings he supported,’ Hillgarth replied.

‘You weren’t a Republican supporter, were you?’ Hoare gave Harry a searching look.

‘I didn’t support either side, sir.’

Hoare grunted. ‘I thought that was the great dividing line before the War, who supported the Reds in Spain and who the Nats. I’m surprised at a Hispanicist supporting neither side.’

‘Well I didn’t, sir. A plague on both their houses was what I thought.’ He’s a tetchy little bully, Harry thought.

‘I could never understand how anyone could think a Red Spain could be less than a disaster.’

Hillgarth looked irritated by the interruption. He leaned forward. ‘Forsyth wouldn’t have known any Spanish before coming out here, would he?’

‘No, but he would have picked it up quickly. He’s smart. That was one reason the masters hated him at school; he was bright but he wouldn’t work.’

Hillgarth raised his eyebrows. ‘Hated? That’s a strong word.’

‘It got to that, I think.’

‘Well, according to our man he’s got in with the state mining agency. Does wheeler-dealing for them; negotiating supplies and so on.’ He paused. ‘The Falange faction dominates the Ministry of Mines. They’d love Spain to be able to pay for food imports, instead of begging us and the Americans for loans. Trouble is, we’ve no hard intelligence in there. If you could get directly to Forsyth it could be of incalculable help. We must find out if there’s anything in these gold stories.’

‘Yes, sir.’

There was a moment’s silence, the oily swishing of the ceiling fan suddenly loud, then Hillgarth went on. ‘Forsyth works through a company he’s set up. Nuevas Iniciativas. It’s listed on the Madrid Stock Exchange as a supply procurement company. The shares have been going up, Ministry of Mines officials have been buying in. The firm has a little office near Calle Toledo; Forsyth’s there most days. Our man hasn’t been able to get his home address, which is a blasted nuisance – we just know he lives out in Vigo district with some tart. Most days at siesta time he goes for coffee to a local cafe. That’s where we want you to make contact with him.’

‘Does he go by himself?’

‘Apart from him there’s just a secretary at the office. He always takes that half-hour by himself in the afternoon.’

Harry nodded. ‘He used to like going off alone at school.’

‘We’ve had him watched. It’s bloody nerve-racking – I worry Forsyth might spot our man.’ He passed Harry a couple of photos from a file on the desk. ‘He took these.’

The first photograph showed Sandy, well dressed and tanned, walking down a street talking to an army officer. Sandy had bent to catch his words, his face solemnly attentive. The second showed him striding carelessly along, jacket unbuttoned, smoking. There was a confident, knowing smile on his face.

‘He looks prosperous.’

Hillgarth nodded. ‘Oh, he’s not short of money.’ He turned back to the file. ‘The flat we’ve got you is a couple of streets from his office. It’s on the fringe of a poor area, but with the housing shortage it’ll be credible to house a junior diplomat there.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Your flat’s actually not bad, I’m told. Used to belong to some Communist functionary under the Republic. Probably been shot by now. Settle in there, but don’t go to the cafe yet.’

‘What’s it called, sir?’

‘Café Rocinante.’

Harry smiled wryly. ‘The name of Don Quijote’s horse.’

Hillgarth nodded, then looked steadily at Harry. ‘Word of advice,’ he said with a smile, his tone friendly though his eyes were hard. ‘You look too serious, like you had the weight of the world on your shoulders. Cheer up a bit, smile. Look on it as an adventure.’

Harry blinked. An adventure. Spying on an old friend who was working with fascists.

The ambassador gave a sudden harsh laugh. ‘Adventure! Dear God preserve us. There are too many adventurers in this damn country if you ask me.’ He turned to Harry, his face animated. ‘Listen, Brett. You sound like you’ve got your head screwed on, but be damned careful. I agreed to your coming because it’s important we find out what’s going on, but I don’t want you upsetting any applecarts.’

‘I’m not sure I understand, sir.’

‘This regime is divided in two. Most of the generals who won the Civil War are solid sensible people who admire England and want Spain kept out of the war. It’s my job to build bridges and strengthen their hand with Franco. I don’t want it getting to the Generalísimo that we’ve got spies nosing round one of his pet projects.’

Hillgarth nodded.

‘I understand,’ said Harry. Hoare doesn’t want me here at all, he thought. I’m in the middle of some bloody piece of politics.

Hillgarth rose. ‘Well, I’ve got this ceremony for the Naval Heroes of Spain. Better show the flag, eh, ambassador?’

Hoare nodded and Hillgarth rose, Harry and Tolhurst following. Hillgarth picked up the file and handed it to Harry. It had a red cross on the front.

‘Tolly will take you to your flat. Take Forsyth’s dossier, have a good look, but bring it back tomorrow. Tolly will show you where to sign it out.’

As they left, Harry turned to look at Hoare. He was staring out of the window, frowning at the airmen who had started to drift back into the yard.

Chapter Four

OUTSIDE THE AMBASSADOR’S ROOM Tolhurst smiled apologetically. ‘Sorry about Sam,’ he said in a low voice. ‘He wouldn’t normally be in at a briefing for a new agent, but he’s nervous about this job. He’s got a rule: intelligence gathering is allowed, but no espionage, no antagonizing the regime. Some socialists came a few weeks ago to try and get help for the guerrillas fighting against Franco. Bloody dangerous for them. He sent them packing.’

Harry hadn’t liked Hoare, but was still slightly shocked by Tolhurst calling him Sam. ‘Because he wants good relations with the Monarchists?’ he asked.

‘Exactly. After the Civil War they hate the Reds, you can imagine.’ Tolhurst fell silent as they stepped into the street, the civiles saluting as they passed. He opened the door of the Ford, wincing at the heat of the handle.

He renewed the conversation as they drove away. ‘They say Churchill sent Sam here to get him out of the way,’ he confided cheerfully. ‘Can’t stand him, doesn’t trust him either. That’s why he put the captain in charge of Intelligence; he’s an old friend of Winston’s. From his days out of government.’

‘Aren’t we all supposed to be on the same side?’

‘There’s a lot of internal politics.’

‘You can say that again.’

Tolhurst smiled sardonically. ‘Sam’s a bitter man. He wanted to be Viceroy of India.’

‘The in-fighting can’t make anyone’s job easier.’

‘Way things are, old boy.’ Tolhurst looked at him seriously. ‘Best you should know the score.’

Harry changed the subject. ‘When I was at school I remember some adventure books by an Alan Hillgarth. Not the same man, I suppose?’

Tolhurst nodded. ‘The very same. Not bad, are they? Ever read the one set in Spanish Morocco? The War Maker. Franco comes into it. Fictionalized, of course. The captain admired him, you can tell.’

‘I haven’t read it. I know Sandy Forsyth liked them.’

‘Did he now?’ Tolhurst said with interest. ‘I’ll tell the captain. That’ll amuse him.’

They drove through the centre into a maze of narrow streets of four-storey tenements. It was late afternoon and the heat was starting to lift, long shadows falling across the road as Tolhurst steered carefully over the cobbles. The tenements had had no attention for years, plaster was falling from the brickwork like flesh from skeletons. There were several bombsites, heaps of stone overgrown with weeds. There were no other cars around and passers-by glanced at the car curiously. A donkey pulling a cart shied away into the pavement as they passed, nearly unseating its rider. Harry watched as the man steadied himself, mouthing a curse.

‘I was wondering,’ he said, ‘how I was recruited.’ He kept his tone casual. ‘Just interest. Never mind if you can’t tell me.’

‘Oh, that’s no secret. They were hunting up Forsyth’s old contacts and a master at Rookwood mentioned you.’

‘Mr Taylor?’

‘Don’t know the name. When they found you knew Spain they were in seventh heaven. That’s where the interpreter idea came from.’

‘I see.’

‘Real piece of luck.’ Tolhurst skirted a crack in the road by a bombsite. ‘Did you know, the embassy here was the first piece of British soil to be hit by a German bomb?’

‘What? Oh, during the Civil War?’

‘Hit the garden by accident when the Germans were bombing Madrid. Sam’s had it put back in order. He has his good points. He’s a first-class organizer, the embassy runs like clockwork. You have to give the pink rat his due.’

‘The what?’

Tolhurst smiled confidentially. ‘It’s his nickname. He gets these fits of panic, thinks Spain’s about to come into the war and he’ll be shot, has to be persuaded not to run off to Portugal. D’you know, the other evening a bat flew into his study and he hid under the table, screaming for someone to take it away. You can imagine what Hillgarth thinks. But when he’s on form Sam’s a bloody good diplomat. Loves strutting about as the King-Emperor’s representative; the Monarchists all go soppy at anything to do with royalty, of course. Ah, here we are.’

Tolhurst had pulled up in a dusty square. There was a statue of a soldier in eighteenth-century dress on a pedestal in the middle, one arm missing, and a few fly-blown shops with half-empty windows. Tenements ringed the square, the windows behind the rusty iron balconies shuttered against the afternoon heat. The place must have had style once. Harry studied them through the window. He remembered a picture he had bought in a back-street shop in 1931: a crumbling tenement building like this, a girl leaning out of a window, smiling as a gipsy serenaded her underneath. He had it in his room at Cambridge. There was something romantic about decaying buildings; the Victorians had loved them, of course. But it was different if you had to live in them.

Tolhurst pointed to a narrow street leading north, where the buildings looked even more down at heel.

‘Wouldn’t go down there if I were you. That’s La Latina. Bad area, leads across the river to Carabanchel.’

‘I know,’ Harry replied. ‘There was a family we used to visit in Carabanchel when I came in 1931.’

Tolhurst looked at him curiously.

‘The Nationalists shelled it badly during the Siege, didn’t they?’ Harry asked.

‘Yes, and they’ve left it to rot since the Civil War. See the place as full of their enemies. There are people starving down there, I’m told, and packs of wild dogs living in the ruined buildings. People have been bitten and got rabies.’

Harry looked down the long empty street.

‘What else is there you should know?’ Tolhurst asked. ‘English people aren’t very popular generally. It’s the propaganda. It’s never more than dirty looks, though.’

‘How do we deal with Germans if we meet them?’

‘Oh, just cut the bastards dead. Be careful about greeting people who look English on the streets,’ he added as he opened the car door. ‘They’re just as likely to be Gestapo.’

Outside the air was full of dust, a breeze lifting little whorls of it from the street. They took Harry’s case from the car. A thin old woman in black crossed the square, a huge bag of clothes on her head supported by one hand. Harry wondered which side she had supported during the Civil War, or whether she had been one of the thousands without politics, caught in the middle. Her face was deeply lined, her expression tired but stoical; one of those who endured – somehow, only just.

Tolhurst handed Harry a brown card. ‘Your rations. The embassy gets diplomatic rations and we distribute them. Better than we get at home. A lot better than the rations they get here.’ His eyes followed the old woman. ‘They say people are digging up vegetable roots for food. You can buy stuff on the black market, of course, but it’s expensive.’

‘Thanks.’ Harry pocketed the card. Tolhurst went over to one of the tenements, producing a key, and they entered a dark vestibule with cracked flaking paint. Water dripped somewhere and there was a smell of stale urine. They climbed stone steps to the second floor, where the doors of three flats faced them. Two little girls were playing with battered dolls in the hallway. ‘Buenas tardes,’ Harry said, but they looked away. Tolhurst unlocked one of the doors.

It was a three-bedroomed flat, such as Harry remembered would often house a family of ten in crowded squalor. It had been cleaned and there was a smell of polish. It was furnished like a middle-class home, full of heavy old sofas and cabinets. There were no pictures on the mustard-yellow walls, only blank squares where they had hung. Dust motes danced in a beam of sunlight.

‘It’s big,’ said Harry.

‘Yes, better than the shoebox where I live. Just the one Communist Party official used to live here. Disgrace when you see how most people are crowded together. Left empty for a year after he was taken away. Then the authorities remembered they had it and put it up for rent.’

Harry ran a finger along the film of dust on the table. ‘By the way, what’s this about Himmler coming here?’

Tolhurst looked serious. ‘It’s all over the Fascist press. State visit next week.’ He shook his head. ‘You never get used to the idea that we might have to run. There have been so many false alarms.’

Harry nodded. He’s not really brave, he thought, no more than I am. ‘So you report directly to Hillgarth?’ he asked.

‘That’s right.’ Tolhurst tapped the leg of an ornate bureau with his foot. ‘I don’t get to do any actual secret work, though. I’m the admin man.’ He gave a self-deprecating laugh. ‘Simon Tolhurst, general dogsbody. Flats found, reports typed, expenses checked.’ He paused. ‘By the way, make sure you keep a careful note of everything you spend. London’s red-hot on expenses.’ Tolhurst looked out of the window at the central courtyard where patched washing flapped on lines strung between the balconies, then turned back to Harry. ‘Tell me,’ he asked curiously, ‘does Madrid look much different to when you were here under the Republic?’

‘Yes. It was bad enough then but it looks worse now. Even poorer.’

‘Maybe things’ll get better. I suppose at least now there’s strong government.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Did you hear what Dalí said – Spain’s a nation of peasants who need a firm hand? Cuba was the same, they just can’t handle democracy. Everything goes to pot.’ Tolhurst shook his head, as though it was all beyond him. Harry felt a spurt of anger at his naiveté, then reflected that it was beyond him too, the tragedy that had happened here. Bernie was the one who had had all the answers but his side had lost and Bernie was dead.

‘Coffee?’ he asked Tolhurst. ‘If there is any.’

‘Oh yes, place is stocked. And there’s a phone, but be careful what you say, it’ll be tapped as you’re Dip Corps. Same with letters home, they’re censored. So take care if you’re writing to family, or a girlfriend. Got anyone back home?’ he added diffidently.

Harry shook his head. ‘No. You?’

‘No. They don’t let me out of the embassy much.’ Tolhurst looked at him curiously. ‘What took you to Carabanchel, when you were here before?’

‘I came with Bernie Piper. My Communist schoolfriend.’ Harry smiled wryly. ‘I’m sure it’s in my file.’

‘Ah. Yes.’ Tolhurst reddened slightly.

‘He got friendly with a family down there. They were good people; Christ knows what’s happened to them now.’ He sighed. ‘I’ll get that coffee.’

Tolhurst looked at his watch. ‘Actually, I’d better not. Got to check some damned expenses. Come to the embassy at nine tomorrow, we’ll show you the ropes for the translators.’

‘Will the other translators know I’m working for Hillgarth?’

Tolhurst shook his head. ‘Lord, no. They’re all regular Dip Corps, just performers in Sam’s circus.’ He laughed and extended a damp hand to Harry. ‘It’s all right, we’ll run through it all tomorrow.’

HARRY TOOK OFF his collar and tie, feeling a welcome current of air playing on the damp ring around his neck. He sat in a leather armchair and looked through Forsyth’s file. There wasn’t much there: some more photographs, details of his work with Auxilio Social, his contacts in the Falange. Sandy was living in a big house, paying liberally for black market goods.

Outside he heard a woman’s voice, harsh, calling her children in. He put down the file and walked over to the window, looking through the washing to the shadowy courtyard, where children were playing. He opened the windows, the old familiar smell of cooking mingled with rot striking his nostrils. He could see the woman leaning out, she was young and pretty but wore a widow’s black. She called her children again and they ran indoors.

Harry turned back to the room. It was poorly lit and seemed full of gloomy corners, the places where pictures or posters had been removed standing out as ghostly squares. He wondered what had hung there. Pictures of Lenin and Stalin? There was something oppressive about the still, quiet atmosphere. The Communist would have been taken after Franco occupied Madrid, hauled away and shot in a cellar probably. Harry switched on the light but nothing happened. The light in the hall was the same; probably a power cut.

He had been uneasy about spying on Sandy but now he felt a growing anger. Sandy was working with Falangists, people who wanted to make war against England. ‘Why, Sandy?’ he asked aloud. His voice in the silence startled him. He felt suddenly alone. He was in a hostile country, working for an embassy that seemed to be a hotbed of rivalries. Tolhurst couldn’t have been friendlier but Harry guessed he would be reporting his impressions of him to Hillgarth, taking pleasure in being in the know. He thought of Hillgarth telling him to treat this as an adventure, and wondered, as he had wondered from time to time during his training, if he was the right man for this job, if he was up to it. He had said nothing about his doubts: it was an important job and they needed him to do it. For a second, though, he felt panic clutch at the corners of his mind.

This won’t do, he told himself. There was a radio on a table in the corner and he switched it on. The glass panel in the centre lit up; the power must be back on. He remembered when he was at his uncle’s, on holiday from Rookwood, playing with the radio in the sitting room in the evening. Twiddling the dial, he would hear voices from far-off countries: Italy, Russia, Hitler’s harsh screech from Germany. He had wished he could understand the voices that came and went, so far away, interrupted by swishes and crackles. His interest in languages had begun there. Now he twiddled the dial, looking for the BBC, but could find only a Spanish station playing martial music.

He wandered through to the bedroom. The bed had been freshly made up and he lay down, suddenly tired; it had been a long day. Now the playing children had gone he was struck again by the silence outside, it was as though Madrid lay under a shroud. An occupied city, Tolhurst had said. He could hear the blood hissing in his ears. It seemed louder in his bad one. He thought of unpacking, but let his mind drift back, to 1931, his first visit to Madrid. He and Bernie, twenty years old, arriving at Atocha station on a July day, rucksacks on their backs. He remembered emerging from the soot-smelling station into blazing sunlight, and there was the red-yellow-purple flag of the Republic flying over the Agriculture Ministry opposite, outlined against a cobalt-blue sky so bright he had to screw up his eyes.

AFTER SANDY FORSYTH left Rookwood in disgrace, Bernie returned to the study and his friendship with Harry resumed: two quiet, studious boys working for their Cambridge entrance. Bernie tended to keep his political views to himself in those days. He made the rugby XV in his last year and enjoyed the rough, speedy brutality of the field. Harry preferred cricket; when he made the first eleven it was one of the high points of his life.

Seven people from that year’s sixth form sat the Cambridge entrance. Harry came second and Bernie first, winning the £50 prize donated by an Old Boy. Bernie said it was more money than he had ever imagined seeing, let alone owning. In the autumn they went to Cambridge together but to different colleges and their paths diverged, Harry mixing with a serious, studious set and Bernie off with the socialist groups, bored with his studies. They still met for a drink now and then but less often as time passed. Harry hadn’t seen Bernie for over a month when he breezed into his rooms one summer morning at the end of their second year.

‘What’re you doing these hols?’ he asked once Harry had made tea.

‘I’m going to France. It’s been decided. I’m going to spend the summer travelling around, trying to get fluent. My cousin Will and his wife were going to come to start with, for their holidays, but she’s expecting.’ He sighed; it had been a disappointment and he was nervous of travelling alone. ‘Are you going to work in the shop again?’

‘No. I’m going to Spain for a month. They’re doing some great things there.’ Harry was reading Spanish as a second language; he knew the monarchy had fallen that April. A Republic had been declared, with a government of liberals and socialists dedicated, they said, to bringing reform and progress to one of Europe’s most backward countries.

‘I want to see it,’ Bernie said. His face shone with enthusiasm. ‘This new constitution’s a people’s constitution, it’s the end for the landlords and the church.’ He looked at Harry thoughtfully. ‘But I don’t really want to go to Spain alone, either. I wondered if you’d like to come. After all, you speak the language, why not go and see Spain too, see it first hand instead of reading dusty old Spanish playwrights? I could come to France first if you don’t want to be on your own,’ Bernie added. ‘I’d like to see it. Then we could go on to Spain.’ He smiled. Bernie was always persuasive.

‘Spain’s pretty primitive, though, isn’t it? How will we find our way around?’

Bernie pulled a battered Labour Party card from his pocket. ‘This’ll help us. I’ll introduce you to the international socialist brotherhood.’

Harry smiled. ‘Can I charge an interpreter’s fee?’ He realized that was why Bernie wanted him to come and felt an unexpected sadness.

THEY TOOK the ferry to France in July. They spent ten days in Paris then travelled slowly south by train, spending their nights in cheap hostels along the way. It was a pleasant, lazy time, and to Harry’s pleasure their easy companionship from Rookwood returned. Bernie pored over a Spanish grammar, he wanted to be able to speak to the people. Some of his enthusiasm for what he called the new Spain rubbed off on Harry and they were both staring eagerly out of the window as the train pulled into Atocha that hot summer morning.

Madrid was exciting, extraordinary. Walking round the Centro they saw buildings decorated with socialist and anarchist flags, posters for rallies and strike meetings covering the peeling walls of the old buildings. Here and there they saw burned-out churches, which made Harry shudder but Bernie smile with grim pleasure.

‘Not much of a workers’ paradise,’ Harry said, wiping a sheen of sweat from his brow. The heat was baking, a heat such as neither of the English boys had imagined could exist. They were standing in the Puerta del Sol, hot and dusty. Pedlars with donkey carts threaded their way between the trams and ragged shoeshine boys slumped against the walls in the shade. Old women in black shawls shuffled by like dusty, smelly birds.

‘Christ, Harry, they’ve had centuries of oppression,’ Bernie said. ‘Not least from the church. Most of those burned-out churches were full of gold and silver. It’s going to take a long time.’

They got a room on the second floor of a crumbling hostal in a narrow street off the Puerta del Sol. On the balcony opposite theirs a couple of prostitutes often sat resting. They would call bawdy remarks across the street, laughing. Harry would redden and turn away, but Bernie shouted back at them, saying they’d no money for such luxuries.

The heat continued; during the hottest part of the day they stayed in the hostal, lying on their beds with their shirts open, reading or dozing, savouring every tiny breeze that wafted through the window. Then in the late afternoon they would walk in the city before spending the evenings in the bars.

One evening they went to a bar in La Latina called El Toro where flamenco dancing was advertised. Bernie had seen it in El Socialista, the socialist newspaper, full of optimism and hope, which he got Harry to translate for him. When they got there the bulls’ heads round the walls startled them. The other customers were working men and eyed Harry and Bernie curiously, giving one another amused nudges. The boys ordered a greasy cocido and sat at a bench under a banner advertising a strike meeting, next to a burly brown-faced man with a drooping moustache. The buzz of conversation died as two men in narrow jackets and round black hats walked into the centre of the room, carrying guitars. They were followed by a woman in wide red and black skirts and a low bodice, a black mantilla covering her head. All had narrow faces and skin so dark they reminded Harry of Singh, Rookwood’s Indian boy. The men began to play and the woman sang, with a fierce intensity that kept his attention even though he couldn’t follow the words. They performed three songs, each one greeted with applause, then one of the men came round with a hat. ‘Muy bien,’ Harry said, ‘muchas gracias.’ He put a peseta in the cap.

The big man next to them said something to them in Spanish. ‘What was that?’ Bernie whispered to Harry.

‘He says they’re singing about oppression by the landlords.’

The workman was studying them with amused interest. ‘That is good,’ Bernie said in halting Spanish.

The big man nodded approvingly. He extended a hand to Bernie and Harry. It was hard and callused.

‘Pedro Mera García,’ the man said. ‘Where are you from?’

‘Inglaterra.’ Bernie pulled his party card from his pocket. ‘Partido Laborista Inglés.’ Pedro smiled broadly. ‘Bienvenidos, compadres.’

SO BERNIE’S FRIENDSHIP with the Mera family began. They regarded him as a comrade, and the apolitical Harry as his slightly retarded cousin. There was an evening in early September, shortly before they were due to return to England, that Harry particularly remembered. It was cooler in the evenings now and Bernie sat on the balcony with Pedro, his wife Inés and their elder son Antonio, who was Harry and Bernie’s age and like his father a union activist in the brickworks. Inside the salón Harry had been teaching three-year-old Carmela some English words. Her ten-year-old brother, Francisco, thin and tubercular, sat watching with large, tired eyes as Carmela sat on the arm of Harry’s chair, repeating the strange words with fascinated solemnity.

At last she got bored and went to play with her dolls. Harry went onto the tiny balcony and looked out across the square, where a welcome breeze stirred up the dust. The sound of voices came up from below. A beer seller called his trade in a high sharp voice. Doves circled in the darkening sky, flashes of white against the red-tiled roofs.

‘Help me, Harry,’ Bernie said. ‘I want to ask Pedro if the government will win the vote of confidence tomorrow.’

Harry asked and Pedro nodded. ‘He should. But the President’s looking for any excuse to get Azaña out. He agrees with the Monarchists that even the miserable reforms the government’s trying to put through are an attack on their rights.’

Antonio laughed bitterly. ‘What will they do if we ever really challenge them?’ He shook his head. ‘This proposal for an agrarian reform act has no funds to back it because Azaña won’t raise taxes. People feel let down and angry.’

‘Now that you’ve got the Republic,’ Bernie said, ‘Spain must never go back.’

Pedro nodded. ‘I think the Socialists should leave the government, have an election, win a proper majority. Then we’ll see.’

‘But would the ruling classes let you govern? Won’t they bring out the army?’

Pedro passed Bernie a cigarette. Bernie had started smoking since he came to Spain. ‘Let them try that,’ Pedro said. ‘Let them try and see what we will give them.’

Next day Harry and Bernie went to see the vote of confidence in the Cortes. There were crowds round the parliament building but they had managed to get passes through Pedro. An attendant led them up echoing marble stairs to a gallery above the chamber. The blue benches were packed with deputies in suits and frock coats. The left-liberal leader Azaña was speaking in a strong, impassioned voice, one short arm beating at the air. Depending on their politics the newspapers portrayed him either as a frog-faced monster or as the father of the Republic, but Harry thought how ordinary he looked. He spoke fiercely, passionately. He made a point and turned to the deputies behind him, who clapped and shouted their approval. Azaña ran a hand through his wispy white hair and went on, listing the Republic’s achievements. Harry scanned the faces below, recognizing the socialist politicians whose faces he had seen in newspapers: round fat Prieto; Largo Caballero, surprisingly bourgeois-looking with his square face and white moustache. For once Harry felt caught up in the excitement.

‘Lively lot, aren’t they?’ he whispered to Bernie. But Bernie’s face when he turned was angry, contemptuous.

‘It’s a bloody theatre,’ Bernie said angrily. ‘Look at them. Millions of Spaniards want a decent life and they get this – circus. He surveyed the rustling sea of heads below him. ‘Something stronger than this is needed if we’re to have socialism. Come on, let’s get out of here.’

That night they went to a bar in the Centro. Bernie was in an angry, cynical mood.

‘Democracy,’ he said angrily. ‘It just swallows people up into a corrupt bourgeois system. It’s the same in England.’

‘But it’ll take years to make Spain a modern country,’ Harry said. ‘And what’s the alternative? Revolution and bloodshed, like in Russia?’

‘The workers have to take things into their own hands.’ He looked at Harry, then sighed. ‘Oh come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s go back to the hostal. It’s late.’

They stumbled up the road in silence, both a little drunk. Their room was stuffy and Bernie pulled off his shirt and went onto the balcony. The two whores sat drinking opposite, wearing colourful dressing gowns. They called across.

‘¡Ay, inglés! ¿Por que no juegues con nosotros?’

‘I can’t come and play!’ Bernie called back cheerfully. ‘I’ve no money!’

‘We don’t want money! We keep saying, if only the handsome blond would come and play!’ The women laughed. Bernie laughed too and turned to Harry. Harry felt uneasy, a little shocked.

‘Fancy it?’ Bernie asked. They had joked about going with a Spanish prostitute for weeks but it had been bravado, they had done nothing about it.

‘No. God, Bernie, you could catch something.’

Bernie grinned at him. ‘Scared?’ He ran a hand through his thick blond hair, his big bicep flexing.

Harry blushed. ‘I don’t want to do it with a couple of drunk whores. Besides, it’s you they want, not me.’ Jealousy flickered inside him as it sometimes did. Bernie had something he lacked: an energy, a daring, a lust for life. It wasn’t just his looks.

‘They’d’ve asked you too if you’d been at the balcony.’

‘Don’t go,’ Harry said. ‘You could catch something.’

Bernie’s eyes were alive with excitement. ‘I’m going. Come on. Last chance.’ Bernie chuckled, then smiled at him. ‘You’ve got to learn to live, Harry, boy. Learn to live.’

TWO DAYS LATER they left Madrid. Antonio Mera helped them carry their bags to the station.

They changed trams at the Puerta de Toledo. It was mid-afternoon, siesta time, the sunny streets empty. A lorry rolled slowly by, its canvas cover gaily painted, the words ‘La Barraca’ on its side.

‘Lorca’s new theatre for the people,’ Antonio said. He was a tall dark youth, broad like his father. His lip curled slightly. ‘Off to bring Calderón to the peasants.’

‘That’s a good thing, isn’t it?’ Harry said. ‘I thought education was one thing the Republic had reformed.’

Antonio shrugged. ‘They’ve closed the Jesuit schools, but there aren’t enough new ones. The old story, the bourgeois parties won’t tax the rich to pay for them.’

A little way off there was a crack, like a car backfiring. The sound was repeated twice, closer. A youth no older than Bernie and Harry ran out of a side street. He wore flannels and a dark shirt, expensive clothes for Carabanchel. His face was terrified, wide-eyed, gleaming with sweat. He tore away down the street, disappearing into an alley.

‘Who’s that?’ Harry asked.

Antonio took a deep breath. ‘I wonder. That could be one of Redondo’s fascists.’

Two more young men appeared, in vests and workmen’s trousers. One held something small and dark in his hand. Harry stared open-mouthed as he realized it was a gun.

‘Down there!’ Antonio called, pointing to where the youth had fled. ‘He went down there!’

‘¡Gracias, compadre!’ The boy raised his gun in salute and the two sped away. Harry waited breathlessly for more shots but none came.

‘They were going to kill him,’ he said in a shocked whisper.

Antonio looked guilty for a moment, then frowned. ‘He was from the JONS. We have to stop the Fascists taking root.’

‘Who were the others?’

‘Communists. They’ve sworn to stop them. Good luck to them, I say.’

‘They’re right,’ Bernie agreed. ‘Fascists are vermin, the lowest of the low.’

‘He was just a boy running,’ Harry protested. ‘He didn’t have a gun.’

Antonio laughed bitterly. ‘They’ve got guns all right. But the Spanish workers won’t go down like the Italians.’

The tram arrived, the ordinary everyday jingling tram, and they got aboard. Harry studied Antonio. He looked tired; he had another shift at the brickworks tonight. He thought sadly, Bernie’s got more in common with him than with me.

HARRY LAY ON the bed, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. He remembered how, on the train back, Bernie said he wasn’t going back to Cambridge. He’d had enough of living cut off from the real world and was going back to London, where the class struggle was. Harry thought he would change his mind, but he didn’t; he didn’t return to Cambridge in the autumn. They exchanged letters for a while but Bernie’s letters talking about strikes and anti-fascist demonstrations were as alien in their way as Sandy Forsyth’s about the dogtracks had been, and after a while that correspondence too petered out.

Harry got up. He felt restless now. He needed to get out of the flat, the silence was getting on his nerves. He washed, changed his shirt, then descended the dank staircase.

The square was still quiet. There was a faint smell he remembered, urine from malfunctioning drains. He thought of the picture on his wall, the romantic veneer it gave to poverty and want. He had been young and naive in 1931, but his attachment to the picture had stayed over the years, the young girl smiling at the gipsy. In 1931 he had thought the scene in the picture would soon be in the past; like Bernie, he had hoped Spain would progress. Yet the Republic had collapsed into chaos, then civil war, and now fascism. Harry circled, pausing at a baker’s shop. There was little on display, only a few barras de pan, none of the little sticky cakes the Spaniards loved. Bernie had eaten five one afternoon then had a paella in the evening and been spectacularly sick.

A couple of workmen passed Harry, giving him quick hostile glances. He was conscious of his well-cut jacket, his tie. He noticed a church at the corner of the square; it had been burned out, probably in 1936. The ornate facade still stood but there was no roof; the sky was visible through weed-encrusted windows. A big notice in bright crayon declared that Mass was said at the priest’s house next door, and confessions heard. ¡Arriba España!, the notice concluded.

Harry had his bearings now. If he headed uphill he should reach the Plaza Mayor. On the way was El Toro, the bar where he and Bernie had met Pedro. A Socialist haunt once. He walked on, his footsteps echoing in the narrow street, a welcome evening breeze cooling him. He was glad he had come out.

El Toro was still there, the sign of a bull’s head swinging outside. Harry hesitated a moment then walked in. It had not changed in nine years: bulls’ heads mounted on the walls, old black-and-white posters yellow with nicotine and age advertising ancient bullfights. The Socialists had disapproved of bullfighting but the landlord’s wine was good and he was a supporter so they had indulged him.

There were only a few patrons, old men in berets. They gave Harry unfriendly stares. The young, energetic landlord Harry remembered, darting to and fro behind his crowded bar, was gone. In his place stood a stocky middle-aged man with a heavy square face. He tipped his head interrogatively. ‘¿Señor?’

Harry ordered a glass of red wine, fishing in his pockets for the unfamiliar coins embossed, like everything else, with the Falangist yoke and arrows. The barman set his drink before him.

‘¿Alemán?’ he asked. German?

‘No. Inglés.’

The barman raised his eyebrows and turned away. Harry went and sat at a bench. He picked up a discarded copy of Arriba, the Falange newspaper, the thin paper crinkling. On the front page a Spanish border guard shook hands with a German officer on a Pyrenean road. The article spoke of eternal friendship, how the Führer and the Caudillo would decide the future of the Western Mediterranean together. Harry took a sip of the wine; it was harsh as vinegar.

He studied the picture, the breathless celebration of the New Order. He remembered telling Bernie once that he stood for Rookwood values. He had probably sounded pompous. Bernie had laughed impatiently and said Rookwood was a training ground for the capitalist elite. Maybe it was, Harry thought, but it was a better elite than Hitler’s. Despite everything, that was still true. He remembered the newsreels he had seen of the things that happened in Germany, elderly Jews cleaning the streets with toothbrushes amidst laughing crowds.

He looked up. The barman was talking quietly to a couple of the old men. They kept glancing at him. Harry forced himself to drain his glass and got up. He called ‘Adiós,’ but there was no reply.

There were more people about now: well-dressed, middle-class office workers making their way home. He passed under an archway and stood in the Plaza Mayor, the centre of old Madrid, of festivals and pronunciamientos. The two big fountains were dry but there were still cafes round the broad square, little tables outside where a scattering of office workers sat with coffees or brandies. Even here, though, the shop windows were half empty, paint flaking from the ancient buildings. Beggars huddled in some of the ornate doorways. A pair of civiles circled.

Harry stood irresolutely, wondering whether to have a coffee. The street lights were starting to come on, weak and white. Harry remembered how easy it was to get lost in the narrow streets, or trip in a pothole. A couple of the beggars had risen and were walking towards him. He turned away.

As he left the square he noticed that a woman walking ahead of him had stopped dead, her back to him: a woman in an expensive-looking white dress, red hair covered with a little hat. He stopped too, astonished. Surely it was Barbara. That was her hair, her walk. The woman began walking again, turning rapidly down a side street, moving quickly, her figure fading to a white blur in the dusk.

Harry ran after her, then stood irresolute at the corner, unsure whether to follow. It couldn’t be Barbara, she couldn’t still be here. And Barbara would never have worn clothes like that.

Chapter Five

THAT MORNING BARBARA had woken as usual when the church clock across the road struck seven. She rose from sleep to the heat of Sandy’s body beside her, her face resting on his shoulder. She stirred and he made a gentle grunting noise, like a child. Then she remembered and guilt stabbed through her. Today she was meeting Markby’s contact; the culmination of all the lies she had told him.

He turned and smiled, eyes heavy with sleep. ‘Morning, sweetie-pie.’

‘Hello, Sandy.’ She brushed a hand gently across his cheek, spiny with stubble.

He sighed. ‘Better get up. I’ve got a meeting at nine.’

‘Have a proper breakfast, Sandy. Get Pilar to make you something.’

He rubbed his eyes. ‘It’s OK, I’ll get a coffee on the way.’ He leaned over, smiling mischievously. ‘I’ll leave you to your English breakfast. You can eat all the cornflakes.’ He kissed her, his moustache tickling her upper lip, then got up and opened the wardrobe next to his bed. As he stood selecting clothes, Barbara watched the play of muscles in his broad chest and flat, ridged stomach. Sandy did no exercise and ate carelessly; it was a mystery how he kept his figure, but he did. He saw her studying him and smiled, that Clark Gable curl of the mouth to one side.

‘Want me to come back to bed?’

‘You’ve got to get off. What is it this morning, the Jews’ committee?’

‘Yes. There’s five new families arrived. With nothing but what they could carry from France.’

‘Be careful, Sandy. Don’t upset the régime.’

‘Franco doesn’t mean the anti-Jewish propaganda. He has to keep in with Hitler.’

‘I wish you’d let me help. I’ve so much experience dealing with refugees.’

‘It’s diplomatic stuff. Not a job for a woman; you know what the Spaniards are like about that.’

She looked at him seriously; felt guilt again. ‘It’s good work, Sandy. What you’re doing.’

He smiled. ‘Making up for all my sins. I’ll be back late, I’ve a meeting at the Ministry of Mines all afternoon.’ He moved away to his dressing table. At that distance, without her glasses, Sandy’s face began to blur. He laid the suit he had chosen over the back of a chair and padded off to the bathroom. She reached for a cigarette and lay smoking, as he splashed about. Sandy returned, shaved and dressed. He came back to the bed and bent to kiss her, his cheeks smooth now.

‘All right for some,’ he said.

‘It’s you that taught me to be lazy, Sandy.’ Barbara gave a sad half-smile.

‘What are you doing today?’

‘Nothing much. Thought I might go to the Prado later.’ She wondered whether Sandy might notice the slight tremor that came to her voice with the lie, but he only brushed her cheek with his hand before going to the door, his form turning to a blur again.

SHE HAD MET Markby at a dinner they had given three weeks before. Most of the guests were government officials and their wives; when the women left the tables there would be deal-making among the men, perhaps a Falangist song. But there was a journalist as well, Terry Markby, a Daily Express reporter Sandy had met in one of the bars the Falange people frequented. He was a mousy, middle-aged man, his dinner jacket too large for him. He looked ill at ease and Barbara felt sorry for him. She asked what he was working on and he leaned close to her, lowering his voice. He had a heavy Bristol accent.

‘Trying to find out about these concentration camps for Republican prisoners. Beaverbrook wouldn’t have taken stories like that during the Civil War, but it’s different now.’

‘I’ve heard rumours,’ she replied guardedly. ‘But if anything like that was going on I’m sure the Red Cross would have sniffed it out. I used to work for them, you see. In the Civil War.’

‘Did you?’ Markby looked at her with surprise. Barbara knew she had been even more gauche and clumsy than usual that evening, had heard the mistakes in her Spanish. When she went to the kitchen to check on Pilar her glasses had misted up and on coming out she had unthinkingly wiped them on her hem, catching a cross look from Sandy.

‘Yes, I did,’ she replied a little sharply. ‘And if a lot of people were missing they’d know.’

‘Which side of the lines were you on?’

‘Both, at different times.’

‘It was a bloody business.’

‘It was a civil war, Spaniard against Spaniard. You have to understand that to understand the things that happened here.’

The journalist spoke quietly. On his other side Inés Vilar Cuesta was leading a loud demand from the ladies for nylon stockings.

‘A lot of people have been arrested since Franco won. Their families assumed they’d been shot, but a lot were taken to the camps. And there were a lot of prisoners taken in the war, people posted missing believed killed. Franco’s using them as forced labour.’

Barbara frowned. She had tried for so long to tell herself that now Franco had won he should be supported in the task of rebuilding Spain. But she found it increasingly hard to shut her eyes to the things that went on; she knew that what the journalist said could have some truth in it.

‘Have you evidence?’ she asked. ‘Who told you?’

He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t say. Can’t reveal my sources.’ He cast a weary eye round the company. ‘Especially not here.’

She hesitated, then lowered her voice to a whisper.

‘I knew someone who was listed missing believed killed. Nineteen thirty-seven, at the Jarama. A British International Brigader.’

‘Republican side?’ Markby raised thin pale eyebrows.

‘I never shared his politics. I’m not political. But he’s dead,’ she added flatly. ‘They just never found his body. The Jarama was terrible, thousands dead. Thousands.’ Even now, after three years, she felt a sinking in her stomach at the thought of it.

Markby put his head on one side, considering. ‘Most foreign prisoners were sent home, I know. But I hear some slipped through the net. If you could give me his name and rank I might be able to find something out. The prisoners of war are kept in a separate camp, out near Cuenca.’

Barbara looked over her guests. The women had rounded on a senior official in the Supply Ministry, insisting he get them nylons. Tonight she was seeing the New Spain at its worst, greedy and corrupt. Sandy, at the head of the table, was smiling at them all, indulgently and sarcastically. That was the confidence public school gave you. It struck her that though he was only thirty-one, in his wing-collared shirt, with his oiled swept-back hair and his moustache, Sandy could have been ten years older. It was a look he cultivated. She turned back to Markby, taking a deep breath.

‘There’s no point. Bernie’s dead.’

‘Yes, if he was at the Jarama it’s very unlikely he’d have survived. Still, you never know. Do no harm to try.’ He smiled at her. He was right, Barbara thought, even the faintest chance.

‘His name was Bernard Piper,’ she said quickly. ‘He was a private. But don’t—’

‘What?’

‘Raise false hopes.’

He studied her, a journalist’s searching look. ‘I wouldn’t want to do that, Mrs Forsyth. It’s only the slimmest chance. But worth a look.’

She nodded. Markby surveyed the company, the dinner jackets and couturier dresses interspersed with military uniforms, then turned that keen evaluating gaze back to Barbara. ‘You’re moving in different circles now.’

‘I was sent to work in the Nationalist zone after Bernie – after he disappeared. I met Sandy there.’

Markby nodded at the company. ‘Your husband’s friends might not like you sniffing after a prisoner of war.’

She hesitated. ‘No.’

Markby smiled reassuringly. ‘Leave it with me. I’ll see if I can find anything out. Entre nous.’

She held his eyes. ‘I doubt you’ll get a story out of this.’

He shrugged. ‘Any chance to help a fellow Englishman.’ He smiled, a sweet, strangely innocent smile, although of course he wasn’t innocent at all. If he did find Bernie, Barbara thought, and the story came out, it would be the end of everything here for her. She was shocked to realize that if only Bernie was alive, she wouldn’t care about the rest.

SHE GOT UP and put on the silk dressing gown Sandy had got her last Christmas. She opened the window; it was another hot day, the garden bright with flowers. Strange to think that in six weeks winter would be here with its mist and frosts.

She stumbled against a chair, swore and took her glasses from the dressing-table drawer. She looked in the mirror. Sandy urged her to do without them whenever she could, memorize the layout of the house properly so she didn’t bump into things. ‘Wouldn’t it be fun, darling,’ he had said. ‘Walking around confidently greeting people and no one knowing you’re a bit short-sighted.’ He had developed a thing about those glasses, he hated her wearing them, but although she had always hated them too she still wore them when she was on her own. She needed them. ‘Bloody idiotic nonsense,’ she muttered as she took out her curlers and ran the comb through her thick auburn hair. It flowed in waves. That stylist was good, her hair never looked unkempt now. She applied her make-up carefully, eyeshadow that highlighted her clear green eyes, powder to emphasize her cheekbones. Sandy had taught her all this. ‘You can decide how you look, you know,’ he had said. ‘Make people see you as you want to be seen. If you want to.’ She had been reluctant to believe him but he had persisted and he was right: for the first time in her life she had begun, very nervously, to question her belief that she was an ugly woman. Even with Bernie she had found it hard to think what he could see in her, despite his endless loving reassurance. Tears came to her eyes. She blinked them quickly away. She needed to be strong today, clear-headed.

She wasn’t meeting Markby’s contact till late afternoon. She would go to the Prado first; she couldn’t bear being cooped up all day in the house, waiting. She put on her best outdoor dress, the white one with the rose pattern. There was a knock at the door and Pilar appeared. The girl had a round surly face and curly black hair struggling to escape from beneath her maid’s cap. Barbara addressed her in Spanish.

‘Pilar, please prepare breakfast. A good one today, toast and orange juice and eggs, please.’

‘There is no juice, señora, there was none in the shops yesterday.’

‘Never mind. Ask the daily to go out later and try to find some, would you?’

The girl left. Barbara wished she would smile occasionally. But perhaps she had lost people in the Civil War; nearly everyone had. Barbara thought she caught a faint note of contempt sometimes when Pilar called her ‘señora’, as though she knew she and Sandy weren’t really married. She told herself it was imagination. She had no experience of servants and when she first came to the house had been uneasy around Pilar, nervous and eager to please. Sandy had told her she must be clear and precise in her orders, keep a distance. ‘It’s what they prefer, lovey.’ She remembered Maria Herreira telling her never to trust servants, they were all peasants and half of them had been Reds. Yet Maria was a kind woman who did voluntary work with old people for the church. She lit another cigarette and made her way downstairs to breakfast, to the cornflakes that Sandy was able to get in rationed, half-starved Madrid as though by magic.

WHEN THE Spanish Civil War broke out in 1936, Barbara had been working at the Red Cross headquarters in Geneva for three years. She worked in the Displaced Persons section, tracing missing members of families in Eastern Europe torn apart by the Great War and still missing. She matched names and records, wrote letters to Interior Ministries from Riga to Budapest. She managed to put enough people in touch with their families to make it worthwhile. Even where their relatives were all dead, at least the families knew for certain.

She had been excited by the job at first, it was a change from nursing in Birmingham. She had got it partly because of her years of work for the British Red Cross. After four years, though, she was bored. She was twenty-six; soon she would be thirty and she began to fear she was fossilizing among the order of her files, the stolid dullness of the Swiss. She went for an interview with a Swiss official in a neat office overlooking the still blue lake.

‘It’s bad in Spain,’ he told her. ‘There’re thousands who’ve found themselves on one side of the lines and their relatives on the other. We’re sending medical supplies and trying to arrange exchanges. But it’s a savage war. The Russians and Germans are getting involved.’ He looked at her over his half-moon glasses with tired eyes. All the hopes of 1919, that the Great War had truly been the war to end war, were disintegrating. First Mussolini in Abyssinia, now this.

‘I’d like to get out in the field, sir,’ Barbara said firmly.

SHE ARRIVED in an unbearably hot Madrid in September 1936. Franco was advancing from the south; the Moroccan colonial army, airlifted across the Straits of Gibraltar by Hitler, was now only seventy miles away. The city was full of refugees, ragged lost-looking families from the pueblos dragging enormous bundles through the streets or crowded together on donkey carts. Now she saw the chaos of war at first hand. She never forgot the old man with shocked eyes who passed her that first day, carrying all he had left: a dirty mattress slung over his shoulder and a canary in a wooden cage. He symbolized all the refugees, the displaced persons, all those caught in the middle of war.

Red militiamen hurtled by in lorries and buses on their way to the front line – ordinary Madrileños, their only uniform the dark blue boiler suits all workers wore and red neckerchiefs. They would wave their ancient-looking weapons as they passed, calling out the Republic’s shout of defiance. ‘¡No pasarán!’ Barbara, who believed in peace more than anything, wanted to weep for them all. She wanted to weep for herself too at first, because she was frightened: by the chaos, by the stories of nightmare atrocities on both sides, by the Fascist aeroplanes that had begun to appear in the skies, making people pause, look up, sometimes run for the safety of the metro. Once she saw a stick of bombs fall, a pall of smoke rising from the west of the city. The bombing of cities was what Europe had feared for years; now it was happening.

The Red Cross mission was based in a little office in the city centre, an oasis of sanity where half a dozen men and women, mostly Swiss, laboured to distribute medical supplies and arrange exchanges of refugee children. Although she spoke no Spanish, Barbara’s French was good and it was a relief to be able to make herself understood.

‘We need help with the refugee exchanges,’ Director Doumergue told her on her second day. ‘There are hundreds of children separated from their families. There’s a whole group from Burgos who were at a summer camp in the Guadarramas – we want to exchange them for some Madrid children caught in Sevilla.’ The director was another calm, serious Swiss, a young man with a plump, tired face. Barbara knew she’d been flapping, panicking, and that wasn’t like her. Babs we all depend on, they used to call her in Birmingham. She’d have to pull herself together. She brushed a stray tangle of red hair from her brow. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘What do you need me to do?

That afternoon she went to visit the children in the convent where they had been lodged, to take their details. Monique, the office interpreter, came with her. She was a small, pretty woman, wearing a neat dress and freshly ironed blouse. They walked through the Puerta del Sol, past huge posters of President Azaña, Lenin and Stalin. Monique nodded at Stalin’s poster. ‘That’s the way things are going now,’ she said. ‘Only Russia will aid the Republic. God help them.’

The square was full of loudspeakers, a woman’s voice rising and falling, punctuated by tinny squeaks from the speaker. Barbara asked what they were saying.

‘That’s Dolores Ibárruri. La Pasionaria. She’s telling housewives that if the Fascists come they must boil their olive oil and pour it from the balconies onto their heads.’

Barbara shuddered. ‘If only both sides could see everything will be destroyed.’

‘Too late for that,’ Monique answered heavily.

They entered the convent through a stout wooden gate in a high wall designed to shield the sisters from the outside world. It had been thrown open and across the little yard a militiaman kept guard by the door, a rifle slung over his shoulder. The building had been burned out; there was no glass at the windows and black trails of soot rose up the walls. There was a sickly smell of smoke.

Barbara stood in the yard. ‘What’s happened? I thought the children were with the nuns …’

‘The nuns have all fled. And the priests. Those that got away. Most of the convents and churches were burned by the mob in July.’ Monique gave her a searching look. ‘Are you a Catholic?’

‘No, no, I’m nothing really. It’s just a bit of a shock.’

‘It’s not so bad at the back. The nuns ran a hospital, there are beds.’

The entrance hall had been burned and vandalized, sheets of paper torn from breviaries lay about among the broken statues.

‘What must it have been like for those nuns?’ Barbara asked. ‘Shut away in here, then a mob runs in and burns the place down.’

Monique shrugged. ‘The Church supports the Nationalists. And they’ve lived off the backs of the people for centuries. Once it was the same in France.’

Monique led the way down a narrow echoing corridor and opened a door. On the other side was a hospital ward with about twenty beds. The walls were bare, lighter patches in the shape of crosses showing where religious symbols had been removed. About thirty ten-year-olds sat on the beds, dirty and frightened-looking. A tall Frenchwoman in a nurse’s uniform hurried over to them.

‘Ah, Monique, you have come. Is there any news of getting the children home?’

‘Not yet, Anna. We’ll take their details, then go to the ministry. Has the doctor been?’

‘Yes.’ The nurse sighed. ‘They are all well enough. Just frightened. They come from religious homes – they were scared when they saw the convent had been burned.’

Barbara looked over the sad little faces, most of them smeared with the tracks of tears. ‘If any are ill, I’m a nurse—’

‘No,’ said Monique. ‘Anna is here. Getting them transferred back, that’s the best thing we can do for them.’

They spent the next hour taking details; some of the children were terrified, the nurse had to persuade them to talk. At last they were done. Barbara coughed from the smell of smoke.

‘Could they not be taken somewhere else?’ she asked Monique. ‘This smoke, it’s bad for them.’

Monique shook her head. ‘There are thousands of refugees in this city, more every day. We’re lucky some official took time to find anywhere for these children.’

It was a relief to be back outside, even in the boiling sunlight. Monique waved at the militiaman. ‘Salud,’ he called. Monique offered Barbara a cigarette and looked at her keenly.

‘This is what it’s like everywhere,’ she said.

‘I can take it. I was a nurse before I went to Geneva.’ Barbara blew out a cloud of smoke. ‘It’s just – those children, will they ever be the same again, if they get home?’

‘Nobody in Spain will ever be the same again,’ Monique answered, in sudden angry despair.

BY NOVEMBER 1936 Franco had reached the outskirts of Madrid. But his forces were held in the Casa de Campo, the old royal park just west of the city. There were Russian aircraft in the skies now, protecting the city, and fewer bombs fell. Hoardings had been erected to cover the bombed houses, displaying more portraits of Lenin and Stalin. Banners spanned the streets. ‘¡NO PASARAN!’ The determination to resist was even greater than in the summer and Barbara admired it even as she wondered how it could survive the cold of winter. With only one road to the city still open, supplies were already becoming short. She half hoped Franco would take Madrid so the war could end, though there were terrible stories of Nationalist atrocities. There had been plenty on the Republican side too, but Franco’s sounded even worse, coldly systematic.

After two months she had adjusted, so far as anyone could. She had had successes, had helped get dozens of refugees exchanged; now the Red Cross was trying to negotiate prisoner exchanges between the Republican and Nationalist zones. She was proud of how quickly she was picking up Spanish. But the children were still in the convent – their case had fallen into some bureaucratic abyss. Sister Anna had not been paid for weeks, though she stayed on. At least the children would not run away; they were terrified of the Red hordes beyond the convent walls.

One day Barbara and Monique had spent an afternoon at the Interior Ministry, trying again to get the children exchanged. Each time they saw a different official, and today’s man was even less helpful than the others. He wore the black leather jacket that marked him out as a Communist. It looked odd on him; he was plump and middle-aged and looked like a bank clerk. He smoked cigarettes constantly without offering them any.

‘There is no heating at the convent, Comrade,’ Barbara said. ‘With the cold weather coming the children will become ill.’

The man grunted. He reached forward and took a tattered file from a pile on his desk. He read it, puffing at his cigarette, then looked at the women.

‘These are children of rich Catholic families. If they go back they will be asked about military dispositions here.’

‘They’ve hardly been out of the building. They’re afraid to.’ Barbara was surprised how easily her Spanish came now when she was roused. The official smiled grimly.

‘Yes, because they are frightened of us Reds. I am not happy with sending them back. Security is everything.’ He put the file back on the pile. ‘Everything.’

As they left the ministry, Monique shook her head in despair. ‘Security. Always the excuse for the worst things.’

‘We’ll have to try another tack. Perhaps if Geneva could get on to the minister?’

‘I doubt it.’

Barbara sighed. ‘We have to try. I’ll have to organize some more supplies for them. Oh God, I’m tired. Do you want to come for a drink?’

‘No, I have some washing to do. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

Barbara watched Monique walk away. A tide of loneliness washed over her. She was conscious of how separate she was from the closeness, the solidarity of the city’s inhabitants. She decided to go to a bar off the Puerta del Sol where English people sometimes gathered, Red Cross staff and journalists and diplomats.

The bar was almost empty, no one there that she knew. She ordered a glass of wine and went to sit at a corner table. She didn’t like sitting in bars on her own but perhaps someone she knew would come in.

After a while she heard a man’s voice speaking English, with the long lazy vowels of a public-school education. She looked up; she could see his face in the mirror behind the bar. She thought he was the most attractive man she had ever seen.

She watched him covertly. The stranger was standing alone at the bar, talking to the barman in halting Spanish. He wore a cheap shirt and a boiler suit; one arm was in a white sling. He was in his twenties and had broad shoulders and dark blond hair. His face was long and oval, with large eyes and a full, strong mouth. He seemed ill at ease standing there alone. His eyes met Barbara’s in the mirror and she looked away, then jumped as the white-aproned waiter appeared at her elbow, asking if she wanted another vino. He was carrying the bottle and her elbow jogged his, making him drop it. It landed on the table with a crash, wine pumping out over the waiter’s trousers.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry. That was me, I’m sorry.’

The man looked annoyed; it might be the only pair of trousers he had. He began dabbing at them.

‘I’m so sorry. Listen, I’ll pay for them to be cleaned, I—’ Barbara stumbled over her words, forgetting her Spanish. Then she heard that drawling voice at her elbow.

‘Excuse me, are you English? May I help?’

‘Oh no – no, it’s all right.’

The waiter recovered himself. She offered to pay for the spilt bottle as well as his trousers and he went off, mollified, to fetch another glass. Barbara smiled nervously at the Englishman.

‘How stupid of me. I’ve always been so clumsy.’

‘These things happen.’ He held out a hand. He had brown slender fingers, the wrist covered in a fair down that caught the light and shone like gold. She saw his other arm was encased in plaster from above the elbow to the wrist. His large eyes were dark olive, like a Spaniard’s. ‘Bernie Piper,’ he said, studying her curiously. ‘You’re a long way from home.’

‘Barbara Clare. Yes, afraid so. I’m here with the Red Cross.’

‘Mind if I join you? Only I haven’t spoken English to anyone for weeks.’

‘Well, I – no, please do.’

And so it began.

SOMEONE FROM the Madrid office of the Daily Express had telephoned Barbara three days previously and told her there was a man who might be able to help her. His name was Luis and he could meet her in a bar in the old town on Monday afternoon. She had asked to speak to Markby but he was away. As Barbara put the phone down she wondered if it was tapped; Sandy said it wasn’t but she had heard they tapped all the foreigners’ telephones.

After breakfast she went back to her room. Her mirrored bureau was an eighteenth-century antique she and Sandy had picked up in the Rastro market in the spring. It had probably been looted from some wealthy house in Madrid at the start of the Civil War. You saw families there on Sundays, hunting for their stolen heirlooms. They went cheap, it was food and petrol that were valuable now.

The bureau had come with a key and Barbara used it to store personal, precious things. Bernie’s photograph was in there. It had been taken just before he went to the front, in a photographer’s studio with chaises longues and potted palms. He stood in his uniform, arms folded, smiling at the camera.

He had been so beautiful. It was a word people used about women but Bernie had been the beautiful one. She hadn’t looked at the photograph for a long time; seeing it still hurt her, she mourned Bernie as deeply as ever. Guiltily, because Sandy had rescued her and set her on her feet, but what she had with Bernie had been different. She sighed. She mustn’t hope too much, she mustn’t.

It still amazed her that Bernie had been interested in her, she must have looked a fright in that bar, her hair all frizzy and wearing that tatty old jumper. She took off her glasses. She told herself that without them, yes, she could be called quite attractive. She put the glasses on again. As so often, even amid her preoccupation with Bernie, just thinking she was attractive triggered a memory, one of the bad ones. Usually she tried to push them away but she let this one come, even though it left her feeling she was standing on the edge of a precipice. Millie Howard and her gang of eleven-year-olds, forming a circle round her in the quadrangle of the grammar school, chanting. ‘Speccy frizzy-hair, speccy frizzy-hair.’ If she hadn’t had the glasses to mark her out as different, if she hadn’t responded with blushing and tears, would it ever have happened, the tormenting that had gone on for so long? She closed her eyes. Now she saw her older sister, radiant Carol who had inherited their mother’s blonde hair and heart-shaped face, walking through the lounge of the little house in Erdington, off to meet another boy. She swirled past, leaving a rich smell of perfume. ‘Doesn’t she look lovely?’ her mother had asked her father, while Barbara’s heart burned with jealousy and sadness. A little while before she had broken down and told her mother how the girls taunted her at school. ‘Looks aren’t everything, darling,’ her mother had said. ‘You’re much cleverer than Carol.’

She lit a cigarette with a shaking hand. Mum and Dad, Carol and her good-looking accountant husband were under the air-raids now. The Blitz had moved beyond London; in the week-old, censored edition of the Daily Mail she bought at the station, she had read of the first raids on Birmingham. And here she was, sitting in a fine house, still picking at those old wounds while her family were running for the air-raid shelters. It was so petty, she felt ashamed. Sometimes she wondered if there was something wrong with her mind, whether she was a little crazy. She got up and put on her jacket and hat. She would kill some time in the Prado. Then she would see what this man knew. The thought gave her a welcome sense of purpose.

The Prado art gallery was full of blank walls; most of the pictures had been taken down for safe keeping during the Civil War and so far only a few had been returned. It was cold and damp. She had a bad lunch in the little café, then sat smoking till it was time to leave.

Sandy had noticed something was up with her; yesterday he had asked her if she was all right. She replied she was bored; it was true, now they were established in the house there were long hours when she had nothing to do. He had asked if she would like to do some voluntary work, he might be able to fix something up. She had agreed, to put him off the scent. He had nodded, apparently satisfied, and gone off to his study to do some more work.

Sandy had been working on what he called his ‘Min of Mines project’ for six months now. He was often out late, and often worked at home, worked harder than Barbara had ever seen. Sometimes his eyes gleamed with excitement and he smiled as though he had some wonderful secret. Barbara didn’t like that little secret smile. At other times he seemed preoccupied, worried. He said the project was confidential, he wasn’t allowed to talk about it. Sometimes he made mysterious trips out to the countryside. There was a geologist involved, a man called Otero who had visited the house a couple of times. Barbara didn’t like him either; he gave her the creeps. She worried that they might be involved in something illegal; half of Spain seemed to be working the estraperlo, the black market. Sandy was scarcely more open about the committee to aid Jewish refugees from France he worked for. Barbara wondered if Sandy felt his voluntary work detracted from the picture he liked to paint of himself as a hard, successful businessman, though it was that better side of him, the side that liked to help those in trouble, that had drawn her to him.

At four she left the Prado and headed into the centre. Shops were opening again after the siesta as she walked through the narrow streets, hot and dusty and smelling of dung. Her sensible shoes rang on the cobbles. Turning a corner, she saw an old man in a tattered shirt trying to manoeuvre a cart filled with cans of olive oil up onto the pavement. He held the cart by its shafts, trying to haul it on to the high kerb. Behind him was a newly painted building, a big banner with the yoke and arrows over the door. As Barbara watched, a pair of blue-shirted young men appeared in the doorway. They bowed, apologizing for blocking her way, and asked the old man if they could help. He relinquished the shafts gratefully and they pulled the cart up onto the pavement for him. ‘My donkey is dead,’ he told them. ‘I have no money for another.’

‘Soon everyone in Spain will have a horse. Just give us time, señor.’

‘I had him twenty years. I ate him when he died. Poor Hector, his meat was stringy. Thank you, compadres.’

‘De nada.’ The Falangists clapped the old man on the back and went back inside. Barbara stepped off the pavement to let him pass. She wondered if things really would get better now. She didn’t know; after four years in Spain she still felt like an alien, there was so much she didn’t understand.

She knew there were idealists in the Falange, people who genuinely wanted to improve Spaniards’ lives, but she knew there were many more who had joined to take advantage of the chance of a corrupt profit. She looked again at the yoke and arrows. Like the blue shirts they reminded her the Falange were fascists, blood-brothers to the Nazis. She saw one of the Falangists looking at her from the window and hurried on.

THE BAR WAS a dark, run-down place. The mandatory portrait of Franco, spotted with grease, hung behind the bar, where a couple of young men lounged. A big grey-haired woman in black was washing glasses at the sink. One of the men carried a crutch; he had lost half a leg, the trouser end crudely sewn up. They all looked at Barbara curiously. Usually only whores came into bars alone, not foreign women wearing expensive dresses and little round hats.

A young man sitting at a table at the back raised his hand. As she walked across he rose and bowed, taking her hand in a strong, dry grip.

‘Señora Forsyth?’

‘Yes.’ She replied in Spanish, trying to keep her voice confident. ‘Are you Luis?’

‘Yes. Please sit. Allow me to get you a coffee.’

She studied him as he went to the bar. He was tall and thin, in his early thirties with black hair and a long sad face. He wore threadbare trousers and an old, stained jacket. His cheeks were stubbly, like those of the other men in the cafe; there was a shortage of razor blades in the city. He walked like a soldier. He came back with two coffees and a plate of tapas. She took a sip and grimaced. He smiled wryly.

‘It is not very good, I am afraid.’

‘It’s all right.’ She looked at the tapas, little brown meatballs with tiny delicate bones sticking out. ‘What are they?’

‘They call it pigeon but I think it is something else. I am not sure what. I would not recommend it.’

She watched as Luis ate, picking the minute bones from his mouth. She had decided not to say anything; leave him to begin. He shifted nervously in his seat, studied her face with large dark eyes.

‘I understand from Mr Markby that you are trying to trace a man who went missing at the Jarama. An Englishman.’ He spoke very quietly.

‘Yes I am, that’s right.’

He nodded. ‘A Communist.’ His eyes still scanned her face. Barbara wondered with a flicker of fear if he was police, if Markby had betrayed her or been betrayed himself. She forced herself to stay calm.

‘My interest is personal, not political. He was – he was my – my boyfriend, before I met my husband. I believed he was dead.’

Luis shifted in his seat again. He coughed. ‘You live in National Spain, I am told you are married to a man with friends in the government. Yet you are looking for a Communist from the war. Forgive me, but this seems strange.’

‘I worked for the Red Cross, we were a neutral organization.’

He gave a quick bitter smile. ‘You were fortunate. No Spaniard has been able to be neutral for a long time.’ He studied her. ‘So, you are not an opponent of the New Spain.’

‘No. General Franco won and that’s that. Britain isn’t at war with Spain.’ Not yet, anyway, she thought.

‘Forgive me.’ Luis spread his hands, suddenly apologetic. ‘Only I have to protect my own position, I have to be careful. Your husband knows nothing of your – search?’

‘No.’

‘Please keep it so, señora. If your enquiries became known, they could bring trouble.’

‘I know.’ Her heart was starting to thump with excitement. If he had no information he wouldn’t be this wary, this careful. But what did he know? Where had Markby found him?

Luis eyed her intently again. ‘Say you were to find this man, Señora Forsyth. What would you wish to do?’

‘I’d want to see him repatriated. As he was a prisoner of war he should be returned home. That’s what the Geneva Conventions say.’

He shrugged. ‘That is not how the Generalísimo sees things. He would not like the suggestion that a man who came to our country to make war on Spaniards should simply be sent home. And if it were to be publicly suggested there were still foreign prisoners of war in Spain, such prisoners might disappear. You understand?’

She looked at him, meeting his eyes. Deep-set, unreadable. ‘What do you know?’ she asked.

He leaned forward. A harsh meaty smell came from his mouth. Barbara forced herself not to recoil.

‘My family is from Sevilla,’ he said. ‘When Franco’s rebels took the city my brother and I were conscripted and spent three years fighting the Reds. After the victory, part of the army was disbanded, but some of us had to stay on and Agustín and I were assigned to guard duties at a camp near Cuenca. You know where that is?’

‘Markby mentioned it. Out towards Aragón, isn’t it?’

Luis nodded. ‘That’s right. Where the famous “hanging houses” are.’

‘The what?’

‘There are ancient houses built right on the edge of the gorge that runs beside the city, so that they seem to hang over it. Some find them beautiful.’ He sighed. ‘Cuenca is high on the meseta – you boil in summer and freeze in winter. This is the only time of year it is bearable, frost and snow will come soon. I had two winters up there and, believe me, that was enough.’

‘What is it like? The camp?’

He shifted uneasily again, lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘A labour camp. One of the camps that does not officially exist. This one was for Republican prisoners of war. About eight kilometres from Cuenca, up in the Tierra Muerta. The dead land.’

‘The what?’

‘An area of bare hills below the Valdemeca mountains. That is what it is called.’

‘How many prisoners?’

He shrugged. ‘Five hundred or so.’

‘Foreigners?’

‘A few. Poles, Germans, people whose countries do not want them back.’

She met his gaze firmly. ‘How did Señor Markby find you? When did you tell him this?’

Luis hesitated, scratched his stubbly cheeks. ‘I am sorry, señora, I cannot tell you. Only that we unemployed veterans have our meeting places, and some people have contacts the government would not like them to have.’

‘With foreign journalists? Selling stories?’

‘I can say no more.’ He looked genuinely sorry, very young again.

She nodded, took a deep breath, felt a catch in her throat. ‘What were conditions like in the camp?’

He shook his head. ‘Not good. Wooden huts surrounded by barbed wire. You have to understand; these people will never be freed. They work the stone quarries and repair the roads. There is not much food. A lot die. The government wants them to die.’

She made herself stay calm. She must treat this as though Luis was a foreign official talking about a refugee camp she needed information on. She produced a pack of cigarettes and offered it to him.

‘English cigarettes?’ Luis lit one and savoured the smoke, closing his eyes. When he looked at her again his face expression was hard, serious.

‘Was your brigadista strong, Señora Forsyth?’

‘Yes, he was. A strong man.’

‘Only the strong ones survive.’

She felt tears coming, blinked them away. This was the sort of thing he would say if he was deceiving her, trying to appeal to her emotions. Yet his story seemed to have the ring of truth. She fumbled in her handbag and slid Bernie’s photograph across the table. Luis studied it a moment, then shook his head.

‘I do not remember that face, but he would not look like that now. We were not supposed to talk with the prisoners, apart from giving them orders. They thought their ideas might contaminate us.’ He gave her a long stare. ‘But we used to admire them, we soldiers, the way they kept going somehow.’

There was silence for a moment. The smoke from their cigarettes curled up, wreathing round an ancient fan that hung from the ceiling, broken and unmoving.

‘You don’t remember the name Bernie Piper?’

He shook his head, looked again at the photograph. ‘I remember a fair-haired foreigner who was one of the Communists. Most of the English prisoners were returned – your government tried to get them back. But a few who were listed as missing ended up in Cuenca.’ He pushed the picture back across the table. ‘I was given my discharge this spring, but my brother stayed on.’ He looked at her meaningfully. ‘He can get information if I ask. I would need to visit him, letters are censored.’ He paused.

She asked him straight out. ‘How much will it take?’

Luis smiled sadly. ‘You are direct, señora. I think for three hundred pesetas Agustín could say whether this man was a prisoner at the camp or not.’

Three hundred. Barbara swallowed, but allowed nothing to show on her face. ‘How long would it take? I need to know soon. If Spain comes into the war, I’ll have to leave.’

He nodded, suddenly business-like. ‘Give me a week. I will visit Agustín next weekend. But I will need some money now, an advance.’ She raised her eyebrows and Luis reddened suddenly, looking embarrassed. ‘I have no money for the train.’

‘Oh. I see.’

‘I will need fifty pesetas. No, don’t take your purse out here, give it to me outside.’

Barbara glanced across to the bar. The crippled man and his friend were deep in conversation, the landlady serving a new customer, but she sensed that all of them were aware of her presence. She took a deep breath.

‘If Bernie is there, what then? You couldn’t get him out.’

Luis shrugged. ‘That might be possible. But very difficult.’ He paused. ‘Very expensive.’

So here it was. Barbara stared back at him, realizing he might know nothing, might have told Markby what he wanted to hear and be telling the same to this rich Englishwoman.

‘How much?’ she asked.

He shook his head. ‘One step at a time, señora. Let us try and see if it is him first.’

She nodded. ‘It is about money for you, yes? We should know where we are.’

Luis frowned a little. ‘You are not poor,’ he observed.

‘I can get money. Some.’

‘I am poor. Like everyone in Spain now. Do you know how old I was when I was conscripted? Eighteen. I lost my best years.’ He spoke with bitterness, then sighed and looked down at the table for a moment before meeting her gaze again. ‘I have had no work since I left the army in the spring, a bit of labour on the roads that pays nothing. My mother in Sevilla is ill and I can do nothing to help her. If I am to help you, señora, find information it is dangerous to find, then – ’ He set his lips hard, looked at her defiantly.

‘All right,’ she said quickly, her tone conciliatory. ‘If you can find what Agustín knows, I’ll give you what you ask. I’ll get it somehow.’ She could probably get three hundred easily, but it was better not to let him know that.

Luis nodded. His eyes roved round the bar, through the window to the darkening street. He leaned forward again. ‘I will go to Cuenca this weekend. I will meet you here in a week’s time, at five.’ He got up, bowing slightly to her. Barbara saw his jacket had a big hole at the elbow.

Outside he shook her hand again and she passed him fifty pesetas. Walking away, she fingered Bernie’s photo. But she mustn’t hope for too much, she must be careful. Her mind went round and round. For Bernie to have survived while thousands died and for Markby to have found a clue to him would be a big coincidence. Yet if Markby had ferreted out that all the foreigners went to Cuenca, and then looked for a guard from there … all that would need was money and contacts among the thousands of discharged soldiers in Madrid. She must contact Markby again, question him. And if Luis said Bernie was alive, she could go and make a stink at the embassy. Or could she? They said the embassy was desperate to keep Franco out of the war. She remembered what Luis had said about prisoners disappearing if there were unwelcome enquiries.

She crossed the Plaza Mayor, walking quickly to reach the Centro before dark. Then she stopped dead. The Civil War had ended in April 1939. If Luis had left the army this spring, 1940, he could not possibly have passed two winters in the camp.

Chapter Six

IT HAD BEEN RAINING solidly for twenty-four hours, a heavy soaking rain that fell vertically from a windless sky, swishing and gurgling on the cobbles. It was colder, too; Harry had found a winter eiderdown at the flat and spread it out over the big double bed.

That morning he was due to visit the Trade Ministry with Hillgarth, his first outing in his interpreter’s role. He was glad to be doing something at last.

They had integrated him into embassy life. The head of the translation section, Weaver, had tested his Spanish in his office. He was very tall, thin, with a patrician air. ‘All righty,’ he said in languid tones after talking with Harry for half an hour. ‘You’ll do.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Harry said tonelessly. Weaver’s haughty effeteness annoyed him.

Weaver sighed. ‘The ambassador doesn’t really like Hillgarth’s people getting involved with the regular work, but there we are.’ He looked at Harry as though he were some strange exotic animal.

‘Yes, sir,’ Harry replied.

‘I’ll show you to your room. There are some press releases come in that you can start working on.’

He had taken Harry to a little office. A battered desk took up most of the space, press releases in Spanish stacked on the blotter. They came in regularly and for the next three days Harry was busy. He saw nothing of Hillgarth, though Tolhurst dropped in occasionally to see how he was doing.

He liked Tolhurst, his self-deprecation and his ironic comments, but he hadn’t taken to most of the embassy staff. They affected a contempt for the Spaniards; the bleak poverty Harry had seen had depressed him but it seemed to amuse some of the embassy people. Most food shops in Madrid had ‘No hay …’ signs outside. ‘We have no … potatoes, lettuce, apples …’ Yesterday in the canteen Harry had overheard two of the cultural attaché’s staff laughing about there still being no hay for the poor donkeys and had felt an unexpected anger. Under the callousness, though, Harry sensed the fear that Franco would join the war. Each day everyone scoured the papers. At the moment Himmler’s visit was the focus of everyone’s anxiety: was he coming just to discuss security issues, as the press said, or was it something more?

Hillgarth picked him up from his flat at ten in a big American car, a Packard, driven by an English chauffeur, a thickset Cockney. Harry had put on his morning suit, the trousers carefully screwed into the press overnight; Hillgarth wore his captain’s uniform again.

‘We’re going to see the junior trade minister, General Maestre,’ Hillgarth said, squinting into the rain. ‘I’m confirming which oil ships the navy’s allowing in. And I want to ask him about Carceller, the new minister.’ He drummed his fingers on the armrest for a moment, looking thoughtful. The day before, a series of cabinet changes had been announced; Harry had translated the press releases. The changes favoured the Falange; Franco’s brother-in-law Serrano Suñer had been made Foreign Minister.

‘Maestre’s all right,’ Hillgarth continued. ‘One of the old school. Cousin of a duke.’

Harry looked through the window. People walked by, hunched against the rain, workmen in their overalls and women in the ubiquitous black, shawls drawn over their heads. They did not hurry; they were soaked already. Umbrellas, Tolhurst had told him, were impossible to get even on the black market. As they passed a baker’s shop, Harry saw a crowd of black-shawled women standing in the rain. Many had thin children with them and Harry saw, here and there through the smears of rain, the bloated gas-filled stomachs of malnutrition. The women crowded round the door, banging and shouting at someone within.

Hillgarth grunted. ‘There’ve been rumours of potatoes coming in. He’s probably got some, saving them for the black market. The supply agency’s offering the potato farmers so little they won’t sell. That’s so the Junta de Abastos can take their cut before they sell on.’

‘And Franco allows it?’

‘He can’t stop it. The junta’s a Falange organization. It’s a bloody disaster; it’s rotten with corruption. They’ll have a famine on their hands if they’re not careful. But that’s what happens with revolutions, the scum always rises to the top.’

They passed the parliament building, shuttered and empty, and turned into the Trade Ministry courtyard. A civil waved them through the gate. ‘Is this a revolution?’ Harry asked. ‘It seems more like – I don’t know – decay.’

‘Oh, it’s a revolution all right, for the Falangists anyway. They want a state like Hitler’s. You should see some of the people we have to deal with. Make your hair stand on end. Make the books I used to write seem tame.’

IN A WOOD-PANELLED office under a huge portrait of Franco, a man in a general’s uniform, the creases immaculate, stood waiting for them. He was in his early fifties, tall and fit-looking. He had a tanned face from which clear brown eyes shone. Thinning black hair was brushed carefully across the crown of his head to hide his baldness. A younger man in morning dress stood beside him, his face expressionless.

The officer smiled and shook Hillgarth’s hand warmly. He spoke to him in Spanish, in a clear rich voice. His younger colleague translated.

‘My dear captain, a pleasure to see you.’

‘And you, general. I think we can give you the certificates today.’ Hillgarth glanced at Harry, who repeated his words in Spanish.

‘Very good. The matter should be settled.’ Maestre gave Harry a courtly smile. ‘You have a new translator, I see. Señor Greene is not incapacitated, I hope.’

‘Had to go home. Family problems, compassionate leave.’

General Maestre nodded. ‘Oh, I am sorry to hear it. I hope his family have not been bombed.’

‘No. Private problems.’

They took their places round the desk. Hillgarth opened his briefcase and produced the certificates that would allow specified oil tankers to be escorted in by the Royal Navy. Hillgarth and Maestre went through them, checking dates and routes and tonnage. Harry translated Hillgarth’s words into Spanish and the young Spaniard translated Maestre’s replies into English. Harry was unsure of one or two technical terms, but Maestre’s manner was friendly and polite. Maestre wasn’t what Harry had expected one of Franco’s ministers to be like.

At length Maestre gathered the papers together, sighing theatrically.

‘Ah, captain. If you knew how angry it makes some of my colleagues, Spain having to ask permission from the Royal Navy to import necessities. It insults our pride, you know.’

‘England’s at war, sir; we have to be sure anything imported by a neutral is not sold on to Germany.’

The general held the certificates out to his translator. ‘Fernando, have these taken across to the Navy Ministry.’ The young man seemed to hesitate a moment, but Maestre raised his eyebrows at him and he bowed and left the room. The general relaxed at once, producing a cigarette case and offering it round.

‘That’s got rid of him,’ he said in perfect English. Harry’s eyes widened. The general smiled. ‘Oh yes, Mr Brett, I speak English. I studied at Cambridge. That young man is there to see I don’t say anything I shouldn’t. One of Serrano Suñer’s men. The captain knows what I mean.’

‘All too well, Minister. Brett here studied at Cambridge too.’

‘Did you?’ Maestre looked at him with interest, then smiled reflectively. ‘During the Civil War, when we were fighting the Reds on the meseta, amidst the heat and flies I would often think of my days at Cambridge: the cool river, the magnificent gardens, everything so peaceful and stately. You need such things in war to keep you sane. What college were you at?’

‘King’s, sir.’

Maestre nodded. ‘I had a year at Peterhouse. Wonderful, as I say.’ He pulled out a gold cigarette case. ‘Will you smoke?’

‘Thanks, I don’t.’

‘Any news?’ Hillgarth asked. ‘About the new minister?’

Maestre leaned back and blew out a cloud of smoke. ‘Don’t worry about Carceller. He’s got a lot of Falangist notions – ’ he curled his lip disdainfully – ‘but he’s a realist at heart.’

‘Sir Sam will be pleased.’

The general nodded slowly. Then he turned to Harry with an urbane smile.

‘Well, young man, how do you find Spain?’

Harry hesitated. ‘Full of unexpected things.’

‘We passed a big queue of women outside a baker’s,’ Hillgarth said. ‘They’d heard he’d got potatoes.’

Maestre shook his head sadly. ‘Those Falangists could cause a famine in the Garden of Eden. Have you heard the new joke, Alan? Hitler meets Franco and asks how he can starve Britain into surrender, the U-boats are not enough. Franco replies, “Mein führer, I will send them my Junta de Abastos. In three weeks they will be desperate to sign.” ’ Hillgarth and Maestre laughed, Harry joining in uncertainly. Maestre smiled at him, bowing his head a little.

‘Forgive me, señor, we Spaniards have a dark sense of humour, it is how we cope with our problems. But I should not joke about England’s troubles.’

‘Oh, we’re coping,’ Hillgarth said.

‘I hear when the Queen was asked if the royal children would leave London because of the bombing she said – what was it? – they won’t leave without me, I won’t leave without the King, and the King won’t go.’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘What a fine woman.’ He smiled at Harry. ‘What style. She has duende.’

‘Thank you.’

‘And now the Italians are being beaten in Greece. The tide will turn. Juan March knows.’ The general raised his eyebrows at Hillgarth, then rose and turned again to Harry.

‘Mr Brett, I am giving a party in ten days, for my daughter who will be eighteen. My only child. There are so few suitable young men in Madrid these days, perhaps you would like to come? It would be good for Milagros to meet a young man from England.’ He smiled with sudden tenderness at the mention of his daughter’s name.

‘Thank you, sir. If – er – embassy commitments allow—’

‘Excellent! I am sure Sir Sam can spare you for one evening. I will have an invitation sent. And, captain, the Knights of St George, we shall discuss that later.’

Hillgarth glanced quickly at Harry, then gave Maestre a barely perceptible shake of the head. ‘Yes. Later.’

The general hesitated, then nodded sharply. He shook Harry’s hand. ‘I must leave you now, I am afraid. It was a great pleasure to meet you. There is a ceremony at the palace, the Italian ambassador is pinning a new medal on the chest of the Generalísimo.’ He laughed. ‘So many honours, Il Duce weighs him down with them.’

THE RAIN HAD STOPPED. Walking through the car park Hillgarth looked thoughtful. ‘That name Maestre mentioned in there. Juan March. Know it?’

‘He’s a Spanish businessman, isn’t he? Helped finance Franco during the Civil War. A crook, I heard.’

‘Well, forget you heard his name, all right? And the Knights of St George, forget that too. Something private the embassy’s engaged on. Maestre thought you knew more than you do since you were with me. All right?’

‘I won’t say anything, sir.’

‘Good man.’ Hillgarth’s tone lightened. ‘You should go to that party. Relax a bit. Chance to meet some señoritas. God knows there’s little enough social life in Madrid. The Maestres are a good family. Connected to the Astors.’

‘Thank you, sir, I might.’ Harry wondered what the party would be like.

The chauffeur was waiting in the car, reading a week-old Daily Mail. As they got in, Harry glanced at the cover. The German raids were moving out of London now, Birmingham had been badly hit. Barbara’s home city. Harry remembered the woman he had seen a few nights ago. It couldn’t possibly have been her. She must be back home now; he hoped she was safe.

‘Maestre’s daughter’s quite attractive,’ Hillgarth continued as they drove back to the embassy. ‘Real little Spanish pomegranate— Jesus Christ!’ They both fell back against their seats as the car braked sharply. They were turning into Calle Fernando del Santo, where the embassy was. The normally quiet street was filled with people, a roaring, shouting mob. The driver was startled out of his calm.

‘What the hell?’

They were Falangists, young men mostly in bright blue shirts and red berets. There were about a hundred of them. They stood facing the embassy, shouting, their arms stretched out in the Fascist salute. They waved banners reading, ‘¡Gibraltar español!’ The usual civiles in front of the embassy were absent.

‘¡Abajo Inglaterra!’ the crowd yelled. ‘¡Viva Hitler, viva Mussolini, viva Franco!’

‘Oh, God,’ Hillgarth said wearily. ‘Not another demonstration.’

Someone in the crowd pointed at the car and the nearest Falangists turned and yelled their slogans at them, shouting, faces distorted, arms stretching in and out like metronomes. A stone bounced off the bonnet.

‘Drive on, Potter,’ Hillgarth said steadily.

‘Are you sure, sir? They look nasty.’

‘It’s all show. Get on, man.’

The chauffeur proceeded at a snail’s pace, forcing a passage between the demonstrators and the embassy wall. Half of them were teenagers, their Falange Youth uniform a copy of the Hitler Youth with blue shirts instead of brown, the girls in wide skirts and the boys in shorts. One boy had a drum and began banging it dramatically. It seemed to inflame the crowd and some of the boys reached out and began rocking the big car. Others followed and Harry and Hillgarth bounced around inside as the car inched slowly on. Harry felt disgust; they were scarcely more than children.

‘Give them a hoot,’ Hillgarth said. The horn sounded and an older Falangist elbowed his way out of the crowd, motioning the youngsters away from the car.

‘See,’ Hillgarth said, ‘they were just getting carried away.’

A tall, broadly built youth of around seventeen, worked up into a paroxysm of rage, pushed through the crowd and walked alongside the car, screaming insults in English through the window. ‘Death to King George! Death to the fat Jew pig Churchill!’ Hillgarth laughed, but Harry flinched away, the ridiculousness of the catcalls somehow making them even nastier.

‘Where are the civiles?’ he asked.

‘Tipped the wink to go for a walk, I’d guess. These are Serrano Suñer’s people. OK, Potter, pull up opposite the door. When we get out, Brett, chin up. Ignore them.’

Harry followed Hillgarth out on to the pavement. The shrieking was louder and he felt exposed and suddenly afraid. His heart began to pound. The Falangists shouted at them from the other side of the car, the enraged youth still howling in English. ‘Sink the English ships! Kill the Bolshevist Jews!’ Another stone sailed across the road and cracked the glass in the embassy door. Harry flinched and had to fight the urge to crouch down.

Hillgarth grasped the handle. ‘Hell, it’s locked.’ He rattled it. A figure moved in the shadowy interior and Tolhurst appeared, running in a crouch to the door. He fumbled with the catch.

‘Come on, Tolly!’ Hillgarth shouted. ‘Stand up for Christ’s sake, they’re only a bunch of hooligans!’

Then the chauffeur shouted, ‘Look out!’ and Harry caught a glimpse of something hurtling through the air. He felt a hard blow on his neck and staggered. He and Hillgarth threw up their arms as something white swirled round their heads, half choking them. There was a joyous yell from the crowd. For a second Harry saw red sand flying.

The door opened and Hillgarth ducked inside. Tolhurst reached out and grabbed Harry’s arm, pulling him inside with surprising strength. He locked the door again and turned to them, mouth open. Harry ran his hands over his neck and shoulders but there were no wounds, no redness, only white powder. He leaned against a desk, taking deep whooping breaths. Hillgarth sniffed his sleeve and laughed.

‘Flour! It’s bloody flour!’

‘Cheeky bastards,’ Tolhurst said.

‘Does Sam know about all this?’ Hillgarth’s face was alive with excitement.

‘He’s phoning the Interior Ministry now, sir. Are you both all right?’

‘Yes. Come on, Brett, we need to clean up.’ Chuckling again, Hillgarth made for an inner door. Outside the mob was laughing at what they had done, though the demented youth still raved on. Tolhurst looked at Harry. ‘You all right?’

He was still trembling. ‘Yes – yes, sorry.’

Tolhurst took his arm. ‘Come on, I’ll take you to my room, I’ve a clothes brush there.’

Harry allowed himself to be led away.

TOLHURT’S OFFICE was even smaller than Harry’s. He produced a clothes brush from his desk.

‘I’ve a spare suit here. It’ll be a bit wide for you but it should do.’

‘Thanks.’ Harry brushed off the worst of the flour. He felt much better, calm again, even though he could still hear the shouting from outside. Tolhurst looked out of the window.

‘The police’ll come along and clear them in a minute. Serrano Suñer’s made his point. And Sir Sam’s chewed his ear over the phone.’

‘The demonstration didn’t send him into a funk?’

Tolhurst shook his head. ‘No, he’s on form today, no sign of the pink rat. You never know how he’s going to react.’

‘I had a touch of the pink rat myself when that flour landed,’ Harry said self-consciously. ‘I didn’t know what it was. I was back at Dunkirk for a moment. I’m sorry, it must have seemed like I was yellow.’

Tolhurst looked uncomfortable. ‘No. Not at all. I know about shell shock, my father had it in the last lot.’ He hesitated. ‘They wouldn’t let embassy staff join up last year, you know. I was quite relieved, I’m afraid.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘I’m not one of the world’s heroes. Happier behind a desk, if truth be told. Don’t know how I’d have coped with what you went through.’

‘You don’t know what you can do till you get out there.’

‘I suppose not.’

‘Captain Hillgarth seems pretty fearless.’

‘Yes. I think he enjoys danger. You have to admire that sort of courage, don’t you?’

‘That was a minor panic I had then, compared to what I was like a couple of months ago.’

Tolhurst nodded. ‘Good. That’s good.’ He turned back to the window. ‘Come and look at them. They’ve no bread yet they can throw flour. Bet it came from the Auxilio Social stores, the Falange are responsible for feeding the poor.’

Harry joined him, looking at the unruly sea of blue.

‘Lucky no hay potatoes then, eh?’

‘D’you know, we sent some of the bread they get on the ration to London for analysis. The boffins said it wasn’t fit for human consumption; the flour was adulterated with bloody sawdust. Yet they can afford to throw good white flour at us.’

‘The Falangist bigwigs won’t have to eat the sawdust.’

‘Too bloody right they won’t.’

‘They were shouting anti-Jewish slogans. I didn’t think the Falange went in for that.’

‘They do now. Same as Mussolini, to please the Nazis.’

‘Bastards,’ Harry said with sudden fierceness. ‘After Dunkirk I sometimes used to wonder, what’s the point of going on, fighting, but then you see things like this. Fascism. Turning teenaged thugs on to innocent people. Then it’s bombing civilians, machine-gunning retreating soldiers. Christ, I hate them.’

Tolhurst nodded. ‘Yes. But we have to deal with them here. Unfortunately.’ He pointed a finger. ‘Look at that idiot.’

The boy who had yelled in English had taken hold of a ‘Gibraltar español’ banner and was marching up and down in front of the embassy with a military swagger, the crowd cheering him on. Harry wondered where he had learned English. He was a tall, well-set-up lad, probably from a middle-class home.

The door opened and the ambassador’s wiry form darted in. He looked furious.

‘You all right, Brett?’

‘Yes, sir, thank you. It was only flour.’

‘I won’t have my staff attacked!’ Hoare’s thin voice was shaking with anger.

‘I’m all right, sir, honestly.’

‘Yes, yes, yes, but it’s the principle.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I think Stokes is looking for you, Tolhurst.’ He nodded at the door.

‘Yes, sir.’ Tolhurst melted away. The ambassador glanced out of the window, snorted, then turned back to Harry. His pale eyes were calculating.

‘Hillgarth told me about your meeting this morning. Maestre’s a blabbermouth. The things he mentioned, Juan March and the Knights of St George; you’re not to discuss them with anyone. There are lots of angles to what we’re doing here. Need-to-know basis, do you understand?’

‘Yes, sir. I told the captain I’d say nothing.’

‘Good man. Glad you’re all right.’ Hoare clapped Harry on the shoulder, then looked with distaste at the flour on his hand. He turned to the door. ‘Tell Tolhurst to get that cleaned up.’

LEFT ALONE, Harry sat down. He felt terribly weary and there was a humming in his ears, a pressure. It took him back again to Dunkirk, after the shell landed next to him. He had tried to sit up. He was covered with sand that was wet and warm. He couldn’t think properly, bring his thoughts together. Then a touch on his shoulder, and he opened his eyes. A small, wiry corporal was leaning over him.

‘Are you all right, sir?’ Harry could hardly hear the man, there was something wrong with his ears. He sat up. His uniform was covered in bloody sand and there were lumps of red scattered around. Tomlinson, he realized.

He let the corporal drag him down to the beach, into the sea. The water was chilly and he began trembling from head to foot, he couldn’t move. ‘Tomlinson,’ he said. He could hardly hear his own voice. ‘Such little pieces.’

The corporal grasped his shoulders, turned him round, looked into his eyes. ‘Come on, sir, come on, into the boat.’

The corporal led him deeper into the water. Other men in khaki were splashing all around. Then Harry was looking up at the brown wooden hull of the boat. It seemed so high. Two men reached down and took his arms. He felt himself being lifted into the air again, then passed out.

HE BECAME aware that voices were still calling outside. He got up and went back to the window. The youth was standing to attention now, banner at his side, yelling up at the embassy. Harry caught the words. ‘Death to the enemies of Spain! Death to the English! Death to the Jews!’

The boy stopped in mid-flow. His mouth dropped open and his face reddened. Harry saw a tiny black circle appear at the crotch of his grey shorts. It grew larger and larger, then something ran glistening down his thigh. He had worked himself into such a state he had wet himself. The boy stood rigid, his face blank with horror. Someone called, ‘¡Lucas! ¡Lucas, continua!’ but he dared not move, he was the one trapped by the crowd now. Harry looked down. ‘Serve you right, you little bastard,’ he said aloud.

Chapter Seven

THE FALANGISTS DISPERSED shortly afterwards. The boy who had wet himself had to turn round eventually, slinking back to his comrades. They stared at his soaked shorts then quickly looked away again. The fire had gone out of them, anyway, they were getting tired; they put away their drums and banners and marched off. Harry turned away, shaking his head. He sat at Tolhurst’s desk, grateful for the quiet. Tolhurst had been decent. He had been surprised by the strength of his grip when he pulled him inside; there must be some muscle under that fat.

He looked round the office. A battered desk, an ancient filing cabinet and a cupboard. Dust in the corners. The King’s portrait on the wall but no personal photographs. He thought of his own parents’ picture, which stood in the flat now. Did Tolhurst have parents living, he wondered, or had they been scythed down too in the Great War? He closed his eyes and for a moment saw the beach again, thrusting it away with his mind. He had done well today; not long ago an incident like that would have had him crouching in terror under a table, another pink rat.

He remembered his time in hospital in Dover, the disillusion and despair. He was partly deaf, the nurses had to shout to make him hear. A doctor came and gave him tests. He seemed pleased with him. He leaned in close to the bed.

‘Your hearing should come back, there’s no real damage to the eardrums. You’ve got to rest, you understand, lie here and rest.’

‘I’ve no choice,’ Harry shouted, then remembered it was he, not the doctor, who was deaf, and lowered his voice. ‘If I get out of bed I start shaking.’

‘It’s shock. That’ll get better too.’

And so it had, with the determination that took him out of bed, then out of the ward, then into the grounds. But neither his recovery nor the Air Force’s victory in the Battle of Britain could heal his sense of angry shame at the retreat from France. For the first time Harry had found himself questioning the things he had been taught at Rookwood, that the rules there were good and right, England a country destined to lead the world. It was the Fascists who were winning now, everywhere. He had always hated them, as he had always hated the cheats and bullies at school. That gave him something to hold on to. If they invaded he would fight if he could, even for this broken, fractured England. It was for that he had answered the spies’ unwelcome call, come here to Spain. He jumped as the door opened and Tolhurst reappeared, a pile of papers under his arm. ‘Still here, Brett?’

‘Yes. I was watching the fireworks. One of them pissed himself.’

‘Serve the little bastard right. Are you all right now?’

‘Yes, I’m fine. Just needed a minute to pull myself together.’ Harry stood up. He looked at his morning suit, from which specks of flour still drifted to the floor. ‘I ought to change.’

Tolhurst opened the cupboard and took out a crumpled dark suit and trilby hat. Harry changed into it. The suit was baggy and smelt of old sweat.

‘I keep meaning to take it home and press it,’ Tolhurst said apologetically.

‘It’s fine. Thanks. I think I’ll go home unless they want me for something else. I’ve no work left downstairs.’

Tolhurst nodded. ‘All right. By the way, there’s a drinks party for some of the younger embassy staff next week. At the Ritz. It’s a Nazi haunt these days; we’re showing the flag. Why don’t you come?’

‘Thanks. I’d like to. Thanks, Tolhurst.’

‘Oh, call me Tolly. Everyone does.’

‘Then call me Harry.’

‘OK. Anyway, listen, if you’re going home don’t take the metro, there’s a power cut again.’

‘All right. The walk’ll do me good.’

‘I’ll arrange for your jacket to be cleaned.’

‘Thanks again, er, Tolly.’

Harry left Tolhurst to his work. Outside it was still dry but a cold sharp wind had started to blow from the mountains. He put on the trilby, shuddering a little at the cloying damp of old Brylcreem. He walked to the city centre. In the Puerta del Sol a group of gipsy beggars sat huddled together in a doorway. ‘Alms,’ they called after him. ‘Alms. In the name of God.’ There had always been beggars in Spain but now they were everywhere. If you met their eyes they would get up and follow; you developed the trick of seeing them only with your peripheral vision. They had talked about peripheral vision during Harry’s training: use it to find out whether you’re being followed, it’s amazing how much you can train yourself to see without eye movement so people don’t know you’ve seen them.

In Calle Toledo one of the restaurants had put out its rubbish for collection. The bins had been tipped over on the street, spilling out across the pavement. A family were hunting among the rubbish for food. There was an old woman, a younger one who looked like she was her daughter, and two pot-bellied children. The young woman might have been pretty once but her black hair was greasy and dishevelled and she had the red patches of consumption in her pale cheeks. A little girl picked out a piece of orange peel and rammed it to her mouth, sucking desperately. The old woman grabbed a chicken bone and pocketed it. Passers-by turned to avoid them; across the road, a couple of civiles stood watching from a shop doorway. A priest in a neat black suit walked swiftly by, averting his gaze.

The young woman was bending over, poking among the slops, when a sudden gust of wind caught her thin black dress, blowing it over her head. She cried out and stood up, arms clawing at it. She had no underclothes and her thin body was suddenly exposed, startlingly pale with prominent ribs and sagging breasts. The old woman ran over and tried to disentangle the dress.

The civiles sprang to life. They darted across the road, grabbing at the woman. One jerked at the dress, there was a ripping tear but it dropped again, covering her. She put her arms across her breasts, shivering violently.

‘What are you doing?’ one of the guards shouted in her face. ‘Whore!’ He was a tall middle-aged man with a black moustache. His expression was furious, outraged.

‘It was an accident.’ The old woman wrung her hands together. ‘You saw it, the wind, please, it was an accident.’

‘You should not allow such accidents!’ he yelled in her face. ‘A priest went by not two minutes ago.’ He yanked at the young woman’s arm. ‘You are under arrest for offending public morals!’

She buried her head in her hands and wept, her cries turning to coughs. The older woman stood beseechingly in front of the civil, hands still clasped together as though in prayer. ‘My daughter,’ she pleaded. ‘My daughter!’

The younger civil looked uncomfortable but the older one was still furious. He pushed the old woman away. ‘The rest of you, away from there! Those bins are private property! Why don’t you find work? ¡Vete!’

The old woman gathered the children and stood trembling as her daughter was led away, sagging between the civiles. Sickened, Harry watched as they took her down the street, between the high stone buildings of a modern European city.

Then he saw the man. A short, thin man with black hair, in a dark jacket and white collarless shirt, who ducked into a shop doorway as he caught Harry’s eye. Harry turned and walked on, pretending he hadn’t seen him.

Ahead a white-helmeted, white-clad traffic policeman stood in the middle of the road; pedestrians were supposed to wait until signalled to cross but many darted over when his head was turned, risking the traffic and the two-peseta fine. Harry stopped and looked right and left. The man was close, ten paces behind. He had a square pale face, surprisingly delicate-looking features. As he saw Harry looking in his direction he floundered for a moment then walked quickly past him, head bowed.

Harry ran across the road, between a donkey cart and an ancient Ford. Whoever the man was, he wasn’t very good at this. He felt a cold whisper of uneasiness, but reminded himself he had been warned to expect someone to tail him, that it happened to all the embassy people. He was junior staff so perhaps the spy was junior too.

He didn’t look round again until he reached the doorway of the flats, though it was an effort. He felt angry now as much as scared. When he turned at last his follower had disappeared. He climbed the stairs and unlocked the door, then jumped violently as a voice called from within.

‘Harry, is that you?’

Tolhurst was sitting on the settee in the salón. ‘Sorry to barge in, old chap, did I startle you? Only I’ve got a message from Hillgarth, he wanted you to have it at once. It came right after you left so I drove over.’

‘All right.’ Harry crossed to the window and looked down at the street. ‘God, I don’t believe it, he’s there. I’m being tailed, come and look.’

‘OK. Don’t twitch the curtain, old man.’ Tolhurst joined him and they stood looking down at the young man. He was walking up and down the road, looking at the house numbers, scratching his head. Tolhurst laughed.

‘Some of these people are just hopeless.’

‘A spy for a spy,’ Harry said quietly.

‘It’s the way it works.’ Tolhurst looked at him seriously. ‘Listen, there’s been a change of plan. Captain Hillgarth wants you to move on Forsyth now, call in at the Café Rocinante tomorrow afternoon and see if you can make contact. Come for a briefing at the embassy at nine tomorrow.’ Tolhurst looked at him keenly. ‘OK?’

Harry took a deep breath. ‘Yes.’ He smiled wryly. ‘It’s what I came for, isn’t it.’

‘OK.’ Tolhurst jerked his head towards the window. ‘Make sure you lose chummy.’

‘Why the change of plan?’

‘Hitler’s visiting France, big meeting with Pétain. There’s word he’s coming on here afterwards. This is all very hush hush, by the way.’

Harry looked at him seriously. ‘So Franco could be about to enter the war.’

Tolhurst nodded. ‘Moving in that direction, at least. We need to know as much as we can, about everything.’

‘Yes.’ Harry nodded grimly. ‘I can see.’

‘I’d better get back, tell Hillgarth I’ve caught you.’ He glanced round the bare walls. ‘You ought to cover up those blank spaces. We’ve loads of pictures at the embassy if you want some.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Let’s be optimistic, and assume we’re not all going to be kicked out, or worse.’

After Tolhurst left, Harry returned to the window. It was raining again, little spots tapping the glass. The man had disappeared; probably he was hanging around somewhere waiting for him to emerge. He thought about the poor woman who had been arrested. Where would they put her? In some stinking cell probably. The incident seemed to crystallize everything he had seen these last few days. Harry realized he wasn’t neutral any more; he hated what Franco was doing here.

His mind went back to Sandy and tomorrow’s meeting. He thought of German tanks rolling south over the Pyrenees, war in Spain again. He wondered how the embassy had got that information. Perhaps it was something to do with what Hillgarth and Maestre had been talking about. Juan March, the crooked millionaire, had financed Franco during the Civil War but he could still be pro-English, like Maestre. He wondered what the Knights of St George were, some sort of code. Hoare had told him to put it out of his mind but why had he and Hillgarth been so obviously worried that he knew? He shrugged. Well, he had better start preparing himself mentally for his task, prepare to meet Sandy, Sandy who was making a profit out of the Spanish Hell.

What would he be like now? He thought back to the year at Rookwood when he had shared a study with Sandy, that strange year.

THE INCIDENT WITH the spider in Taylor’s study had been the start of a difficult time. Things felt unsettled, uncomfortable. Bernie had been moved to a different study, but he remained friendly with Harry. Bernie and Sandy loathed each other. It wasn’t anything particular; it was visceral, instinctive. The school was full of feuds and rivalries between boys, but this was more unsettling because it was expressed not in rows and fights but cold glances and sarcastic comments. Yet Sandy and Bernie were in some ways alike. They shared a contempt for Rookwood, its beliefs and the system, which Harry found painful.

Bernie kept his socialism mainly to himself because he knew most of the boys would have found his ideas not just distasteful but incomprehensible. He carried on doing well in class; he was clever, as scholarship boys had to be to get to Rookwood at all. He played rugger aggressively, making the junior team. But occasionally his feelings about Rookwood showed through and he would talk about it to Harry with cold, hard disdain.

‘They’re preparing us to be part of the ruling class,’ he said to Harry one afternoon. It was wet and they were all in Harry’s study, Harry and Bernie at the table, Sandy sitting reading by the fire. ‘To rule the workers here and the natives in the colonies.’

‘Well, someone’s got to rule them,’ Harry replied. ‘I’ve thought of applying to the Colonial Office myself when I leave. My cousin might be able to help.’

‘Oh God!’ Bernie laughed harshly.

‘Being a district commissioner’s bloody hard work. My uncle’s got a friend who was in Uganda for years, only white man for miles. He came back with malaria. Some of them die out there.’

‘And others make a packet,’ Bernie replied contemptuously. ‘You should listen to yourself, Harry. “My cousin might be able to help. My uncle’s friend.” None of the people I know at home have cousins or uncles to help them rule huge chunks of Africa.’

‘And the socialists can run things better, can they? Those idiots MacDonald and Snowden?’

‘They’ve sold out. They’re weak. We need a stronger type of socialism, like they’ve got in Russia.’

Sandy looked up then and laughed. ‘D’you think Russia’s any better than here? It’s probably like this place, only worse.’

Harry frowned. ‘How can Rookwood be like Russia?’

Sandy shrugged. ‘A system built on bloody lies. They say they’re educating you, but they’re trying to drill you full of things they want you to know, just like the Russians with all their propaganda. They tell us when to go to bed, when to get up, how to talk, how to think. People like you don’t mind, Harry, but Piper and me are different.’ He looked at Bernie, his brown eyes alive with malicious humour.

‘You do talk a lot of shit, Forsyth,’ Bernie replied. ‘You think sneaking out late to go drinking with Piers Knight and his mates is being different. I want freedom for my class. And our day’s coming.’

‘And I suppose I’ll be on the way to the guillotine.’

‘Maybe you will.’

SANDY HAD FALLEN IN with a crowd of fourth-and fifth-formers who went to the local town to drink and, they said, meet girls. Bernie said they were all wastrels and Harry agreed although, after Taylor’s attempts to recruit him as a spy, he could see things a little from Sandy’s side: the black sheep, the boy who had to be kept an eye on; it wasn’t a status he envied. Sandy did as little work as possible; his attitude to the masters and his schoolwork one of barely veiled contempt.

That term, Harry took to going for walks on his own. It cleared his head to go ranging for miles over chalky Sussex woodlands. One damp November afternoon he turned a corner and was astonished to see Sandy Forsyth crouched on his haunches in the lane, turning a dark round stone over and over in his hands. He looked up.

‘Hello, Brett.’

‘What’re you doing? You’ve got chalk all over your blazer.’

‘Never mind that. Look here.’ He stood up and passed Harry the stone. At first it looked like a dark flinty rock but then he saw it was full of concentric circles, spiralling inwards.

‘What is it?’

Sandy smiled, not cynically as usual but broadly, a happy smile. ‘It’s an ammonite. A fossilized sea creature. Once all this was a sea and it was full of these, swimming about. When it died it sank to the bottom and over years its shell turned to rock. You can’t imagine how many years. Millions.’

‘I didn’t know fossils were like this. I thought they were big, dinosaurs.’

‘Oh, there were dinosaurs here too. The first dinosaur fossils were found near here a century ago, by a man called Mantell.’ Sandy’s smile turned sardonic. ‘Wasn’t popular in some circles. Fossils were a challenge to the Church’s idea the earth was only a few thousand years old. My dad still thinks God put the fossils in himself, to test men’s faith. He’s a very traditional Anglican.’

Harry had never seen Forsyth like this before. His face was alive with excited interest, his uniform streaked with chalk and his thick black hair, normally neatly combed, stood up in little tufts. He smiled. ‘I often come out fossil hunting. This is a good one. I don’t tell people – they’d think I was a swot.’

Harry studied the stone, cleaning mud from the whorls of the shell with his fingers. ‘It’s amazing.’ He thought it was beautiful, but you didn’t use words like that at Rookwood.

‘Come out with me some time if you like,’ Sandy said diffidently. ‘I’m building a collection. I’ve got a rock with a fly in it, three hundred million years old. Insects and spiders are as old as the dinosaurs, much older than us.’ He paused, reddening slightly at his display of enthusiasm.

‘Are they?’

‘Oh, yes.’ He looked out over the Downs. ‘They’ll be here when we’ve gone.’

‘Taylor’s frightened of spiders.’

Sandy laughed. ‘What?’

‘I found out once.’ Harry reddened, he wished he hadn’t said that.

‘Stupid old bugger. I’m going to go in for hunting fossils when I leave this dump, go on expeditions to places like Mongolia.’ He grinned. ‘I want to have adventures, far away from here.’

AND SO THEY became friends of a sort. They went on long walks hunting fossils and Harry learned about the life that had heaved and rolled in the ancient seas that had flowed where they stood. Sandy knew a lot. Once he found the tooth of a dinosaur, an iguanodon, buried in the side of a quarry. ‘They’re rare,’ he said gleefully. ‘And they’re worth money. I’ll take it up to the Natural History Museum in the hols.’

Money was important to Sandy. His father made him a generous allowance, but he wanted more. ‘It means you can do what you want in life,’ he said. ‘When I’m older I’m going to make a packet.’

‘Hunting dinosaur bones?’ Harry asked. They were exploring one of the old iron workings dotted around the woods. Sandy studied the horizon, the bare brown trees. It was an early winter’s day, still and cold.

‘I’ll make my fortune first.’

‘I suppose I don’t think much about money.’

‘Piper would say that’s because you’ve got plenty. We all have here. But it’s our families’ money. I want to make my own.’

‘My money was left me by my father. I wish I’d known him, he was killed in the war.’

Sandy’s eyes went back to the horizon. ‘My dad was a padre on the Western Front. Telling all those soldiers God was with them before they went over the top. My brother Peter is following in his footsteps, he’s at theological college now and then he’s going to join the army. He was Head Boy at Braildon, Head of Games, Greek Prize, all that.’ Sandy’s face darkened. ‘But he’s stupid, as stupid with his religion as Piper is with his socialism. It’s all nonsense.’ He turned and looked at Harry and there was something strange, fierce, in his eyes. ‘My mother left when I was ten, you know. They don’t talk about it but I think it was because she couldn’t stand all the rubbish. She used to say she wanted some fun in life. I remember feeling sorry for her, I knew she didn’t have any.’

Harry felt uncomfortable. ‘Where is she now?’ he asked.

He shrugged. ‘They don’t know. Or won’t say.’ He grinned broadly, showing square white teeth. ‘You need some fun in life, she was right. Why don’t you come out with me and my crowd? There’s some girls we meet in the town.’ He raised his eyebrows.

Harry hesitated. ‘What do you do?’ he asked diffidently. ‘When you’re with them?’

‘Everything.’

‘Everything? Really?’

Sandy laughed. He jumped off the rock he’d been sitting on and slapped Harry on the arm. ‘No, not really. But we will, one day. I want to be the first.’

Harry kicked a stone. ‘I don’t want to get into trouble, it’s not worth it.’

‘Come on.’ Harry felt the force of Sandy’s personality bearing down on him. ‘I plan it all, make sure we always leave when there’s no one around, never go anywhere the masters might come – or if they did, would be more worried than us about being seen.’ He laughed.

‘Some dive? I’m not sure I fancy that.’

‘We won’t get caught. I got caught breaking the rules at Braildon, I’m more careful now. It’s fun, knowing they’re out to get you and you’ve got them fooled.’

‘What did you get sacked for? At Braildon?’

‘I was in the town and this master caught me coming out of a pub. He reported me and I got all the usual stuff, why couldn’t I be like my brother, how much better than me he was.’ The hard angry look came into Sandy’s eyes again. ‘I got him back, though.’

‘What did you do?’

Sandy sat down again and folded his arms. ‘This master, Dacre, he was young. He had this little red car. He thought he was the bee’s knees, driving about in it. I know how to drive; I sneaked out one night and took it out of the masters’ garage. There’s a steep hill near the school. I drove the car right to the edge, jumped out, and over it went.’ Sandy smiled, his happy smile, all white teeth. ‘It was amazing watching it go down the hill, smashing up bushes. It hit a tree and the front caved in like cardboard.’

‘God! That was dangerous.’

‘Not really. Not if you know how. But when I jumped out of the car I cut my face on a branch. They saw that and put two and two together. But it was worth it, and it got me out of Braildon. I didn’t think anywhere else would take me, but my father pulled strings and got me in here. Worse luck.’

Harry dug at the ground with his foot. ‘I think that’s going a bit far. Destroying someone’s car.’

Sandy gave him an even stare. ‘Do unto others as they would do to you.’

‘That’s not what the Bible says.’

‘It’s what I say.’ He shrugged. ‘Come on, we’d better get back, we don’t want to miss roll-call or we’ll be in trouble, won’t we? With our kind teachers.’

They said little as they walked back. The winter sun set slowly, turning the puddles in the brown muddy paths pink. When they reached the road the high walls of the school came into view. Sandy turned to Harry. ‘D’you know where the money came from that started the school, and that funded the scholarships for people like Piper?’

‘Some merchants a couple of hundred years ago, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes. But d’you know what their main trade was?’

‘Silks and peppers and stuff?’

‘Slavery. They were slavers, capturing niggers in Africa and shipping them to America. I found a book in the library.’ He turned to Harry. ‘It’s amazing what you can find out if you look. Things people want to keep hidden that might come in useful.’ And he smiled again, a secret smile.

THE TROUBLE BEGAN a few weeks later, in class with Taylor. The form had had a Latin translation to prepare and Sandy had skimped it. He was called on to read and produced a succession of nonsensical howlers that made the class laugh. Some boys would have been humiliated, but Sandy sat with a smirk on his face, laughing along with the class. Taylor was furious. He stood above Sandy, his face red.

‘You didn’t even try to do that translation, Forsyth. You’ve as good a brain as anyone here, but you just don’t bother.’

‘Oh no, sir,’ Sandy said seriously. ‘I found it difficult, sir.’

Taylor got even redder. ‘You think you can get away with that dumb insolence, don’t you? There’s a lot you think you can get away with, but we’re watching you.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Sandy replied coolly. The class laughed again, but Harry could see Forsyth had gone too far. You didn’t provoke Taylor.

The master crossed to his desk and picked up his cane. ‘That’s sheer insolence, Forsyth. Come out here!’

Sandy set his lips. You could see he hadn’t expected that. Canings in front of the class were rare. ‘I don’t think that’s fair, sir,’ he said.

‘I’ll give you fair,’ Taylor marched up to Sandy and hauled him out of his place by the collar. Sandy wasn’t tall but he was stocky and Harry wondered for a moment if he might resist, but he allowed himself to be led to the front of the room. His eyes were blazing, though, with a fierce anger Harry had never seen before, as he bent over the master’s desk and Taylor brought the cane down, again and again, lips tight with anger.

After class, Harry went up to the studies. Sandy was leaning on the table. He was pale and breathing heavily.

‘You all right?’ he asked.

‘I will be.’ There was a moment’s silence. He squirmed and winced. ‘You see, Harry? You see how they control us?’

‘You shouldn’t have provoked him.’

‘I’ll get my own back,’ Sandy muttered.

‘Don’t be stupid. How can you get back at him?’

‘I’ll find a way.’

THE SCHOOL ate their meals at long tables in the dining room, the form master sitting at the end. One evening, a week later, Harry saw that Sandy and Taylor were both missing. Sandy wasn’t seen again that night and another master took the class next morning. He announced that Alexander Forsyth would not be returning; he had been expelled for an assault on Mr Taylor, who would be having a period of sick leave. The boys plied him with questions but the master said it was too unpleasant to talk about, a spasm of disgust crossing his face. It was that morning, through the classroom window, that Harry saw Bishop Forsyth walking in the quadrangle. His face was stern and drawn. Bernie, next to him, whispered, ‘I wonder what Forsyth did. Good riddance to bad rubbish, anyway. I wonder if they’ll let me back in the study.’

At lunchtime the boys were full of excitement, wondering what had happened. Harry skipped the meal and went up to the dormitory. Sandy was there, packing his fossil collection carefully into a suitcase. He gave Harry a cynical half-smile.

‘Hello, Brett. Heard what happened?’

‘I heard you were going. What did you do? They won’t say.’

Sandy sat on the bed, still smiling. ‘Best revenge I’ve ever had. It was you put the idea into my mind, actually. Spiders.’

‘What?’

‘Remember that day we were out fossil hunting and I told you insects and spiders were as old as the dinosaurs.’

Harry felt his heart sink. He remembered Taylor asking him to spy on Sandy, though he had kept that to himself. Taylor had been distant with him ever since.

Sandy smiled. ‘Ever been up in the attics? They’re full of cobwebs.’ He smiled broadly. ‘And where there are cobwebs there are spiders. I collected a biscuit tin full, I went for the big ones. Then yesterday I went to Taylor’s study when he was in the common room.’ He laughed. ‘I put them everywhere. In the drawers, in the cigarette box on his desk, even in his cheesy old slippers. Then I went into the study next door; you know it’s been empty since old Henderson retired at Christmas. I sat there to wait. I knew Taylor would be along at four to do his marking. I wanted to hear him scream.’

Harry clenched his hands. Sandy had used what he had told him, this was partly his fault. ‘Did he?’ he asked.

Sandy shrugged. ‘No. It went wrong. I heard him come up the corridor and shut the door but there was no sound, just silence. I thought, come on, you bastard, you must have found them by now. Then I heard his door open and footsteps like somebody drunk and then a thud. Then there was a funny whimpering noise, like a cat mewing. It got louder, it turned into a sort of screech and some of the other masters came out of their rooms. I heard Jevons say, “What’s the matter?” and then Taylor’s voice. “In my room,” he said, “it’s full of them.” Then Williams went into his room and called out that it was full of spiders.”

‘Hell, Sandy, what did you do it for?’

Sandy met his gaze evenly. “Revenge, of course. I said I’d get him. Anyway, then I hear Taylor’s voice, saying he was going to be sick. Williams said to get him into the empty room and next thing the door was open and they were all staring at me.’ He smiled. ‘It was almost worth it to see Taylor’s face. He’d been sick, his face was all white and there was vomit down his gown. Then Williams grabs me and says, “Got you, you little swine.” ’

Sandy shut his case and stood up. ‘The head said Taylor was in the war, it affected him, he saw some spiders on a body or something. How was I to know?’ He shrugged again. ‘Anyway, that’s that, I’m off home. Dad tried pleading with them but it didn’t work. It’s all right, Harry, there’s no need to look angry. I didn’t say you’d told me about the spiders. I refused to say how I knew.’

‘It’s not that. It was a rotten thing to do. And it was me that made it possible.’

‘I didn’t know he was going to go potty. Anyway, he’s ended up being sent off to some sanatorium and I’ve got the sack. That’s life. I knew something like this would happen sooner or later.’ He gave Harry an odd look. Harry saw tears in his face for a moment. ‘It’s my fate, you see, my fate to be the bad lad. Couldn’t avoid it if I tried.’

HARRY SAT UP with a jerk; he had fallen asleep sitting on the sofa. He had been dreaming, something about being trapped in his study; a storm had been raging outside and Sandy and Bernie and a load of other boys were banging at the window, crying out to him to let them in. He shivered; it was cold now, and almost dark. He got up and went to draw the curtains. The buildings, the streets, were so silent it unnerved him. He looked out at the empty square, the one-armed statue a dim shape in the weak white light of the streetlamp. There was nothing moving, not even a cat. Harry realized he hadn’t seen a cat since he came here, perhaps like the pigeons they had all been eaten. No sign of his watcher; maybe they let him go home in the evenings.

He wondered suddenly if they knew, at Rookwood, what had happened to Bernie. If they did, they probably weren’t surprised, or sorry. And Sandy’s fate, or whatever it was that drove him, had washed him up here. Where, tomorrow, he would be spying on him, after all. Harry remembered Jebb telling him it was Mr Taylor who had given them his name, and smiled grimly at the irony. The way the wheels came round, perhaps there was something in those notions of fate after all.

Chapter Eight

THE SAME AFTERNOON Barbara went for a long walk. She felt restless and worried, as she had since her meeting with Luis. The weather was fine after the rain but still cool and for the first time since the spring she wore her coat.

She went to the Retiro park; it had been refurbished since the end of the Civil War, new trees planted to replace those cut down for fuel during the Siege. Once again it was a meeting place for the respectable women of Madrid.

Now it was getting colder only the hardier or lonelier women gathered on the benches to gossip. Barbara recognized the wife of one of Sandy’s friends and nodded to her, but walked on to the zoo at the rear of the park; she wanted to be on her own.

The zoo was almost deserted. She took a seat by the sealions’ pit, lit a cigarette and sat watching them. She had heard the animals had suffered terribly during the Siege; many had died of starvation, but there was a new elephant now, donated by the Generalísimo himself. Sandy was a bullfight aficionado but no matter how many times he argued with her about the skill and courage involved, Barbara couldn’t stomach it, the big strong animal tormented and killed, horses gored and dying, kicking in the sand. She had been to the corrida twice then refused to go again. Sandy had laughed and told her not to mention it in front of his Spanish friends; they would think her the worst sort of English sentimentalist.

She twisted the handle of her crocodile-skin handbag. Critical thoughts about Sandy kept coming into her head these days. It wasn’t fair; he was the one being placed in danger by her deceit, it could destroy his career if what she was doing came out. She oscillated between guilt over that and anger at the stifled life she led now, the way Sandy always wanted to run everything.

The day after meeting Luis she had gone to the Express office in the Puerta del Sol and asked for Markby. They told her he was away in the north, reporting on the German troops coming over the frontier from France and buying everything up.

She might have to tackle Luis herself. Why had he said he had been in Cuenca through two winters? Was he just deceiving her, and Markby, for money? He had seemed nervous and uneasy throughout their interview, but had been very firm about the money he wanted.

A woman in a fur coat appeared, a little boy of eight marching at her side. He wore the uniform of a little flecha, the youngest section of the Falange Youth. Seeing the sealions he left his mother’s side and ran over to the pen, aiming his wooden rifle at them. ‘Bang! Bang!’ he shouted. ‘Die, Reds, die!’ Barbara shuddered. Sandy said the Falange Youth were just Spanish boy scouts, but sometimes she wondered.

Seeing her, the little boy ran over and stretched out his arm in the Fascist salute. ‘Good morning, señora! ¡Viva Franco! Can I help you at all today?’

Barbara gave a tired smile. ‘No, I’m fine, thank you.’

The child’s mother came over, taking his hand. ‘Come, Manolito, the elephant is this way.’ She shook her head at Barbara. ‘Children are tiring, no?’

Barbara smiled hesitantly.

‘But they are our gift from God.’

‘Come on, Mama, the elephants, the elephants!’

Barbara watched them go. Sandy didn’t want children; she was thirty now and she would probably never have any. Once she had longed to have Bernie’s child. Her mind went back to those other autumn days, with him in Red Madrid. Only four years ago, but it was like another age.

THAT FIRST NIGHT in the bar, Bernie had seemed an extraordinary, exotic creature to her. It wasn’t just his beauty: the incongruity between his public-school accent and his grubby private’s uniform added to her sense of unreality.

‘How did you hurt your arm?’ she asked.

‘Got winged by a sniper in the Casa de Campo. It’s healing well, just nicked the bone. I’m on sick leave, staying with friends in Carabanchel.’

‘Isn’t that the suburb the Nationalists are shelling? I heard there was fighting there.’

‘Yes. In the part furthest from the city. But the people living further in won’t go.’ He smiled. ‘They’re magnificent, so strong. I met the family when I came over on a visit five years ago. The eldest son’s with the militia in the Casa de Campo. His mother takes hot food out there every day.’

‘You don’t want to go home?’

A hardness came into his face. ‘I’m here till this is finished. Till we’ve made Madrid the grave of fascism.’

‘There seems to be more Russian equipment coming now.’

‘Yes. We’re going to throw Franco back. What about you, what are you doing here?’

‘I’m with the Red Cross. Helping find missing people, arranging exchanges. Children mostly.’

‘They got some Red Cross medical equipment when I was in hospital. God knows they needed it.’ He fixed her with those big olive eyes. ‘But you supply the Fascists too, don’t you?’

‘We have to. We have to be neutral.’

‘Don’t forget which side it was that rose up to destroy an elected government.’

She changed the subject. ‘Where on the arm were you hit?’

‘Above the elbow. They say it’ll soon be good as new. Then I’m going back to the front.’

‘A bit higher and you could’ve got it in the shoulder. That can be nasty.’

‘Are you a medic?’

‘A nurse. Though I haven’t done nursing for years. I’m a bureaucrat now.’ She gave a self-deprecating laugh.

‘Don’t knock it, the world needs organization.’

She laughed again. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone say that. It doesn’t matter how useful the work you do is, the word bureaucracy always stinks.’

‘How long have you been with the Red Cross?’

‘Four years. I don’t go back to England much now.’

‘Family there?’

‘Yes, but I haven’t seen them for a couple of years. We don’t have much in common. What do you do? Back home?’

‘Well, before I left I was a sculptor’s model.’

She almost spilled her wine. ‘A what?’

‘I modelled for some sculptors in London. Don’t worry, nothing improper. It’s a job.’

She struggled for something to say. ‘That must get awfully cold.’

‘Yes. There’re statues with goose pimples all over London.’

The doors banged open and a large group of boiler-suited militia came in, girls from the Women’s Battalion among them. They crowded round the bar, shouting and jostling. Bernie looked serious.

‘New recruits, off to the front tomorrow. D’you want to go somewhere else? We could go to the Café Gijón. Might see Hemingway.’

‘Isn’t that near the telephone exchange the Nationalists keep trying to shell?’

‘The Gijón’s safe enough, it’s some way away.’

A militiawoman, no more than eighteen, came up and put her arm round Bernie.

‘¡Compadre! ¡Salud!’ She tightened her grip and shouted something at her comrades in Spanish, making them laugh and cheer. Barbara didn’t understand but Bernie reddened.

‘My friend and I have to go,’ he said apologetically. The militiawoman pouted. Bernie took Barbara’s arm with his good hand and steered her through the crowd.

OUTSIDE IN the Puerta del Sol he kept hold of her arm. Barbara’s heart beat faster. The setting autumn sun cast a red glow over the posters of Lenin and Stalin. Trams clanked through the square.

‘Did you understand what they were saying?’ Bernie asked.

‘No. My Spanish isn’t up to much.’

‘Probably just as well. The militia are pretty uninhibited.’ He gave an embarrassed laugh. ‘How d’you manage in your work, if you don’t speak the lingo?’

‘Oh, we have interpreters. And my Spanish is coming on. We’re a bit of a Tower of Babel in our office, I’m afraid. French and Swiss mostly. I can speak French.’

They turned into Calle Montero. A crippled beggar in a doorway stretched out a hand. ‘Por solidaridad,’ he called. Bernie gave him a ten-centimo coin.

‘For solidarity.’ He smiled grimly. ‘That’s replaced “for the love of God”. When we’ve won this war, there won’t be any more beggars. Or priests.’

As they crossed into Gran Vía there was a deep rumble overhead. People tensed and looked up. Some turned and ran. Barbara looked around nervously.

‘Shouldn’t we find an air-raid shelter?’

‘It’s all right. It’s only a reconnaissance plane. Come on.’

The Café Gijón, haunt of bohemian radicals before the war, was ostentatiously modern, with art deco fittings. The walls were mostly mirrors. The bar was full of officers.

‘No Hemingway,’ she said with a smile.

‘Never mind. What will you have?’

She asked for a white wine and sat at a table while Bernie went to the bar. She moved her seat around, looking for a position where there were no mirrors, but the wretched things were everywhere. She hated catching sight of herself. Bernie came back, holding two glasses on a tray with his good arm.

‘Take this, would you?’

‘Oh, yes, sorry.’

‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes.’ She fiddled with her glasses. ‘I just don’t like mirrors much.’

‘Why ever not?’

She looked away. ‘I just don’t, that’s all. Are you a Hemingway fan?’

‘Not really. Do you read much?’

‘Yes, I get a lot of time in the evenings. I don’t like Hemingway either. I think he enjoys war. I hate it.’ She looked up, wondering if she had been too vehement, but he smiled encouragingly and offered her a cigarette.

‘It’s been a bad couple of years if you work in the Red Cross,’ she went on. ‘First Abyssinia, now this.’

‘There won’t be an end to war until fascism’s defeated.’

‘Till Madrid’s become its grave?’

‘Yes.’

‘There’ll be a lot of other graves too.’

‘We cannot escape history,’ he quoted.

‘Are you a Communist?’ Barbara asked suddenly.

He smiled, raising his glass. ‘Central London branch.’ His eyes were bright with mischief. ‘Shocked?’

She laughed. ‘After two months here? I’m past being shocked.’

TWO DAYS LATER they went for a walk in the Retiro. A banner had been placed over the front gate: NO PASARAN. The fighting was growing fiercer, Franco’s troops had broken through to the university in the north of the city but were being held there. More Russian arms were arriving; she had seen a line of tanks driving down Gran Vía, tearing up cobbles, cheered by the people. At night the streets were unlit to hinder night bombers but there were constant white flashes of artillery from the Casa de Campo, endless rumbles and thumps; like thunder, an endless storm.

‘I always hated the idea of war, ever since I was a little girl,’ Barbara told Bernie. ‘I lost an uncle on the Somme.’

‘My father was there too. He’s never been the same since.’

‘When I was little I used to meet people who’d, you know, been through it. They carried on as normal, but you could see they were marked.’

Bernie put his head on one side. ‘That’s a lot of gloomy thinking for a little girl.’

‘Oh, I was always thinking.’ She gave a self-deprecating laugh. ‘I spent a lot of time on my own.’

‘Are you an only child like me?’

‘No, I’ve a sister four years older. She’s married, lives a quiet life in Birmingham.’

‘You’ve still got a trace of the accent.’

‘Oh God, don’t say that.’

‘It’s nice. Noice,’ he said, imitating her. ‘My parents are working-class Londoners. It’s hard being the only kid. I had a lot of expectations put on me, ’specially when I got the scholarship to Rookwood.’

‘Nobody ever had any expectations of me.’

He looked at her curiously, then winced suddenly, cradling his wounded arm in the other.

‘Does it hurt?’

‘A bit. D’you mind if we sit down?’

She helped him to a bench. Through the rough material of his greatcoat his body was hard and firm. It excited her.

They lit cigarettes. They were sitting in front of the lake; it had been drained, the water shining in the moonlight at night was a guide for bombers. A faint smell of rot came from the mud left at the bottom. A tree had been felled nearby and some men were cutting it up with axes; the weather was cold now and there was no fuel. Across the lake bed the statue of Alfonso XII still stood in its great marble arch; the snout of a big anti-aircraft gun nearby, thrusting up from the trees, made a weird contrast.

‘If you hate war,’ he said, coming back to their discussion, ‘you must be an anti-fascist.’

‘I hate all this nationalist master-race rubbish. But communism’s crazy too – people don’t want to hold everything in common, it’s not natural. My dad owns a shop. But he’s not rich, and he doesn’t exploit anybody.’

‘My dad runs a shop too, but he doesn’t own it. That makes the difference. The party isn’t against shopkeepers and other small businesses; we recognize there’ll be a long transition to communism. That’s why we stopped what the ultra-revolutionaries were doing here. It’s the big capitalists we oppose, the ones who support fascism. People like Juan March.’

‘Who’s he?’

‘Franco’s biggest backer. A crooked businessman from Majorca who’s made millions out of other people’s sweat. Corrupt as hell.’

Barbara stubbed out her cigarette. ‘You can’t say all the bad’s on one side in this war. What about all the people who go missing, get picked up at night by the Seguridad and never get seen again? And don’t say it doesn’t happen. We get frantic women turning up at our offices all the time saying their husbands have disappeared. They can’t get any answer about where they are.’

Bernie’s gaze was even. ‘Innocent people get caught up in war.’

‘Exactly. Thousands and thousands of them.’ Barbara turned her head away. She didn’t want to quarrel with him, it was the last thing she wanted. She felt a warm hand laid on hers.

‘Don’t let’s fight,’ he said.

His touch was like an electric charge but she pulled her hand away and put it in her pocket. She hadn’t expected that; she believed he’d asked her out a second time because he was lonely and didn’t know any other English people. Now she thought, perhaps he wants a woman, an Englishwoman, otherwise why would he look at me? Her heart began to pound.

‘Barbara?’ He leaned across, trying to get her to meet his eyes. Unexpectedly he pulled a face, crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue. She laughed and pushed him away.

‘I didn’t mean to upset you,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘No – it’s just – don’t take my hand. I’ll be your friend but don’t do that.’

‘All right. I’m sorry.’

‘Perhaps we shouldn’t talk about politics. You think I’m stupid, don’t you?’

He shook his head. ‘No. This is the first proper talk with a girl I’ve had for ages.’

‘You won’t convert me, you know.’

He smiled again, challengingly. ‘Give me time.’

After a while they got up and walked on. He told her about the family he was staying with, the Meras.

‘Pedro, the father, he’s a foreman on a building site. Earns ten pesetas a day. They’ve got three kids and live in a two-bedroom flat. But the welcome they gave my friend Harry and I when we came here in ’31, we’d never seen anything like it. Inés, Señora Mera, she looked after me when I came out of hospital, wouldn’t hear of me going anywhere else. She’s indomitable, one of those tiny Spanish women made of fire.’ He looked at her with those huge eyes. ‘I could take you to meet them if you like.’ He smiled. ‘They’d be interested to meet you.’

‘Do you know, I’ve never met an ordinary Spanish family.’ She sighed. ‘The way people look at me in the street sometimes, I think there’s something disapproving. I don’t know what. Maybe I’m getting paranoid.’

‘You’re too well dressed.’

She looked down at her old coat in disbelief. ‘Me?’

‘Yes. That’s a good heavy coat, with a brooch.’

‘This old thing. It’s just coloured glass. I picked it up in Geneva.’

‘Even so, anything like that’s seen as ostentation. The people here are going through hell. Solidarity’s everything now, it has to be.’

Barbara took off her brooch. ‘There, is that better?’

He smiled. ‘That’s fine. One of the people.’

‘Of course you’ll always get the best, being in uniform.’

‘I’m a soldier.’ He looked offended. ‘I wear the uniform to show solidarity.’

‘I’m sorry.’ She cursed herself for putting her foot in it again. Why on earth did he bother with her? ‘Tell me about your public school.’

Bernie shrugged. ‘Rookwood’s what made me a communist. I fell for it all at first. Sons of the empire, cricket a game for gentlemen, the dear old school song. But I soon saw through it.’

‘Were you unhappy there?’

‘I learned to hide what I felt about it. That’s one thing they teach you. When I left and came back to London it was like a – a liberation.’

‘You haven’t any London accent left.’

‘No, that’s one thing Rookwood took away for good. If I try to speak cockney now, it just sounds stupid.’

‘You must have had friends, though?’ She couldn’t imagine him not having friends.

‘There was Harry, who came here with me five years ago. He was all right. His heart’s in the right place. We’ve lost touch now,’ he added sadly. ‘Moved into different worlds.’ He stopped and leaned against a tree. ‘So many good people like Harry fall for bourgeois ideology.’

‘I suppose I’m bourgeois, in your eyes.’

‘You’re something different.’ He winked.

NOVEMBER TURNED to December and sharp cold rains drove down from the Guadarramas. The Fascists were held in the Casa de Campo. They tried to break through from the north but were held there as well. The shelling went on but the desperate crisis was over. There were Russian fighters in the sky now, fast snub-nosed monoplanes, and if German raiders came over they were chased away. Sometimes there were dogfights over the city. People said the Russians had taken over everything and were running the Republic from behind the scenes. The government officials were even unfriendlier now and sometimes they had a frightened air. The children in the orphanage were moved overnight to a state camp somewhere outside Madrid; the Red Cross weren’t consulted.

Bernie kept seeking Barbara out. She spent half her evenings with him in the Gijón or one of the bars in the Centro. At weekends they would walk through the safe eastern part of the city and sometimes out to the countryside beyond. They shared an ironic sense of humour and laughed as they talked about books and politics and their childhoods, lonely in their different ways.

‘My dad’s shop’s one of five the owner has,’ Bernie told her one day. They were sitting on a field wall just outside town, enjoying the sun on a rare warm day. Clouds chased each other, their shadows skimming over the brown fields. It was hard to believe the front line was only a few miles away. ‘Mr Willis lives in a big house in Richmond, pays my dad a pittance. He knows Dad would never get another job, the war affected him; my mum does most of the work with a girl assistant.’

‘I suppose I was well off in comparison. My dad has a bike repair shop in Erdington. It’s always done well.’ She felt the sadness that always came on her when she spoke of her childhood; she almost never talked of it but found herself telling Bernie. ‘After my sister was born he hoped for a boy to take over the shop one day, but he got me. Then my mother couldn’t have any more.’ She lit a cigarette.

‘Are you close to your sister? I often wished I had one.’

‘No.’ Barbara turned her face away. ‘Carol’s very beautiful. She’s always loved showing herself off. Especially to me.’ She glanced at Bernie; he smiled encouragingly. ‘I had the brains though, I was the bright one, the one who got into the grammar school.’ She bit her lip at the memories those words brought back. She glanced at him again. Oh hell, she thought, in for a penny. Though it wrenched her heart she told him how she had been bullied from the day she went to the grammar school until she left at fourteen.

‘They called me speccy and frizzy-hair on my first day and I burst into tears. That’s where it all started, I can see that now. I suppose it marked me down as someone who could be tormented, made to cry. Then everywhere I went I had girls calling out about my hair, my glasses.’ She gave a long shuddering sigh. ‘Girls can be very cruel.’

She felt dreadful now, she wished she hadn’t blurted all this out, it had been a stupid thing to do. Bernie lifted his hand as though to take hers, then let it fall again. ‘It was the same at Rookwood. If you had something a bit different about you and wouldn’t fight back, you got picked on. They started on me when I came because of my accent, called me a pleb. I thumped a few of them and that put paid to that. Funny, I thought it was just public schools where those things happened.’ He shook his head. ‘Girls too, eh?’

‘Yes. I wish I’d hit them, but I was too well brought up.’ She threw away her cigarette. ‘All that bloody misery, just because I’ve got glasses and look a bit odd.’ She stood up abruptly and walked a few paces away, gazing at the town, a distant smudge. On the far side of it she could see tiny flashes, like pinpoints, where the Fascists were shelling.

Bernie came over and stood beside her. He gave her another cigarette.

‘You don’t.’

‘Don’t what?’

‘Look odd. Don’t be silly. And I like those glasses.’

She felt angry as she always did when people paid her compliments. Just trying to make her feel better about how she was. She shrugged. ‘Well, I got away,’ she said. ‘They wanted me to stay in that hell hole, go on to university, but I wouldn’t. I left when I was fourteen. Worked as a typist till I was old enough to start nursing.’

He was silent a moment. Barbara wished he would stop looking at her. ‘How did you get involved with the Red Cross?’ he asked.

‘The school used to have people to give talks on Wednesday afternoons. This woman came and told us about the work the Red Cross did, trying to help refugees in Europe. Miss Forbes.’ She smiled. ‘She was stout and middle-aged and had grey hair spilling out from under this silly flowery hat but she seemed so kind, she tried so hard to get across how important the work was. I joined them as a junior volunteer at first. I’d just about lost faith in the human race by then; they gave it back to me. Some.’ She felt tears pricking at her eyes and moved back towards the wall.

‘And you ended up in Geneva?’

‘Yes. I needed to get away from home too.’ She blew out a long cloud of smoke and looked at him. ‘What did your parents think about you volunteering for the International Brigades?’

‘Just another disappointment. Like my leaving university.’ He shrugged. ‘I feel guilty sometimes, about leaving them.’

To work for the party, Barbara thought. And be a sculptor’s model. She imagined him without clothes for a second, and dropped her eyes.

‘They didn’t want me to come here of course,’ he said, ‘they didn’t understand.’ Bernie gave her that hard direct look again. ‘But I had to come out here. When I saw the newsreels, the refugee columns. We have to destroy fascism, we have to.’

HE TOOK HER to see the Mera family, but the visit was not a success: Barbara didn’t understand the family’s accents, and though they were kind to her she felt uneasy in the crowded muddle of their flat. They greeted Bernie as a hero and she gathered he had done something brave in the Casa de Campo. He shared a room in the tenement flat with one of the sons, a thin boy of fifteen with the pale hollow face of a consumptive. On the way home Barbara said it could be dangerous for Bernie to share a room with him. He replied with one of his occasional bursts of anger.

‘I’m not going to treat Francisco like a leper. With good food and the right medicine you can cure TB.’

‘I know.’ She felt ashamed of herself.

‘The Spanish working class is the best in the world. They know what it’s like to fight oppression and they’re not afraid to. They practise real solidarity with each other and they’re internationalists, they believe in socialism and they work for it. They’re not greedy materialists like most British trade unionists. They’re the best of Spain.’

‘I’m sorry. I just – oh, I couldn’t understand what they said, and – oh, I’m being bourgeois, aren’t I?’ She looked at him nervously but his anger had evaporated.

‘At least you’re starting to see it. It’s more than most people can.’

Barbara could have understood if Bernie had just wanted her as a friend. But he was always trying to take her hand in his and twice he had tried to kiss her. Why, she asked, why did he want her when he could have had anybody? She could only think it was because she was English, that despite all his internationalism he wanted an Englishwoman. She dreaded that his telling her earlier there was nothing wrong with her appearance had been a ploy to get her into bed. She knew men weren’t fussy; she had been caught that way once and that was the worst memory, one that filled her mind with shame. Her longings and confusion ate her up.

Bernie’s arm was healing, out of plaster though still in a sling. He reported to military headquarters every week. When he was fit, he said, they were going to transfer him to a new training camp for English volunteers in the south. She dreaded the day.

‘I offered to help with new fighters who’ve come across from England,’ he told her. ‘But they say that’s all taken care of.’ He frowned. ‘I think they’re worried my damned public-school accent might put off the working-class boys who are coming over.’

‘Poor Bernie,’ she said. ‘Caught between two classes.’

‘I’ve never been caught,’ he said bitterly. ‘I know where my class loyalties are.’

ONE SATURDAY early in December they went for a walk to the northern suburbs. The district was full of the houses of the rich, big villas set in their own gardens. It was very cold; there had been a light dusting of snow the night before. Most of it had melted, leaving the air chill and damp, but there were still white patches on the broad roofs of the houses.

Many of the suburb’s inhabitants had fled to the Nationalist zone or been imprisoned and some of the houses were shut up. Others had been occupied by squatters, the gardens left to run wild or planted with vegetables; chickens and pigs roamed in some of them. The mess offended Barbara’s sense of tidiness but she was beginning now to see things with Bernie’s eyes: these people needed homes and food.

They paused before the gates of a big house where washing hung from the windows. A girl of fifteen or so was milking a cow tied to a tree in the middle of a lawn speckled with cowpats. When the girl saw Bernie’s military greatcoat, she looked up and gave the clenched-fist salute.

‘They’ll have had their houses shot up by Franco’s artillery, or been bombed out,’ Bernie said.

‘I wonder where the original owners went.’

‘They’ve gone, that’s what matters.’

A sound made them look up at the sky. A big German bomber was ploughing along, accompanied by a couple of small fighters. Three red-nosed Russian planes circled them, the manoeuvres leaving trails of white vapour stretching across the blue sky. Barbara craned her neck to look. The display seemed beautiful until you realized what was happening up there.

A church stood at the end of the street, a heavy nineteenth-century Gothic building. The doors were open and a banner hung outside. Establo de la revolución. Revolution stables.

‘Come on,’ Bernie said. ‘Let’s take a look.’

The interior had been wrecked, most of the pews removed and the stained-glass windows broken. Statues had been pulled from their niches and flung to the floor; bales of straw were stacked in a corner. The back of the church had been railed off and a flock of sheep penned in. They were closely packed together and as Bernie and Barbara approached they shuffled away in fear, bleating and jostling, their eyes with the strange sideways-pointing pupils wide. Bernie made soothing noises, trying to calm them.

Barbara approached the heap of broken statues. A plaster head of the Virgin, eyes full of painted tears, looked up reproachfully from the floor, reminding her of the convent where the children had been billeted. She felt Bernie at her elbow.

‘Tears of the Virgin,’ she said with an awkward laugh.

‘The Church has always supported the oppressors. They call Franco’s rebellion a crusade, bless the fascist soldiers. You can’t blame the people for being angry.’

‘I’ve never understood religion, all that dogma. But it’s sad.’

She felt his good arm circle her body and pull her round. She was so surprised she had no time to react as he leant forward. She felt the warmth of his cheek and then a hot moistness as he kissed her. She pulled away, staggering back.

‘What the hell d’you think you’re doing?’

He stood looking shamefaced, a lick of blond hair falling across his brow.

‘You wanted it,’ he said. ‘I know you did. Barbara, I’ll be at this training camp in a few weeks. I might never see you again.’

‘So what d’you want, a bit of sex with an Englishwoman? Well not with me!’ Her voice rose, ringing around the church. The sheep, frightened, bleated plaintively.

He stepped towards her, shouting back now. ‘You know it’s not like that! You know how I feel, you must, are you blind?’

‘Blind with my stupid glasses, is that it?’

‘Can’t you see I love you!’ he shouted.

‘Liar!’

She ran out of the church and down the path. As she went through the gate she skidded on a patch of wet snow and collapsed sobbing against the stone wall. She heard Bernie come up behind her. He laid a hand on her shoulder.

‘Why should I be a liar? Why? I do love you. You feel the same, I’ve seen it, why won’t you believe me?’

She turned to face him. ‘Because I’m ugly and clumsy and … No!’ She buried her face in her hands, sobbing wildly. A small boy walking by, barefoot and carrying a piglet, stopped and stared at them.

‘Why do you hate yourself so?’ Bernie asked gently.

She wanted to scream. She wiped her eyes, pushed him away, and began walking down the street. Then the little boy shouted, ‘Look! Look!’ Barbara turned; he had put the squealing piglet under one arm and was pointing excitedly upwards with the other. High in the sky one of the German fighters had been hit and was plunging to earth. There was a loud crump from some way off and the boy cheered. After a quick upward glance, Bernie hurried towards her.

‘Barbara, wait.’ He stepped in front of her. ‘Please, listen. Never mind sex, I don’t care about that, but I love you, I do love you.’

She shook her head.

‘Tell me you don’t feel the same and I’ll walk away now.’

Into Barbara’s head had come a picture of a dozen little girls, calling after her in the playground. ‘Speccy four-eyes, frizzy carrot hair!’

‘I’m sorry, it’s no use, I can’t – no.’

‘You don’t understand, you don’t see …’

Barbara turned to face him and her heart lurched at the pain and sadness in his face. Then she jumped, hearing a screaming noise from above. She looked up. The second German fighter had been hit and was falling towards them. Already it was terrifyingly close, flames pouring from its side in a long red-yellow trail. It fell like a stone; she saw the propellers, still turning, shiny as insects’ wings. Bernie was staring upward too. Barbara pushed him away and as he staggered back the air was filled with a giant roar and she saw the high wall of the house they were passing leap outwards at her. Something hit her head with a terrible smashing pain.

She was only unconscious for a moment. When she came round she was aware of the pain in her head, she tried frantically to remember what had happened, where she was. She opened her eyes and saw Bernie leaning over her, dimly because her glasses were gone. There were bricks and dust all around. He was leaning over her and he was crying, she had never seen a man cry. ‘Barbara, Barbara, are you all right, oh God, I thought you were dead. I love you, I love you!’

She let him lift her up. She buried her face in his chest and started weeping; they were both sitting crying in the street. She heard footsteps, people crowding round from the houses.

‘Are you safe?’ someone called. ‘My God, look!’

‘I’m all right,’ Barbara said. ‘My glasses, where are my glasses?’

‘They’re here,’ Bernie said softly. He handed them to her and she put them on. She saw the garden wall had fallen down, only just missing them, showering the road with bricks. One of them must have hit her. Flames and black smoke poured from every window of the villa, and the tail of the plane was sticking out of the collapsed roof. Barbara saw a black swastika; it had been painted over in yellow but it showed through. She lifted her hand to her head. It came away covered with blood. An old black-shawled woman put her arm round her. ‘It is only a cut, señorita. Ay, that was a miracle.’

Barbara reached a hand out to Bernie. He was nursing his injured arm, his face pale. Both their coats were white with dust.

‘Are you all right?’ she asked him.

‘The blast knocked me over. I hurt the arm a bit. But, oh God, I thought you were dead. I love you, please believe me, you have to believe me now!’ He began crying again.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I do. I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.’

They hugged each other. The little crowd of Spaniards, refugees who perhaps three months ago had never left their pueblos, stood beside them, looking at the wreckage of the aeroplane sticking out of the burning villa.

SITTING ON THE BENCH watching the sealions, Barbara remembered the warmth of Bernie’s grasp again. His injured arm, how it must have hurt him to hold her. She looked at her watch, the tiny Dior watch Sandy had given her. She had resolved nothing in her mind, just gone all emotional about the past. It was time to go home, Sandy would be waiting.

He was back by the time she returned, his car in the drive. She took off her coat. Pilar trotted up from the basement and stood quietly in the hall, hands folded in front of her as she always did when Barbara came in.

‘I don’t need anything, Pilar. Thanks.’

‘Muy bien, señora.’ The girl curtsied and went back downstairs to the kitchen. Barbara kicked off her shoes; her feet were sore after walking all afternoon.

She went up to Sandy’s study. He often worked for hours up there, studying paperwork and making telephone calls. The room was at the back of the house, with a small window that caught little light. He had filled it with ornaments and works of art he had picked up. An Expressionist painting of a distorted figure leading a donkey through a fantastic desert landscape dominated the room, lit by a wall-lamp.

He was sitting at his desk now, surrounded by a mass of papers, running a pencil down the margin of a column of figures. He hadn’t heard her and his face wore the look it sometimes had when he thought no one could see: intense, calculating, somehow predatory. In his free hand he held a cigarette, a long trail of ash threatening to fall from the end.

She studied him with a newly critical gaze. His hair was still slicked back with Brylcreem, so thickly you could see the lines of the comb running through. The Brylcreemed hair, like the little straight moustache, was the fashion in Falange circles. He saw her and smiled.

‘Hello, darling. Good day?’

‘All right. I went to the Retiro this afternoon. It’s starting to get cold.’

‘You’ve got your glasses on.’

‘Oh, Sandy, I can’t go out in the street without them. I’d get run over. I have to wear them, it’s just silly not to.’

He stared at her for a moment then smiled again. ‘Oh well. The wind’s got into your cheeks. Roses.’

‘What about you? Working hard?’

‘Just some more figures for my Min of Mines project.’ He moved the papers away, out of her line of vision, then took her hand. ‘I’ve got some good news. You know you were talking about voluntary work. I spoke to a man at the Jews’ Committee today, whose sister’s big in Auxilio Social. They’re looking for nurses. How d’you fancy working with children?’

‘I don’t know. It’d be – something to do.’ Something to take her mind off Bernie, the camp in Cuenca, Luis.

‘The woman we need to speak to’s a marquesa.’ Sandy raised his eyebrows. He pretended to despise the snobbish worship of the aristocracy upper-class Spaniards engaged in as much as the English, but she knew he enjoyed mixing with them. ‘Alicia, Marquesa de Segovia. She’s going to be at this concert at the Opera House on Saturday; I’ve got tickets for us.’ He smiled and pulled out a couple of gold-embossed cards.

Guilt filled her. ‘Oh, Sandy, you always think of me.’

‘I don’t know what this new guitar concerto thing will be like, but there’s some Beethoven too.’

‘Oh, thanks, Sandy.’ His generosity made her feel ashamed. She felt tears coming and got up hastily. ‘I’d better get Pilar started on dinner.’

‘All right, lovey. I need another hour on this.’

She went down to the kitchen, slipping on her shoes on the way. It wouldn’t do to let Pilar see her walking barefoot.

In the kitchen the paint was an ugly mustard colour, not white like the rest of the house. The maid sat at a table beside the immense old kitchen range. She was looking at a photograph. As she shoved it down the front of her dress and stood up, Barbara caught a glimpse of a young man in Republican uniform. It was dangerous to carry that photograph; if she was asked for her papers and a civil found it, questions would be asked. Barbara pretended she hadn’t seen it.

‘Pilar, could you start the dinner? Pollo al ajillo tonight, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes, madam.’

‘Have you everything you need?’

‘Yes, madam, thank you.’ There was a coldness in the girl’s eyes. Barbara wanted to explain, tell her she knew what it was like, she had lost someone too. But that was impossible. She nodded and went upstairs to dress for dinner.

Chapter Nine

THE CAFÉ ROCINANTE was in a narrow street off Calle Toledo. When Harry left the embassy he saw the pale-faced young Spaniard following him again. He cursed – he would have liked to turn round and shout at the man, hit him. He doubled round a couple of streets and managed to lose him. He walked on with a feeling of satisfaction, but when he saw the cafe and crossed over to it his heart began to pound. He took long, deep breaths as he opened the door. He went over the preparation they had done in Surrey for this first meeting. Expect him to be suspicious, they had said; be friendly, naive, a newcomer to Madrid. Be receptive, a listener.

The cafe was gloomy, the daylight coming through the small dusty window barely augmented by fifteen-watt bulbs round the walls. The patrons were mainly middle-class men, shopkeepers and small businessmen. They sat at the little round tables drinking coffee or chocolate, mostly talking business. A thin boy of ten circulated, selling cigarettes from a tray tied round his neck with string. Harry felt uncomfortable, looking round the place while trying not to attract attention. So this was what being a spy was like. There was a faint hissing and churning in his bad ear.

Apart from a couple of middle-aged matrons sitting talking about how expensive things were on the black market, there was only one other woman, smoking alone with an empty coffee cup in front of her. She was in her thirties, thin and anxious-looking, wearing a faded dress. She watched the other customers constantly, her eyes darting from table to table. Harry wondered whether she might be some sort of informer; she was a bit obvious, but then so was his ‘tail’.

He saw Sandy at once, sitting alone at a table reading a copy of ABC. There was a coffee on the table and a big cigar in the ashtray. If he hadn’t seen the photographs he wouldn’t have recognized him. In his well-cut suit, with his moustache and slicked-back hair, there was hardly anything of the schoolboy Harry remembered. He was heavier, though with muscle not fat, and there were already lines on his face. He was only a few months older than Harry, but he looked forty. How had he come to look so old?

He approached the table. Sandy didn’t look up and Harry stood there a moment, feeling foolish. He coughed and Sandy lowered the newspaper and stared at him enquiringly.

‘Sandy Forsyth?’ Harry pretended surprise. ‘Is it? It’s me. Harry Brett.’

Sandy looked blank for a moment, then recognition dawned. His whole face lit up and he gave the wide smile Harry remembered, showing large square white teeth.

‘Harry Brett! It is you. I don’t believe it! After all these years! God, what are you doing here?’ He got up and grasped Harry’s hand firmly. Harry took a deep breath.

‘I’m working as an interpreter at the embassy.’

‘Good Lord! Yes, of course, you did languages at Cambridge, didn’t you? What a turn up!’ He leaned across and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Jesus, you haven’t changed much. Sit down, d’you want a coffee? What’re you doing in the Rocinante?’

‘I’m billeted near here, just round the corner. Thought I’d try it out.’ A momentary catch in his throat as he told his first actual lie, but looking at the simple happy surprise on Sandy’s face, Harry saw he had taken him in. He felt a stab of guilt, then relief that Sandy was so pleased to see him, though this would not make things easier.

Sandy clicked his fingers and an elderly waiter in a greasy white jacket came across. Harry ordered a hot chocolate. Cigar smoke wreathed from Sandy’s mouth as he studied Harry. ‘Well, damn me.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s been – what – fifteen years. I’m surprised you recognized me.’

‘Well, you’ve certainly changed. I wasn’t sure for a minute …’

‘I thought you’d have forgotten me years ago.’

‘Never forget those days.’

‘Rookwood, eh?’ Sandy shook his head. ‘You’ve put on a bit of weight.’

‘I guess so. You look fit.’

‘Work keeps me on my toes. Remember those afternoons hunting for fossils?’ Sandy smiled again, looked suddenly younger. ‘They were the best times for me at Rookwood. The best times.’

He sighed and his face seemed to close up as he leaned back in his chair. He was still smiling but something wary had come into his eyes.

‘How did you end up working for HMG?’

‘Got shot up at Dunkirk.’

‘God, yes, the war.’ He spoke as though it was something he had forgotten, nothing to do with him. ‘Nothing bad, I hope.’

‘No, I’m all right now. Little bit of a hearing problem. Anyway, I didn’t want to go back to Cambridge afterwards. The Foreign Office were looking for interpreters and they took me on.’

‘Cambridge, eh? So you didn’t go into the Colonial Office after all?’ He laughed. ‘Boys’ dreams, eh? Remember you were going to be a district officer in Bongoland, and I was going to be a dinosaur hunter?’ Sandy’s expression was open again, amused. He reached for his cigar and took a long draw.

‘Yes. Funny how things turn out.’ Harry tried to make his voice sound casual. ‘What are you doing out here? It gave me a shock when I saw you. I thought, I know him, who is he? Then I realized.’ The lies were flowing smoothly now.

Sandy took another puff of his cigar, blowing out more acrid smoke. ‘Fetched up here three years ago. Lot of business opportunities. Doing my bit to help get Spain back on its feet. Though I might move on in a while.’

The old waiter came over and laid a little cup of chocolate in front of Harry. Sandy nodded at the urchin, who was selling Lucky Strikes to the thin woman. ‘Want a cigar? Make Roberto’s day. He’s got a couple of Havanas tucked away there. A bit dry but they’re OK.’

‘Thanks, I don’t smoke.’ Harry glanced at the woman. She wasn’t even pretending to do anything but watch the customers. There was a clerkly look about her pinched face.

‘Never took it up, eh? I remember you never used to join us bad lads behind the gym.’

Harry laughed. ‘I just never enjoyed it. The couple of times I tried I felt sick.’ He reached for his chocolate. His hand was steady.

‘Oh come on, Brett, you disapproved.’ There was a light sardonic edge to Sandy’s voice now. ‘You were always a Rookwood man to your fingertips. Always followed the rules.’

‘Maybe. Listen, call me Harry.’

Sandy smiled. ‘Like the old days, eh?’ Sandy smiled again, with genuine warmth.

‘Anyway, Sandy, you were still in London last I heard.’

‘I needed to get out. Some racing people had decided they didn’t like me. Rough business, racing.’ He looked at Harry. ‘That was when we lost touch, wasn’t it? I was sorry, I used to like getting your letters.’ He sighed. ‘Had a good scheme going, but it annoyed some big fish. Still, it taught me some lessons. Then a chap I knew at Newmarket told me Franco’s people were looking for guides for tours of the battlefields. People with the right background, to get a little foreign exchange and drum up some support for the Nationalists in Britain. So I spent a year showing old colonels from Torquay round the northern battle sites. Then I got involved in a couple of business ventures.’ He spread his arms. ‘Somehow I just stayed. Came to Madrid last year, followed the Generalísimo in.’

‘I see.’ Better not press too closely, Harry thought. Too soon. ‘Are you still in touch with your father?’ he asked.

Sandy’s face went cold. ‘I’ve lost touch with him now. It was for the best, we could never see eye to eye.’ He was silent a moment, then smiled again. ‘Anyway. How long have you been in Madrid?’

‘Only a few days.’

‘But you were here before, weren’t you? You came with Piper after school.’

Harry stared at him, astonished. Sandy chuckled and pointed his cigar butt at him. ‘You didn’t know I knew that, did you?’

Harry’s heart beat fast. How could he know?

‘Yes, we did. In the Republic’s time. But how—’

‘You came again later, too, didn’t you?’ Harry was pleased to see that Sandy’s face was full of mischief, which it wouldn’t have been had he known Harry’s real purpose here. ‘Came to try and find him after he went missing at the Jarama and met his girlfriend. Barbara.’ He laughed now. ‘Don’t look so amazed. I’m sorry. Only I met Barbara in Burgos when I was doing the tours, the Red Cross sent her there after Piper went west. She told me all about it.’

So that was it. Harry took a deep breath, leaned back in his chair. ‘I wrote to her via the Red Cross office in Madrid, but never heard back. The letters mustn’t have got sent on.’

‘Probably not. It was pretty chaotic in the Republic by then.’

‘How on earth did you two meet? What a coincidence.’

‘Not really. There weren’t many English people in Burgos in ’37. Coincidence we were both in the Nationalist Zone I suppose. We met at a party Texas Oil threw for expatriates.’ He smiled broadly. ‘In fact, we got together. She’s with me now, we’ve a house out in Vigo. You wouldn’t recognize her these days.’

‘I thought I saw her the other day, crossing the Plaza Mayor.’

‘Did you? What was she doing there? Looking for a shop with something worth buying, maybe.’ He smiled.

This is a complication, Harry thought. Barbara. How on earth had she got involved with him?

‘Is she still working for the Red Cross?’ he asked.

‘No, she’s a housewife now. She was pretty cut up over Piper, but she’s OK now. I’m trying to persuade her to do a bit of voluntary work.’

‘It devastated her, Bernie being killed. We never found where his body was.’

Sandy shrugged. ‘The Reds didn’t care what happened to their men. All those failed offensives the Russians ordered. God knows how many there are buried in the sierras. But Barbara’s fine now. I’m sure she’d love to see you. We’re having a couple of people round on Tuesday, why don’t you join us?’

It was the entrée Harry had been told to angle for, offered on a plate.

‘Will that be all right – for Barbara? I wouldn’t want to bring back, well, bad memories.’

‘She’d be delighted to see you.’ Sandy lowered his voice. ‘By the way, we tell people we’re married, though we’re not actually. Makes it easier, the government are a puritan lot.’

Harry saw him watching for his reaction. He smiled and nodded. ‘Understood,’ he said awkwardly.

‘Everyone was living over the brush during the Civil War, of course, you never knew how long you’d got.’ He smiled. ‘I know Barbara was very grateful for all the help you gave her.’

‘Was she? I wished I could have done more. But thanks, I’d love to come.’

Sandy leaned forward, clapped him on the shoulder again. ‘Now, more about you. How are that old aunt and uncle of yours?’

‘Oh, same as ever. They don’t change.’

‘You’re not married?’

‘No. There was someone, but it didn’t work out.’

‘Plenty of nice señoritas here.’

‘As a matter of fact I’ve been invited to a party next week, by one of the junior ministers I did some interpreting for. His daughter’s eighteenth.’

‘Oh, who’s that?’ Sandy looked interested.

‘General Maestre.’

Sandy’s eyes narrowed. ‘Maestre, eh? You are moving in exalted circles. What’s he like?’

‘Very courteous. You know him?’

‘I met him briefly once. He had a pretty brutal reputation during the Civil War, you know.’ He paused reflectively. ‘I expect you’ll get to meet a lot of government people, in your line.’

‘I suppose so. I just go where they want me to.’

‘I’ve met Maestre’s new boss, Carceller. Dealt with quite a few people in the government. Met the Generalísimo himself as a matter of fact,’ Sandy added proudly. ‘At a reception for foreign businessmen.’ He’s trying to impress, Harry thought.

‘What’s he like?’

Sandy leaned forward and spoke quietly again. ‘Not what you’d think when you see him strutting about on the newsreels. Looks more like a bank manager than a general. But he’s crafty, a real Galician. He’ll still be here when people like Maestre are long gone. And they say he’s the hardest man that ever lived. Signs death warrants over coffee in the evenings.’

‘What if we win the war? Franco’ll be out then, surely, even if he doesn’t come in with Hitler.’ They had told him to steer clear of politics at first, but Sandy had started on the topic. It was a chance to find out what he thought of the regime.

Sandy shook his head confidently. ‘He won’t come in. Too scared of the naval blockade. The regime’s not that strong; if the Germans marched into Spain, the Reds would start coming out of their holes. And if we win – ’ Sandy shrugged – ‘Franco has his uses. There’s no one more anti-communist.’ He smiled ironically. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not helping an enemy of England.’

‘You’re very sure.’

‘I am.’

‘Things seem pretty desperate here. The poverty. There’s a really grim atmosphere.’

Sandy shrugged. ‘That’s Spain. It’s what it’s always been like, always will be. They need order.’

Harry inclined his head. ‘I wouldn’t have thought you’d like the idea of being ordered about by a dictatorship, Sandy.’

He laughed. ‘This isn’t a real dictatorship. It’s too chaotic for that. There’s lots of opportunities for business if you keep your wits about you. Not that I’ll stay here for ever.’

‘You might move on.’

Sandy shrugged. ‘Next year perhaps.’

‘People here look as though they’re on the verge of starvation.’

Sandy looked at Harry seriously. ‘The last two harvests have been disastrous because of drought. And half the infrastructure was wrecked in the war. Britain’s not helping, frankly. There’s hardly enough oil being allowed in to keep transport going. Have you seen those gasogene things?’

‘Yes.’

‘The place is a bureaucratic nightmare, of course, but the market will win out. People like me are showing the way.’ He looked into Harry’s eyes. ‘That will help them, you know. I do want to help them.’

The woman was staring at them again. Harry leaned across, whispering. ‘See her, at that table? She’s been looking at us ever since I arrived. I can’t help worrying she might be an informer.’

Sandy looked blank for a moment, then threw his head back and roared with laughter. The other customers turned and stared at them.

‘Oh, Harry, Harry, you are priceless!’

‘What? What do you mean?’

‘She’s a tart, Harry. She’s always here, she’s looking for business.’

‘What?’

‘You keep looking over, meeting her eyes and turning away again, the poor girl won’t know what’s going on.’ Sandy grinned at the woman. She didn’t understand his words but reddened at his mocking look.

‘All right, I didn’t know. She doesn’t look like a tart.’

‘A lot don’t now. She’s probably the widow of some Republican. A lot of them have gone on the game to make ends meet.’

The woman got up. Fumbling with her handbag, she dropped some coins on the table and walked out. Sandy watched her go, still grinning at her embarrassment. ‘You do have to look out, though,’ Sandy continued. ‘I thought someone was following me recently.’

‘Were they?’

‘Not sure. They seem to have disappeared, anyway.’ Sandy looked at his watch. ‘Well, I must get back to the office. Let me get these.’

‘Thanks.’

Sandy laughed again, shook his head. ‘It is good to see you again.’ There was genuine affection in his voice. ‘Wait till I tell Barbara. Can I get you at the embassy about Tuesday?’

‘Yes. Ask for the translation section.’

Out in the street Sandy shook Harry’s hand. He looked at him seriously. ‘England’s lost the war, you know. I was right – all the Rookwood ideas, empire and noblesse oblige and playing the game, it’s all nonsense. One knock and it’s all fallen down. People who create opportunities for themselves, who make themselves up, they’re the future.’ He shook his head. ‘Oh, well.’ He sounded almost regretful.

‘It’s not over yet.’

‘Not quite yet. But almost.’ Sandy smiled commiseratingly, then turned and walked away.

Chapter Ten

THE DOORS OF THE Opera House stood open, light from the chandeliers shining out over Plaza Isabel II. The October evening was cold, and around the square civiles cradled their guns in the shadows. A red carpet trailed down the steps to the kerb in anticipation of the Generalísimo’s arrival. The bright lights made Barbara blink as she approached, her arm in Sandy’s.

The evening before she had taken her deception of Sandy a stage further. She had savings in England and had written to her bank asking them to send her money to Spain. She had tried the Express office again too, asked them to send a telegram to Markby saying she needed to talk to him, but they didn’t know where he was.

She waited in the salón for Sandy to come home. She had told Pilar to make up a fire and the room was cosy and welcoming, a bottle of his favourite whisky and a glass on a little table by his chair. She sat there reading, waiting, as she did most nights.

He arrived at seven. Barbara had taken her glasses off when she heard his footsteps but she could see he was excited about something. He kissed her warmly.

‘Mmm. I do like that dress. Shows off your white skin. Listen, you’ll never guess who I met today in the Rocinante. Never in a million years. Is this Glenfiddich? Marvellous. You’ll never guess.’ He sounded like a schoolboy in his eagerness.

‘I won’t know if you don’t tell me.’

‘Harry Brett.’

She was so astonished she had to sit down.

Sandy nodded. ‘I couldn’t believe it myself. Walked in large as life. He’s an interpreter at the embassy. He was wounded at Dunkirk, then sent out here.’

‘Good God. Is he all right?’

‘Seems to be. His hand was shaking a little. But he’s the same old Harry. Formal, very serious. He doesn’t know what to make of Spain.’ He smiled and shook his head indulgently. Barbara looked at him. Harry. Bernie’s friend. She forced her face into a smile.

‘You were good friends at school, weren’t you?’

‘Yes. He’s a good chap.’

‘You know, he’s the only person from England you ever speak of with affection.’

Sandy shrugged. ‘I’ve invited him round for Tuesday night. Sebastian’s bringing that awful Jenny with him, I’m afraid. Are you all right?’

She had come out in a scarlet flush. ‘Yes, it was just a surprise.’ She swallowed.

‘I can put him off if you’d rather. If it brings things back. ’

‘No. No, it would be marvellous to see him.’

‘Well, I must go up and change.’ He left the room. Barbara closed her eyes, remembering those terrible days after Bernie went missing. Harry had helped her then, but it had been Sandy who had saved her. She felt ashamed again.

THE HALL WAS nearly full, a buzz of excited chatter. Barbara looked round. Everyone was in their best clothes, even the numerous women in full mourning wore dresses of black silk and some had lacy mantillas hanging over their foreheads. The men were in evening dress or military or Falange uniforms. There was a sprinkling of clerics in black or red robes. Barbara had changed into a white evening dress with a green brooch that set off her eyes, and a white fur stole.

The hall had been refurbished for its first performance since the Civil War. The walls and white fluted pillars were freshly painted, the seats covered with new red plush. Sandy was in his element, smiling at acquaintances. He nodded to a colonel as he passed with his wife. ‘They can put on a show when they want to,’ he whispered.

‘I suppose it’s a sign of things getting back to normal.’

Sandy read from the programme. ‘“El concierto de Aranjuez. To celebrate Señor Rodrigo’s return from exile, his new work is a reflection on past glories amid the peaceful gardens of the Palace of Aranjuez.” We’ll have to drive down one weekend and see the palace, lovey.’

‘That would be nice.’

The hall was filling up. The orchestra was practising, shafts of music piercing the air. People glanced up at the empty royal box.

‘The Generalísimo’s not here yet,’ Sandy whispered.

There was a flurry of activity as two soldiers led a couple in evening dress to their seats in a neighbouring box. Both were very tall, the woman statuesque with long blonde hair, the man with a bald head and an eagle-like nose. There was a swastika armband on his evening jacket. Barbara recognized his face from the newspapers. Von Stohrer, the German ambassador.

Sandy nudged her arm. ‘Don’t stare, lovey.’

‘I hate seeing that – emblem.’

‘Spain’s neutral, lovey. Just ignore them. He took her arm and indicated a tall middle-aged woman in black sitting nearby, talking quietly to a female companion. ‘There’s the marquesa. Let’s go and introduce ourselves.’ He steered her down the aisle. ‘Don’t mention her husband, by the way,’ he whispered. ‘The peasants on one of his estates fed him to his pigs in ’36. Very nasty.’ Barbara shuddered slightly. He often spoke lightly of the horrors people had suffered in the Civil War.

Sandy bowed to the marquesa. Barbara wasn’t sure how to greet her so she curtsied, receiving a little smile in return. The marquesa was about fifty, with a kindly face that must once have been pretty but was now seamed into wrinkled sadness.

‘Your grace,’ Sandy began. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. Alexander Forsyth. This is my wife, Señora Barbara. Forgive this intrusion, but Señor Cana told me you are seeking volunteers for your orphanage.’

‘Yes, he spoke to me. I understand you are a nurse, señora.’

‘I haven’t done any nursing for years, I’m afraid.’

The marquesa smiled gravely. ‘Those skills are never forgotten. Many of the children in our orphanage are ill, or were injured in the war. So many orphans in Madrid.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘No parents or homes or schooling, some of them begging in the streets.’

‘Where is the orphanage, your grace?’

‘Near Atocha, in a building the church gave us. The nuns help with the teaching, but we need more medical help. The nursing orders have so many calls upon them still.’

‘Of course.’

‘Do you think you could help us, señora?’

Barbara thought of the barefoot wild-faced urchins she saw roaming the streets. ‘Yes. I’d like to.’

The marquesa put a finger to her chin. ‘Forgive me asking, señora, but you are English. Are you a Catholic?’

‘No. No, I’m afraid not. I was baptized an Anglican.’ Barbara laughed awkwardly. Her parents had never gone to church. And what would the marquesa think if she knew she and Sandy weren’t even married?

‘The church authorities may need persuading. But we need nurses, Señora Forsyth. I can speak to the bishop, perhaps telephone you?’

Sandy spread his hands. ‘We quite understand.’

‘I will see what can be done. It would be so good if you could help us.’ She inclined her head, indicating the interview was over. Barbara curtsied again and followed Sandy down the aisle.

‘She’ll do it,’ Sandy said. ‘The marquesa has got a lot of clout.’

‘I don’t see why my religion should be a problem. The Church of England’s nothing to be ashamed of.’

He rounded on her, suddenly angry. ‘You weren’t bloody brought up in the heart of it,’ he snapped. ‘You didn’t have to live with those hypocrites day in day out. At least with the Catholics, you know where you are.’

She had forgotten the Church was such a raw nerve. Like mention of his family, it could make Sandy turn suddenly.

‘All right, all right. I’m sorry.’

Sandy had turned away; he was looking at a tall balding man in a general’s uniform standing nearby. The soldier was staring back disapprovingly. He raised his eyebrows slightly and walked away. Sandy turned to Barbara, a trapped, angry look on his face.

‘Now see what you’ve done,’ he muttered. ‘Made me look a fool in front of Maestre. He heard.’

‘What do you mean? Who’s Maestre?’

‘An opponent of the Min of Mines project. It doesn’t matter. Sorry. Look, lovey, you know not to get me started on the Church, eh? Come on, they want us to sit down.’

Flunkeys in eighteenth-century dress were moving through the crowd urging people to their seats. The hall was full now. Sandy led them to their row, near the middle, next to a man in Falange uniform. Barbara recognized him: Otero, one of Sandy’s business associates. He was some sort of mining engineer. He had a round clerkly face, but the olive eyes above the starched blue shirt were keen and hard. She didn’t like him.

‘Alberto.’ Sandy laid his hand on the man’s shoulder.

‘Hola, amigo. Señora.’

There was a susurrating murmur from the crowd. At the far end of the hall a door opened and a bevy of flunkeys bowed in a middle-aged couple. Barbara had heard that Franco was a small man but was surprised how tiny, even delicate, he looked. He wore a general’s uniform with a broad red sash round his paunchy middle. He held his arms stiffly at his sides, moving them back and forth as though leading a parade. His balding head gleamed under the lights. Doña Carmen, walking behind, was slightly taller than her husband, a tiara in her jet back hair. Her long haughty face was made for the regal expression it wore. There seemed something posed, though, about the stoniness of the Generalísimo’s face, the little mouth set hard under the wispy moustache, and the surprisingly large eyes staring ahead as he marched past the stage

The Falangists in the audience sprang to their feet, stretching out their arms in the Fascist salute. ‘¡Jefe!’ they called out. The rest of the audience and the orchestra followed. Sandy nudged Barbara. She stared at him, she hadn’t expected to have to do this but he nodded urgently. She rose reluctantly and stood with arm extended although she could not bring herself to join the shouting. Making the gesture felt awful, shameful.

‘¡Je-fe! ¡Je-fe! ¡Fran-co! ¡Fran-co!’ The Generalísimo did not acknowledge the salutes, marching on like an automaton until he reached a door at the other end. The flunkeys opened it and the pair disappeared through. The shouts went on, people turning their heads and outstretched arms to the royal box as Franco and Doña Carmen reappeared above them. The couple stood a moment, looking down. Doña Carmen was smiling now but Franco’s face stayed coldly expressionless. He raised a hand briefly and at once the noise ceased. The crowd sat down. The conductor stood, bowing to the royal box.

Barbara liked classical music. When she had lived at home, she had preferred it to the jazz her sister liked and would sometimes sit listening to concerts with her parents. She had never heard anything like this concerto but she liked it. The guitar began the allegro on a liquid flowing note and then the strings joined in, the tempo slowly rising. It was cheerful and gentle and around her Barbara saw people relax, smiling and nodding.

The allegro moved to a climax and the adagio began. The music was slower now, the guitar alternating with wind instruments, and the sound was pure flowing sadness. All over the hall people began to weep, first one or two, then more and more, women and a few men too. She could hear half-suppressed sobs everywhere. Most of the people here would have lost someone in the Civil War. Barbara glanced at Sandy; he gave her a tense, embarrassed smile.

She looked up at the royal box. Carmen Franco’s face was composed and still. The Generalísimo’s wore a slight frown. Then she noticed a quivering movement of the muscles round his mouth. She thought he was going to weep too but then his features settled again and she realized he had been stifling a yawn. She turned away, with a sudden, violent revulsion.

The horn playing made Barbara think of a bare empty plain. She knew the man Luis was most likely a liar, but there was still a possibility Bernie was out there somewhere, imprisoned while she sat here. She clenched a fist tightly round her stole, fingers digging into the soft fur.

The guitar notes quickened and then the violins took over, bringing the music to a wrenching climax. Barbara felt something break and well up inside her and then she was crying too, tears flowing down her cheeks. Sandy looked at her curiously, then took her hand and squeezed it diffidently.

When the music ended there was a long moment of silence before the audience broke into thunderous applause. It went on as the blind composer Rodrigo was led to the front of the stage. Tear tracks glistened on his face too as he shook the conductor’s hand and spoke with the soloist, the clapping going on and on. Sandy turned to Barbara. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes. Sorry.’

He sighed. ‘I shouldn’t have snapped earlier. But you should know how some things get me.’ She caught an undertone of irritation behind his reassurance.

‘It’s not that. It’s just – oh, everyone’s lost so much. Everyone.’

‘I know. Come on, dry your eyes. It’s the interval. D’you want to stay here? I’ll get you a brandy at the bar if you like.’

‘No, I’m all right. I’ll come.’ She glanced round and saw Otero looking at her curiously. He caught her eye and smiled, quickly and insincerely.

‘Good girl,’ Sandy said. ‘Come on, then.’

In the bar Sandy got her a gin and tonic. It was strong, she needed it. She felt her face flush as she drank. Otero joined them with his wife, who was surprisingly young and pretty.

‘Wasn’t it sad?’ she asked Barbara.

‘Yes. But very beautiful.’

Otero straightened his tie. ‘A great composer. He must be very proud, his concierto played for the first time before the Generalísimo.’

‘Yes, did you see him?’ Otero’s wife asked Barbara eagerly. ‘I’ve always wanted to. Every inch the soldier.’

Barbara smiled stiffly. ‘Yes.’ She caught a whisper from Otero to Sandy.

‘Any word on the latest Jews?’

‘Yes. They’ll do anything to escape being sent back to Vichy.’

‘Good. We need something more to show. I can make it look good.’ Otero noticed Barbara listening and gave her another of his sharp looks.

‘Well, Señora Forsyth,’ he said. ‘I wonder if Don Rodrigo will get to meet the Generalísimo?

‘I’m sure he will have loved the music,’ she replied neutrally.

A man pushed through the crowd towards them. It was the general whose gaze had upset Sandy earlier. Otero’s mouth tightened and his sharp eyes flickered around but Sandy bowed and gave the soldier a friendly smile.

‘General Maestre.’

The general stared coldly into his eyes. ‘Señor Forsyth. And my old friend Captain Otero – that is your Falange rank, I think.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Maestre nodded. ‘I hear your project is proceeding well. Building materials requisitioned here, chemicals there.’

‘We only ask for what we need, sir.’ There was a note of defiance in Otero’s voice. ‘The Generalísimo himself has—’

‘Approved. Yes, I know. A project to help Spain in its path back to prosperity. And make money for you, of course.’

‘I’m a businessman, sir,’ Sandy said with a smile.

‘Yes. You help us and become rich at the same time.’

‘I hope so.’

Maestre nodded twice, slowly. He studied Barbara a moment with narrowed eyes, then bowed abruptly and walked away. As he turned, Barbara heard him mutter the word ‘sinvergüenza’. It meant shameless, without morals.

Otero looked at Sandy; Barbara could see the Falangist was scared. ‘It’s all right,’ Sandy said. ‘Everything’s under control. Look, we’ll talk tomorrow.’

Otero hesitated a moment. ‘Algo va mal,’ he muttered. ‘Come on,’ he said sharply to his wife. They joined the trickle of people heading for the exit. Sandy leaned against the bar, twirling the stem of his empty glass, his expression thoughtful.

‘What was that all about?’ Barbara asked. ‘What did he mean, all is not well?’

Sandy stroked his moustache. ‘He’s an old woman, for all the Falange regalia.’

‘What have you done to annoy that general? You don’t annoy generals here.’

His eyes were pensive, half-closed. ‘Maestre’s on the supply committee for our Min of Mines project. He’s a Monarchist.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s just politics. Jockeying for position.’

‘The general doesn’t like your project because it’s got Falange support?’

‘Exactly. But at the end of the day Maestre won’t count, because we’ve got Franco’s blessing.’ He got up, adjusting his lapels.

‘What was Otero saying about the Jews?’

Sandy shrugged again. ‘That’s confidential too. We have to keep the committee’s work quiet, Barbara. If the Germans found out there’d be a fuss.’

‘I hate seeing the Nazis being feted.’

‘They’re enjoying their bit of flattery. But that’s all it is. Diplomatic games.’ His voice was impatient now. He placed a hand in the small of her back. ‘Come on, it’s Beethoven next. Try to forget the war. It’s far away.’

Chapter Eleven

THE DAY THE GERMAN PLANE crashed into the house in Vigo, Barbara and Bernie took a tram back to Barbara’s neat little flat off the Calle Mayor, sitting with their arms round each other, covered in dust. When they got home they sat side by side on her bed, holding hands.

‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ Bernie asked. ‘You’re white as a sheet.’

‘It’s just a cut. The dust makes it look worse than it is. I should have a bath.’

‘Go and get one. I’ll make us something to eat.’ He gave her hand a squeeze.

By the time she had bathed he had prepared a meal. They ate chorizo and chickpeas at the little table. They were silent, both still shocked. Halfway through he reached across the table and took her hand.

‘I love you,’ he said. ‘I do love you. I meant it.’

‘I love you too.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I – I couldn’t believe you. When I was young – it’s so hard to explain …’

‘The bullying?’

‘It sounds a silly thing, but when it just goes on for years, that endless putting you down – why do children pick on people, why do they need someone to hate? They used to spit at me sometimes. For no reason, just because I was me.’

He squeezed her hand. ‘Why do you take their word for what you are? Why won’t you take mine instead?’

She burst out weeping. He came round the table and knelt beside her and held her tightly. She felt a sense of release.

‘I’ve only been with a man once,’ she said quietly.

‘You don’t have to now. I’d never want to do anything you didn’t. Ever.’

She looked into his eyes, deep dark olive. The past seemed to recede, washing away down a corridor in her mind. She knew it would return but for now it was far away. She took a deep breath.

‘I do want to. I have since the day I met you. Stay with me, don’t go back to Carabanchel tonight.’

‘Are you sure you don’t need to sleep now?’

‘No.’ She took off her glasses. He smiled and took them from her gently.

‘I like those,’ he said gently. ‘They make you look clever.’

She smiled. ‘So you didn’t just pick me out to convert to communism.’

He shook his head, his smile broadening.

SHE WOKE in the middle of the night to feel his fingers caressing her neck. It was dark, she could only make out the outline of his head but she felt his body against her.

‘I can’t believe this is happening,’ she whispered. ‘Not with you.’

‘I loved you the first day I met you,’ Bernie said. ‘I’ve never met anyone like you.’

She laughed nervously. ‘Like me? What does that mean?’

‘Alive, compassionate, sensual though you pretend not to be.’

Tears welled up in her eyes. ‘I thought you were too beautiful for me. You’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.’ She whispered, ‘I thought, if we were ever naked together I’d feel ashamed.’

‘You silly girl. Silly girl.’ He held her close again.

IT FELT WRONG to be so happy in the besieged city. The fighting to the north continued; Franco’s forces were still being held. The government had fled to Valencia, and Madrid was run by committees that people said the Communists controlled. The loudspeakers in the city centre called on citizens to be wary of traitors in their midst.

Barbara worked on, dealing with exchanges of prisoners and enquiries about missing persons, but side by side with her sense of helplessness in the face of murderous chaos was an inner warmth, a lightness. ‘I love him,’ she would tell herself, and then, wonderingly, ‘And he loves me.’

He waited for her every day outside the office and they would go to her flat or the cinema or a cafe. The doctors said Bernie’s arm was healing well. In a month or so he would be fit for service again. He had asked again to help the party with new recruits to the International Brigades but they said they had enough people.

‘If only you didn’t have to go back,’ she said to him one evening. It was a few days before Christmas; they were sitting in a bar in the Centro after visiting the cinema. They had seen a Soviet film about the modernization of Central Asia, then a gangster movie with Jimmy Cagney. It was the topsy-turvy world they lived in now. Some nights the Nationalists in the Casa de Campo fired artillery down Gran Vía at the time the cinemas emptied, but not that night.

‘I’m an enlisted soldier in the Republican Army,’ Bernie said. ‘I have to go back when they tell me. Otherwise I could be shot.’

‘I wish we could just go home. Away from this. It’s what we’ve feared for years in the Red Cross. A war where there’s no difference between soldiers and civilians. A city full of people caught in the middle.’ She sighed. ‘I saw an old man in the street today, he looked like he’d been a professional of some sort, he had a thick coat on but it was old and dusty and he was looking in the bins for something to eat, peering in while pretending not to. He caught my eye and he looked so ashamed.’

‘I doubt he’s suffering any more than the poor. He’ll get the same rations. Why should it be worse for him, just because he’s middle class? This war’s got to be fought. It’s got to be.’

She took his hand across the table, looked him in the eye. ‘If you were allowed to go home now, with me, would you?’

He dropped his eyes. ‘I have to stay. It’s my duty.’

‘To the party?’

‘To mankind.’

‘I wish I had your faith sometimes. Then I mightn’t feel so bad.’

‘It’s not faith. I wish you’d try to understand Marxism, it exposes the bones of reality. Oh, Barbara, I wish you could see things clearly.’

She gave a tired laugh. ‘No, I’ve never been any good at that. Please don’t go back, Bernie. If you go now I’m not sure I could bear it. Not now. Please, please, let’s go back to England.’ She reached out and clasped his hand. ‘You’ve a British passport, you could get out. You could go into the embassy.’

He was silent for a moment. Then Barbara heard his name called out, in a voice with a strong Scottish accent. She turned and saw a fair-haired young man waving at him from the bar where he stood with a group of tired-looking men in uniform.

‘Piper!’ The Scotsman raised his glass. ‘How’s the arm?’

‘All right, McNeil. Getting better! I’ll be back soon.’

‘¡No pasarán!’ The soldier and Bernie exchanged the clenched-fist salute. Bernie turned back to Barbara, lowering his voice. ‘I can’t do it, Barbara. I love you but I can’t. And I don’t have a passport, I had to surrender it to the army. And …’ He sighed.

‘What?’

‘I’d be ashamed for the rest of my life.’ He nodded at the soldiers at the bar. ‘I can’t leave them. I know it’s hard for a woman to understand, but I can’t. I have to go back, though I don’t want to.’

‘Don’t you?’

‘No. But I’m a soldier. What I want doesn’t matter.’

THE FIGHTING in the Casa de Campo ground into stalemate, trench warfare like the Western Front in the Great War. But everyone said Franco would renew his offensive in the spring, probably somewhere in the open country south of the city. There were still casualties enough; Barbara saw wounded men brought back from the front every day, lying pale-faced in carts or trucks. The mood among the populace was changing, the fiery combativeness of the autumn giving way to depression. There were shortages too; people were looking ill, getting boils and chilblains. Barbara felt guilty about the better Red Cross food she shared with Bernie. Her happiness alternated with the fear of losing him, and anger too that he could come into her life and transform it and then just march away. Sometimes the anger turned to a desperate fearful weariness.

Two days later they were walking from Barbara’s flat to her office. It was bright and cold, the sun just up, frost on the pavements. The queues for the daily ration began at seven; already a long line of black-clad women waited outside the government offices in Calle Mayor.

The women stopped talking suddenly and stared along the street. Barbara saw a couple of horse-drawn carts coming towards them. As they passed she smelt the fresh tarry paint and saw that they contained little white coffins, for children whose souls had not yet been soiled, the Catholic practice living on. The women stared at them, bleakly and silently. One made the sign of the cross, then began to weep.

‘People are at the end of their tether,’ Barbara said. ‘They can’t take much more. All the death!’ She burst out crying too, there in the street. Bernie put his arm round her but she shrugged him off. ‘I see you in a coffin! You!’

He held her at arm’s length and looked into her eyes. ‘If Franco takes Madrid there’ll be a massacre. I won’t abandon them. I won’t!’

CHRISTMAS DAY CAME. They ate a greasy mutton stew in Barbara’s flat, then went upstairs to bed. They lay in each other’s arms and talked.

‘This isn’t the Christmas I expected,’ Barbara said. ‘I thought I’d be in Birmingham, going with Mum and Dad to visit my sister and her family. I always get restless after a couple of days, I want to get away.’

He held her tight. ‘How did they make you think so badly of yourself?’

‘I don’t know. It just happened.’

‘You should be angry.’

‘They could never understand why I went to work for the Red Cross.’ She ran a finger over his chest. ‘They’d have liked to see me married with children, like Carol.’

‘Would you like children?’

‘Only when there are no wars any more.’

Bernie lit cigarettes for them, fumbling in the dark. His face was serious in the red glow. ‘I’m a disappointment to my parents. They think I’ve thrown away everything Rookwood offered. I wish I’d never won that bloody scholarship.’

‘Didn’t you get anything out of school?’

He laughed bitterly. ‘Like Caliban said, they taught me language, so I know how to swear.’

She found his heart and laid her hand there, feeling the soft thump-thump.

‘Perhaps that’s what drew us together. Two disappointments.’ She paused. ‘You believe in fate, Bernie, don’t you?’

‘No. Historical destiny.’

‘What’s the difference?’

‘You can influence destiny, you can hamper it or hurry it forward. You can’t do anything to change fate.’

‘I wish my destiny could be with you.’

She felt his chest rise and fall sharply as he took a deep breath. ‘Barbara.’

‘What?’

‘You know I’m nearly fit again. In a couple of weeks they’re sending me to the new training camp at Albacete. They told me yesterday.’

‘Oh God.’ Her heart sank.

‘I’m sorry. I was waiting for the right moment but there isn’t one, is there?’

‘No.’

‘I don’t think I really cared if I lived before, but I do now. Now that I’m going back.’

FOR TWO WEEKS after he left she had no news. She went to work and stumbled through the day, but when she returned to the flat and he wasn’t there the silence seemed to echo as though he was dead already.

In the first week of February news came of a Fascist offensive to the south of Madrid. They were aiming to sweep round and cut the capital off completely, but they were held at the Jarama river. The radio and newspapers spoke of a heroic defence, Franco’s advance checked before it had really begun. The International Brigades were prominent in the fighting. They said there were heavy casualties.

Every morning before work Barbara went to army headquarters in the Puerta del Sol. At first the staff were suspicious, but when she came a second day and a third they were kind to her. She had let herself go, she was losing weight and there were dark rings under her eyes, her pain visible to all.

The headquarters was chaotic, uniformed clerks running around clutching papers, telephones ringing everywhere. Barbara wondered whether some of those phone lines connected with the front, if there might be a connection between one of those buzzing rings and the place where Bernie was now. She did that all the time now, made connections in her head: the same sun shines down on us both, the same moon, I hold a book that he held, put a fork in my mouth that he put in his …

There was serious fighting in the second and third week of February, but still she had no news. She had had no letters, either, but they told her communications were difficult. Towards the end of February the fighting lessened, turned into another stalemate. Barbara hoped news might start coming through now.

She heard on the last day of February, a cold early spring day. She had come to HQ before work as usual and this time a uniformed clerk asked her to wait in a side room. She knew at once it was bad news. She sat in a shabby little office with a desk and typewriter and a portrait of Stalin on the wall. She thought, irrelevantly, how does he keep that big moustache in order?

The door opened and a man in captain’s uniform came in. There was a paper in his hand and his face was sombre. Barbara felt a chill run through her, as though she had fallen through ice into dark water. She didn’t get up to shake hands, just sat there.

‘Miss Clare. Good afternoon. I hear you have come here many times.’

‘Yes. For news.’ She gulped. ‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’

The officer raised a hand. ‘We do not know for sure. Not for sure. But he is on the list of those missing believed killed. The British Battalion was in heavy fighting on the thirteenth.’

‘Missing believed killed,’ she said flatly. ‘I know what that means. You just haven’t found a body.’

He didn’t answer, just inclined his head.

‘They fought magnificently. They held back the Fascist advance on their own for two days.’ He paused. ‘Many could not be identified.’

Barbara felt herself fall from the chair. As she collapsed to the floor she started weeping uncontrollably, pushing herself into the floorboards because under them was the earth, the earth where Bernie was buried now.

Chapter Twelve

THE RITZ DINING ROOM was lit by sparkling chandeliers. Harry took his seat at the long dining table reserved for the embassy staff. Tolhurst sat next to him; on his other side, Goach, the old man who had instructed him in protocol, settled carefully into his chair. He was bald, with a drooping white moustache and a soft voice, and wore a monocle on a long black thread. The collar of his dinner jacket was spotted with dandruff.

Harry’s wing collar chafed at his neck as he looked round the table; two dozen embassy staff had come to show the flag. At the head of the table Hoare sat with his wife, Lady Maud, a large plain woman. Hillgarth was on Hoare’s other side, his naval uniform bright with medals.

Harry had reported back to Hillgarth after his meeting with Sandy. Tolhurst had been there too. Hillgarth had been pleased with his progress, especially with the invitation to dinner, and intrigued to learn about Barbara.

‘See if you can get him to talk more about his business,’ Hillgarth had said. ‘You don’t know who the other guests are going to be?’

‘No. I didn’t ask. Didn’t want to press too closely.’

Hillgarth nodded. ‘Quite right. What about his girly, could she be in on his plans?’

‘I don’t know.’ Harry frowned.

‘You were just friends?’ Hillgarth interjected sharply.

‘Yes, sir. It’s just, I don’t want to involve her unless I have to. But I see it might be necessary,’ he added. ‘It’s odd, their getting together – Sandy didn’t get on with Bernie.’

‘Wonder if he went after the girly because she was his enemy’s girlfriend?’ Tolhurst mused.

‘I don’t know.’ Harry shook his head. ‘When I knew Sandy he was still a boy, really. He’s changed. Everything about him seemed contrived, showy. Except for his being pleased to see me, that was real.’ He frowned again.

‘Use that.’ Hillgarth looked at Harry seriously. ‘What you’re doing is important. This gold business fits into a bigger picture, the question of how we handle the regime. It matters a lot.’

Harry met Hillgarth’s gaze. ‘I know, sir.’

THE WAITER laid a menu before him, large and white. The choices could have come from before the war. Harry wondered if they still had food as good as this at the London Ritz. He had had a letter from Will that morning. He was being transferred to a new post out in the countryside, somewhere in the Midlands; Muriel was delighted to get away from the bombs, though worried the house might be burgled. The news from home had filled Harry with almost unbearable nostalgia. He looked up from the menu with a sigh, his eyes widened at the sight of four officers in grey uniforms who were taking seats at a table a little way off, among the well-dressed Madrileños. The officers’ harsh, clipped voices were instantly recognizable.

‘There’s Jerry,’ Tolhurst said quietly. ‘Military advisers. The Gestapo people wear civvies.’

One of the Germans caught Harry’s stare, raised an eyebrow and turned away.

‘The Ritz is such a German and Italian haunt now,’ Tolhurst continued. ‘That’s why Sir Sam likes to fly the flag now and then.’

‘Ready for tomorrow?’ Tolhurst asked quietly. ‘The dinner with our friend?’

‘Yes.’

‘Wonder if that girly knows anything?’ Tolhurst’s eyes were alight with curiosity.

‘I don’t know, Tolly.’ Harry looked down the table. Tonight’s dinner, too, had its hidden agenda: they were all under instructions to be cheerful, relaxed, show they weren’t worried by the cabinet changes. Everyone was drinking hard, joking and guffawing. It was like a rugby club dinner. The embassy secretaries, brought along to make up the numbers, looked ill at ease.

Waiters in starched white coats brought food and wine. The food was superb, the best Harry had eaten since his arrival. ‘The old standards are coming back,’ said Goach at his elbow. Harry wondered how old he was; they said he had been at the embassy since the Spanish-American War forty years ago. No one, apparently, knew more about Spanish protocol.

‘They are at the Ritz, at least, judging by the food,’ said Harry.

‘Oh, in other places too. They’re reopening the theatres, the Opera House. I remember the old King spoke to me there once. He was very charming. Put one at ease.’ He sighed. ‘I think the Generalísimo would like to invite him back, but the Falange won’t have it. Wretched shower. They threw flour at you on Thursday, I heard?’

‘Yes, they did.’

‘Filthy rabble. He had the Hapsburg jaw, you know. Protruding.’

‘What?’

‘King Alfonso. Only slightly. The burdens of royalty. The Duke of Windsor passed through Madrid, you know, back in June. When he escaped from France.’ Goach shook his head. ‘They just rushed him through the embassy and out to Lisbon. No formal reception or anything. I mean, he was the King once.’ He shook his head again, sadly.

Harry looked round the table again. He wondered what Bernie would have made of this.

‘Penny for ’em,’ Tolhurst said. Harry turned to him.

‘Sometimes I feel like I’m in Wonderland,’ he said quietly. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised to see a white rabbit in a suit pop up.’

Tolhurst looked puzzled. ‘What d’you mean?’

Harry laughed. ‘They haven’t a clue what life’s like out there.’ He nodded towards the window. ‘Doesn’t it ever get to you, Simon, all the sheer bloody misery you see in this city?’

Tolhurst frowned thoughtfully. Through the chatter Harry caught the ambassador’s sharp tones. ‘This Special Operations nonsense is mad. I hear they’re using Spanish Republican exiles to train British soldiers in political warfare. Bloody Communists.’

‘Set Europe ablaze,’ Hillgarth replied.

‘Oh yes, that’s a typical Winston phrase. Purple prose.’ Hoare’s sharp voice was raised. ‘I know what the Reds are like, I was in Russia when the Tsar fell.’

Hillgarth lowered his voice but Harry heard him. ‘All right, Sam. I agree with you. It’s not the time for that.’

Tolhurst came out of his brown study. ‘I suppose I’m used to it. The poverty. Cuba’s just the same.’

‘I can’t get used to it,’ Harry said.

Tolhurst thought a moment. ‘Ever been to a bullfight?’

‘I went once, in ’31. Didn’t like it. Why?’

‘The first time I went it made me feel sick, all the blood when they spear the bull, the terrified expression still on the bloody thing’s face when they brought its head to the restaurant afterwards. But I had to go; it was part of the diplomatic life. The second time it wasn’t so bad. I thought, dammit, it’s only an animal, then the third time I started appreciating the skill, the matadors’ bravery. You have to shut your eyes to the bad side of a country if you’re a diplomat, d’you see?’

Or a spy, Harry thought. He traced a line in the white tablecloth with his fork. ‘Isn’t that how it always starts, though? We deaden ourselves for protection, stop seeing the cruelty and suffering.’

‘I suppose if we let ourselves think about all the gruesome things we start imagining them happening to us. I know I do sometimes.’ Tolhurst laughed uneasily. Harry looked up and down the table, saw the forced quality of the smiles, the harsh undertone to the laughter.

‘I don’t think you’re alone,’ he said.

Someone on Tolhurst’s other side grabbed his arm and began whispering to him about two clerks who had been caught together in a stationery cupboard. Tolhurst turned away with relief to the gossip.

‘Julian, a pansy? I don’t believe it.’

Harry turned back to Goach. ‘Nice salmon.’

‘Very good.’

‘What?’ Harry hadn’t caught the old man’s reply. Among a crowd, his deafness could still be a problem. For a moment he felt disorientated.

‘I said it’s very good,’ Goach said. ‘Very good.’

Harry leaned forward. ‘You’ve been in the diplomatic service a long time, sir. I heard a phrase the other day, the Knights of St George. Any idea what it might mean? I wondered if it might be embassy slang of some sort.’

Goach adjusted his monocle, frowned. ‘Don’t think so, Brett, never heard that one before. Where d’you hear it?’

‘Oh, round the embassy somewhere. It just struck me as odd.’

Goach shook his head again. ‘Sorry, no idea.’ He glanced at Hoare for a moment, then said, ‘He’s a good man, the ambassador. For all the faults he may have, he’ll keep Spain out of the war.’

‘I hope so,’ Harry said, then added, ‘If Spain does stay out, and we win, what happens to the country afterwards?’

Goach gave a little laugh. ‘Let’s win the war first.’ He thought a moment. ‘Though if Franco stays out, keeps the Fascist element in the government under control, well, we’d have reason to be grateful to him, wouldn’t we?’

‘You think he’s a Monarchist at heart?’

‘Oh, I’m sure of it. If you analyse his speeches carefully, you can see he cares everything about Spain’s traditions, its old values.’

‘What about its people?’

Goach shrugged. ‘They’ve always needed a firm hand.’

‘They’ve got that all right.’

Goach inclined his head, then lowered it to his plate. There was a shout of laughter from the other end of the table, matched by a guffaw from the Germans, as they tried to be louder.

Chapter Thirteen

ON TUESDAY, Barbara went to meet Luis again. It was a fine day, still and quiet, leaves fluttering down from the trees. Barbara walked because the Castellana was closed to traffic; Reichsführer Himmler would be driven down it later on his way to meet the Generalísimo at the Royal Palace.

She had to cross the Castellana. Swastika flags hung from every building and were strung across the road, the scarlet banners with the hooked cross gaudy against the grey buildings. Civiles stood at intervals along the road, some cradling sub-machine guns. Nearby a parade of Falange Youth was lined up on the kerb, holding little swastika flags. Barbara hurried across and disappeared into the maze of streets leading to the Centro.

As she neared the cafe her heart was beating fast. Luis was already there, she saw him through the window. He was at the same table, nursing a coffee. His expression was gloomy. Barbara noticed again how down at heel he looked; he wore the same threadbare jacket, cheap rope-soled alpargatas on his feet. She took a deep breath and went in. The landlady nodded to her from beneath Franco’s portrait. She wished she could get away from the Generalísimo’s cold stare; it was everywhere, even on the stamps now.

Luis stood up with a relieved smile. ‘Señora. Buenos días. I thought you might not come!’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said without an answering smile. ‘I had to walk and it took longer than I thought. Himmler’s visit.’

‘It does not matter. A coffee?’

She let him fetch her a cup of the filthy coffee. She lit a cigarette but this time did not offer him one. She took a deep breath and looked him in the eye. ‘Señor Luis, before we discuss this further there is something I must ask.’

‘Of course.’

‘Last time you told me you left the army in the spring.’

‘That is correct, yes.’ He looked puzzled.

‘But you also told me you spent two winters out there. How could that be? Cuenca was in Red hands until the surrender last year.’

Luis swallowed hard. Then a sad smile settled over his face. ‘Señora, I said I had spent two winters up on the meseta, not at Cuenca. The previous winter I was in another part of it. A posting at Teruel. You remember that name?’

‘Yes, of course.’ It had been one of the war’s most savage battles. Barbara tried to remember exactly what words he had used.

‘Teruel is over a hundred kilometres from Cuenca, but it is still the meseta. High and cold. During the battle there men with frostbite had to be taken out of the trenches to have their feet amputated.’ He sounded almost angry now.

She took a deep breath. ‘I see.’

‘You were afraid I was not telling you the truth,’ he said bluntly.

‘I have to be sure, Señor Luis. I’m risking a lot. I have to be sure of everything.’

He nodded slowly. ‘All right. I understand. Yes. It is good you are careful.’ He spread his arms. ‘You must ask me anything at any time.’

‘Thank you.’ She lit another cigarette.

‘I went to Cuenca last weekend,’ he said. ‘As I promised.’

Barbara nodded. She looked into his eyes again. They were unreadable.

‘I stayed in the town and Agustín came to see me. He confirmed there is a prisoner in the camp called Bernard Piper. He has been there since it opened.’

Barbara lowered her head so Luis would not see how affected she was by the mention of Bernie’s name. She must keep calm, in control. She knew from her refugee work how desperate people would seize on any hope.

She looked up, gave him a firm stare. ‘You understand, señor, I will need proof. I need you to get your brother to tell you more about him. Things I haven’t told you or Markby, things you couldn’t know. Not that he’s fair-haired, for example, you could see that from the photograph.’

Luis sat back. He pursed his lips.

‘It’s not unreasonable,’ Barbara said. ‘Thousands of International Brigaders died in the war, you know how slim the chances are of his having survived. I need proof before anything else happens.’

‘And I am poor and could be making up a story.’ He nodded again. ‘No, señora, it is not unreasonable. What a world we live in.’ He thought a moment. ‘If I were to ask Agustín to tell me everything about this man, then, and give the details to you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you spoken with Señor Markby again?’

‘No.’ She had tried, but he was still away.

Luis leaned forward. ‘I will go to Cuenca again, though I cannot go too often to visit my brother or people may get suspicious.’ He looked strained now. He rubbed his brow with his hand. ‘I suppose I could say our mother has got worse. She is not well.’ He looked up. ‘But time may be important, Señora Clare. If you wish us to do something. You know the rumours. If Spain were to come into the war, you would have to leave. And your Brigader, if he was a Communist he could find himself handed over to the Germans. That is what has happened in France.’

It was true, but she wondered if he was trying to frighten her, hurry her.

‘If you were to do something,’ she repeated. ‘You mean – ’ she lowered her voice – ‘escape?’ Her heart began thudding, hard.

Luis nodded. ‘Agustín thinks it can be done. But it will be dangerous.’

‘How?’ she asked. ‘How could it be done?’

He leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘Let me explain how the camp works. It is surrounded by barbed wire. There are watchtowers with machine guns.’ She shuddered involuntarily. ‘I am sorry, señora, but I must explain how it is.’

‘I know. Go on.’

‘It is impossible for someone inside the camp to get out. But labour details go out every day – to repair roads, lay pipes, and to work in a quarry up in the hills. Piper has been on the quarry detail for some time. If Agustín can get himself a place as a guard on that work detail, perhaps he could help your friend to escape. Perhaps he could make some excuse to escort Piper away somewhere; then Piper could pretend to assault Agustín and get away.’ He frowned. ‘That is as far as we have been able to plan as yet.’

Barbara nodded. It sounded possible, at least.

‘That is the only way we can think of. But when the escape is discovered, Agustín will be questioned. If the truth is found out, he will be shot. He will do it only for money.’ Luis looked at her seriously. ‘Let us be frank now.’

She nodded, trying to take deep breaths to still her heart without letting Luis see.

‘Agustín’s term of service ends in the spring and he does not want to have to renew it. There are some there who like that work but Agustín does not. He does it only to support our mother in Sevilla.’

‘How much, then?’

‘Two thousand pesetas.’

‘That’s a lot,’ she said, though it was less than she had feared.

‘Agustín has to risk his life.’

‘If I were to agree, I’d have to get the money from England. It wouldn’t be easy, with the exchange restrictions.’ She took a deep breath. ‘But if you can convince me Bernie is at that camp, then we’ll see.’

‘The money should be agreed, señora.’

‘No. I need the proof first.’ She drew on her cigarette, staring at him through the cloud of smoke. ‘One more visit to Cuenca won’t be risky. I’ll give you the money for the fare.’ And then, she thought, will I see you again?

He hesitated a moment, then nodded. Barbara thanked God for her years of negotiating with corrupt officials. Luis leaned back, looking tired. Barbara thought, he’s less used to this sort of thing than I am.

‘Did Agustín say anything about him – about Bernie, how he is?’ Her voice stumbled over his name.

‘He is well. But the winters are hard for the prisoners.’ He looked at her seriously. ‘If we do this, I think you will have to come out to Cuenca, get him away to Madrid, to the British Embassy. You have a car?’

‘Yes. Yes, I can do that.’

He studied her speculatively. ‘Your husband, he knows nothing?’

‘No.’ She raised her head. ‘I just want to rescue Bernie, get him to the British Embassy so they can send him home.’

‘Very well.’ He sighed wearily. Barbara lit another cigarette and gave him one.

‘Shall we meet here again then?’ she asked. ‘Next week?’

‘The same time.’ He looked awkward. ‘I shall have to have the fare now.’

Again they went outside to pass over the money. When she handed the envelope to him he gave a bitter little laugh.

‘Spaniards were a proud people once. The things we do now.’ He turned and walked quickly away, his thin shabby form disappearing up the road.

There were more road closures on the way home and she had to walk down Calle Fernando el Santo, past the British Embassy. She glanced at the building. Harry Brett was probably in there; she would see him tonight. Harry, Bernie’s friend.

At the bottom of the street civiles were turning pedestrians back from the Castellana.

‘I am sorry, señora,’ one said. ‘No one may cross for the next hour. Security.’

She nodded and stepped back. A little crowd had gathered. Somewhere up the road youthful voices cheered and then a black Mercedes, flanked by soldiers on motorcycles, drove slowly past. There was a swastika pennant on the bonnet. In the back Barbara saw a pale, puffy face, its owner’s black uniform and cap making it appear disembodied. There was a quick glint of sunlight on spectacles, and it seemed to Barbara that Heinrich Himmler turned and looked at her for a second. Then the car was gone in a swirl of autumn leaves. More cheers sounded from the Falange Youth ahead. Barbara shivered and turned away.

Chapter Fourteen

HARRY WALKED ALONG the Castellana, the Nazi flags on the buildings looming up through the mist that had descended on the city. He wore his hat and coat; it was late October now and the evenings were getting chilly. He was on his way to take the tram out to Vigo district, for dinner with Sandy and Barbara.

He and Tolhurst had talked some more about Barbara that afternoon.

‘Bit of a turn-up, that,’ Tolhurst had said. ‘Never knew where he lived, you see. Our source said he was with a girly, but we thought it was some Spanish tart.’

‘I wish I understood how she ended up with Sandy.’ Harry shook his head. ‘Though she was in a bad way when I met her in ’37. I wrote afterwards but she never replied, or didn’t get the letters.’

‘She wasn’t political, was she? The Red boyfriend’s ideas didn’t rub off?’

‘No. She was Red Cross, a practical, commonsense type. I don’t know what she’ll make of the regime now.’

He would find out tonight. Walking along Harry felt a sudden weariness at the thought of the task before him. But he was committed, he had to go on.

He became conscious of footsteps behind him, a faint sound through the mist. Hell, his follower again. He hadn’t seen the man over the weekend but it sounded as though he was back. He quickly took a left turn, then a right. The doorway to a block of flats stood open, the concierge away somewhere. They were middle-class flats, well maintained, the air smelling of cleaning fluid. Harry stepped inside, stood behind the door, and peered out. He heard footsteps, a pit-pat and the crunching of dead leaves. A moment later the young man who had followed him before appeared. He stood in the centre of the empty road, looking up and down, a frown on his pale delicate features. Harry quickly withdrew his head. He heard the footsteps recede, back the way they had come. He waited a few minutes, then stepped outside. The street was clear, save for a woman in a fur coat walking a dog; she gave him a suspicious look. He went back the way he had come. He shook his head. The man really wasn’t much good.

The spy hadn’t frightened him but he did feel a clutch of fear, that momentary light-headedness that came on him sometimes, as he walked up Sandy’s drive half an hour later. He hadn’t told Sandy about his panics after Dunkirk, despite the spies saying it could do no harm. Pride had stopped him, he supposed. The house was a big villa standing in a large garden. Harry stood on the step for a moment, collecting himself, then took a deep breath and rang the bell.

A young maid answered the door, pretty but rather glum-looking. She took him through a hall where Chinese porcelain stood on little tables into a large salon where a fire burned. Everything was comfortable, expensive.

Sandy came forward, taking his hand in a firm grasp. His dinner jacket was immaculate, his hair sleek with oil. ‘Harry, marvellous you could come. ‘Now then, Barbara you know, of course.’

She was standing smoking by the mantelpiece, a glass of wine in her hand. She looked utterly different, the old cardigans and untidy hair replaced by an expensive silk dress that set off her fine skin and figure, her face thinner, and carefully made up to emphasize her high cheekbones and bright green eyes, her long, styled hair curled at the ends. Only the glasses were the same. Despite the changes she looked tired and strained but her smile was warm as she took his hand.

‘Harry, how are you?’

‘I’m all right. You’ve changed a lot.’

‘I’ve never forgotten how kind you were three years ago. I was in such a state back then.’

‘Just did what I could. It was a rough time.’

‘Sandy says you tried to write to me. I’m so sorry, I never got the letters. The Red Cross moved me to Burgos. I needed to get away from Madrid, after—’ She made a gesture with one hand.

‘Yes. I wrote to you in Madrid. I guess letters weren’t forwarded across the lines.’

‘My fault,’ Barbara said. ‘I should have tried to keep in touch.’

‘I often wondered how you were. I hear you don’t work for the Red Cross any more?’

‘No, I gave that up after I met Sandy. Had to really, I wasn’t in a fit state to work. But I might be doing some voluntary work soon with war orphans.’

Harry shook his head, smiling. ‘And you met up with Sandy. How extraordinary.’

‘Yes. He helped put me back together.’

Sandy came over to her, putting an arm round her shoulders, squeezing protectively. It seemed to Harry that Barbara flinched a little.

‘And you, Harry,’ she asked. ‘Are you all right? Sandy said you were at Dunkirk.’

‘Yes. I’m fine now. Just a spot of deafness.’

‘How are things at home? I get letters from my family but they don’t give me much idea how people are bearing up. The Spanish papers say it’s pretty bad.’

‘People are coping well. The Battle of Britain was a boost.’

‘That’s good. One’s so far away, I didn’t worry too much during the phoney war, but since the bombing – I expect you hear all about how things are at the embassy. All the papers are censored here.’

Sandy laughed. ‘Yes, they even censor the fashion shows in the Daily Mail. If they think the dresses are too low-cut they put a black band across them.’

‘Well, things are tough, but not as bad as the papers here make them out. There’s an amazing spirit, Churchill’s rallied everyone.’

‘Have some wine,’ Sandy said. ‘We’re having some food later, once the others arrive. Look, why don’t you two meet up one afternoon, have a longer chat about home? It’d do Barbara good.’

‘Yes, yes we could.’ She nodded agreement, but Harry sensed reluctance in her voice.

‘That would be good.’ Harry turned to Sandy. ‘And what exactly are you up to now? You didn’t really say the other day.’

He smiled broadly. ‘Oh, I’ve fingers in a number of pies.’

Harry smiled at Barbara. ‘Sandy’s come up in the world.’

‘Yes, he has.’ She seemed bored by this mention of business. Harry felt glad. If she didn’t know anything she wouldn’t have anything to tell.

‘I’m involved mainly with a government-backed project just now,’ Sandy said. ‘Mineral extraction. All very dull, just exploratory stuff. Takes some organizing, though.’

‘Mining, eh?’ Harry asked. This had to be the gold. His luck was continuing. His heart pounded. Steady, he thought, take it carefully. ‘I remember at school you wanted to be a palaeontologist. The secrets of the earth, you used to say.’

Sandy laughed. ‘Oh, it’s not dinosaurs now.’ The doorbell rang. ‘Excuse me. Must go and welcome Sebastian and Jenny.’

He went out. Barbara was silent a moment, then smiled uncertainly.

‘It’s good to see you again.’

‘And you. You’ve a fine house here.’

‘Yes. I’ve landed on my feet, I suppose.’ She paused, then asked quickly, ‘Do you think Franco will come into the war?’

‘Nobody knows. There are all sorts of rumours. If it happens it’ll be sudden.’

They fell silent as Sandy reappeared, accompanied by a well-dressed couple. The man was in his thirties, small and slim, handsome in a dark, southern Spanish way. He wore the Falange uniform, dark military dress with a blue shirt. The woman was younger, attractive, too, with blonde hair and smooth round features. Her expression was haughty.

‘Harry,’ Sandy said in Spanish. ‘Let me introduce Sebastian de Salas, a colleague of mine. Sebastian, this is Harry Brett.’

The Spaniard pressed Harry’s hand. ‘I am delighted, señor. There are so few Englishmen in Madrid.’ He turned to his companion. ‘Jenny sees so few of her compatriots.’

‘Hello there!’ The woman’s voice was cut-glass, her eyes hard and appraising. She turned to give Barbara a cold, formal smile. ‘Hello there, Babs, what a nice dress.’

‘Would you like some wine?’ Barbara’s tone was equally cool.

‘I’d rather have a G and T. Been out at the golf club all afternoon.’

‘Come on everyone,’ Sandy said cheerfully. ‘Take the weight off your feet.’

They sat down in the comfortable armchairs. ‘What do you do then, Harry?’ Jenny asked brusquely.

‘I’m a translator at the embassy.’

‘Met anyone interesting?’

‘Just a junior minister.’

‘Jenny’s an Hon, Harry,’ Sandy said. ‘Sebastian’s an aristocrat too.’

The Spaniard laughed self-deprecatingly. ‘A small one. We have a little castle in Extremadura, but it is falling down.’

‘Don’t knock it, Sebastian,’ Jenny said. ‘I’m a cousin of Lord Redesdale. Know him?’

‘No.’ Harry wanted to laugh, she was ridiculous. Jenny took the glass Barbara handed to her.

‘I say, thanks. Mmm, lovely.’ She leaned back against de Salas.

‘How long have you been in Madrid, Señor Brett?’ de Salas asked.

‘A little over a week.’

‘And how do you find Spain?’

‘The Civil War seems to have caused a lot of – dislocation.’

‘Yes.’ De Salas nodded sadly. ‘The war did much damage and now we have the bad harvests. People are suffering. But we are working to improve things. It is a hard road, but we have made a start.’

‘Sebastian’s in the Falange, as you can see.’ Sandy’s tone was neutral but his look at Harry was keen, mischievous. De Salas smiled and Harry smiled neutrally back. Sandy put his hand on Barbara’s arm.

‘Babs, see how Pilar’s getting on, would you?’

She nodded and went out. The obedient housewife, Harry thought. The idea pained him for some reason.

‘Señor Brett,’ de Salas said when she had left. ‘May I ask something? Only, I fear many Englishman do not understand the Falange.’

‘It’s often hard to understand foreign countries’ politics,’ Harry replied carefully. He remembered the screaming horde around the car, the boy who had wet himself.

‘In England you have democracy, yes? That is what you are fighting for, your system.’

‘Yes.’ God, Harry thought, he’s gone straight to the point.

De Salas smiled. ‘Please understand I mean no offence.’

‘No, of course.’

‘Democracy has worked well in England and America, but it does not work everywhere. In Spain under the Republic, democracy brought chaos and bloodshed.’ He smiled sadly. ‘Not all countries are suited to its freedoms, they tear themselves apart. Sometimes in the end the authoritarian way is the only one.’

Harry nodded, remembering he should avoid politics if he could. ‘I can see that. Only I suppose one might ask, who holds the rulers to account?’

De Salas laughed and spread his hands. ‘Oh, señor, the whole nation holds them to account. The whole nation represented by one party. That is the beauty of our system. Listen, do you know why the Falange wear blue shirts?’

‘Don’t say it’s because all the other colours were taken,’ Sandy interjected with a laugh.

‘Because blue is the colour of workmen’s overalls. We represent everyone in Spain. The Falange is a middle way between socialism and capitalism. It has worked in Italy. We know how hard life is in Spain now, but we will do justice to everyone. Just give us time.’ He smiled earnestly.

‘I hope so,’ Harry said. He studied de Salas. His expression was open, sincere. He means it, Harry thought.

Barbara returned. ‘We can go through,’ she said.

Sandy got up and stood between Harry and de Salas, a hand on each of their shoulders. ‘We should renew this talk another time. But let’s change the subject now, eh, out of deference to the ladies.’ He gave them a fatherly smile and Harry wondered again, how did he come to seem so middle-aged, so much older than he was? He had felt sorry for Sandy before but now he struck him as faintly repulsive.

A COLD BUFFET had been laid in the dining room. They filled their plates and took them to the oak table. Sandy opened a fresh bottle of wine. Jenny had brought the gin bottle with her.

‘Sandy,’ de Salas said, ‘you should have invited a señorita for Señor Brett.’

‘Yes, Sandy, we’re one short,’ Jenny agreed. ‘Bad form.’

‘There wasn’t time.’

‘It’s all right,’ Harry said. ‘I should meet plenty of señoritas on Thursday. I’m going to my first Spanish party.’

‘And where is that?’ de Salas asked.

‘General Maestre’s house. It’s his daughter’s eighteenth.’

De Salas looked at Harry with new interest. ‘Maestre, eh?’

‘Yes. I translated at a meeting between him and one of our diplomats.’

Sandy’s voice was suddenly sharp. ‘No, Sebastian, no business tonight.’

De Salas nodded and turned to Barbara. ‘How are your plans going, señora, to work with the orphans? The marquesa was helpful?’

‘Yes, thanks. She’s hoping to fix something up.’

‘I am glad. Will you enjoy going back to nursing?’

‘I’d like to do something to help. I feel I ought to, really.’

‘Jenny is a nurse too, like Barbara,’ de Salas told Harry. ‘I met her when she came out to help during the war.’

‘What?’ Jenny lifted her head, her face flushed. Harry realized she was drunk. ‘I didn’t catch that. Why am I like Barbara?’

‘I was saying you were a nurse.’

‘Oh yes! Yes!’ She laughed. ‘I’m not a proper nurse, though. I never trained. But when I came out, they put me straight into helping at operations. After the Jarama battle. Just as well I’m not squeamish.’

Barbara bowed her head to her plate. Sandy gave her a solicitous glance.

‘Harry,’ he said, ‘do have some of this marvellous red. I had to pay the earth for it. Scandalous.’

De Salas smiled at Harry. ‘I expect the embassy has its own supplies.’

‘We get rations. They’re not too bad.’

De Salas nodded. ‘Is it true there is much hardship in England? Food is rationed?’

‘Yes. But everyone gets enough.’

‘Do they? It is not what we read here.’ He leaned forward, genuinely interested. ‘But tell me, please, I am interested, why do you go on with the war? You were beaten in France, why not surrender now?’

He wouldn’t let it go. Harry glanced at Barbara. ‘It’s what all the Spaniards think,’ she told him.

‘Hitler has offered you peace. And I have seen so many killed in Spain, I wish the killing could stop in Europe.’

Sandy leaned forward. ‘He’s got a point, you know. England should surrender now, while good terms are on the table. I’m not being unpatriotic, Harry, I only want what’s in my country’s best interests. I’ve been away nearly four years, and sometimes you see things more clearly from a distance. And England can’t win.’

‘People are determined.’

‘To defend democracy, eh?’ de Salas smiled sadly.

‘Yes.’

‘Perhaps Hitler would let us keep democracy?’ Sandy suggested. ‘In return for leaving the war.’

‘He hasn’t a very good record in that department.’ Harry felt sudden anger. He had actually fought the Germans, while Sandy was sitting here making money. Sandy may have taken people round former battlefields, but Harry had been on a real one.

‘There isn’t much democracy left in England, from what I hear,’ Jenny interjected loudly. ‘Oswald Mosley was locked up just for leading the wrong party.’

Barbara shot her a look of venom. De Salas coughed.

‘I think perhaps we are getting a little heated,’ he said awkwardly.

THE PARTY didn’t last long. Soon de Salas said they must go and led a stumbling Jenny away.

‘Don’t invite her again, Sandy, please,’ Barbara said when they had left.

Sandy raised his eyebrows at Harry as he lit a cigar. ‘Jenny spent the whole of the Civil War nursing out here. She was pretty wild before, ran away from Roedean apparently. Can’t seem to cope with peace, just gets drunk all the time. Sebastian’s thinking of giving her the heave-ho.’

‘She’s foul,’ Barbara said. She turned to Harry. ‘I’m sorry, I wasn’t very sociable tonight.’

‘Don Sebastian seems civilized enough,’ Harry said. ‘In his way.’

‘Yes.’ Sandy nodded. ‘Spanish fascism’s not like Nazism, Harry, you have to remember that. They’re much more like the Italians. I’m doing some charitable work with refugee Jews, for example. Have to keep it a bit quiet because they’re terrified of annoying the Germans, but the authorities wink at it.’ He smiled. ‘Don’t mind what I was saying earlier about Britain surrendering. It was just – conversation. It’s the big topic here, as you might imagine. They’d be happy if the war ended, they’ve had enough bloodshed, as Sebastian was saying.’

Barbara lit a cigarette. ‘I agree they haven’t got the Nazi ideas about racial purity here. But they’re still a brutal lot.’

Sandy raised his eyebrows. ‘I thought you agreed Franco had brought some order at last.’

Barbara shrugged. ‘Maybe. I’ll get Pilar to clean up, Sandy, then I’m going up. I’ll leave you to your drinks. Sorry, Harry, I’m not feeling too bright. Got a bad headache.’ She gave him a wan smile. ‘I’ll ring you and we can meet up.’

‘Yes, do. A call to the embassy will usually get me. Later this week, perhaps.’

‘Perhaps.’ He sensed the reluctance in her voice again. Why, he wondered.

When they were alone, Sandy poured them a whisky and lit a cigar. He seemed to have a tremendous capacity. Harry had been drinking slowly to keep his head clear.

‘Is Barbara all right?’ he asked.

Sandy waved a hand dismissively. ‘Oh yes. Just tired and worried about home. The bombing and everything. Listen, when she rings you, take her out for a nice lunch somewhere. She’s on her own here too much.’

‘OK.’

‘It’s a funny old place, Spain, but there are lots of business opportunities.’ He laughed. ‘Might be as well not to mention you know me, when you go to the ball for Maestre’s girly. The government’s a nest of rivalries, and the faction I’m working with and Maestre’s don’t get on.’

‘Oh?’ Harry paused, then asked innocently. ‘Maestre’s a Monarchist, isn’t he?’

Sandy’s eyes through the cigar smoke were hooded, calculating. ‘Yes, that’s right. Hidebound lot.’ He looked at Harry seriously. ‘By the way, you remember what I was saying in the cafe, about maybe getting out of Spain?’

‘Yes.’

‘Don’t tell Barbara, would you? If I do decide to go it won’t be for a while. I’ll tell her when the time’s right.’

‘Of course. Understood.’

‘Still got business to finish here. Money to make.’ He smiled. ‘I expect all your funds are invested in safe things?’

Harry hesitated. That calculating look was back in Sandy’s face. ‘Yes. My parents left some money, and my uncle put it in safe securities. I’ve left everything where he put it. Too safe, I sometimes think.’ He laughed uncertainly. In fact, he didn’t think money could ever be kept too safe, but he wanted to see where Sandy was leading.

‘Money can always make more money, if you know where to put it.’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’

To Harry’s disappointment, Sandy stood up. ‘Anyway, I want to show you something. Come upstairs.’

He led Harry upstairs to a small comfortable study, full of objets d’art. ‘My sanctum. I come up here to work in peace.’ Harry’s eyes flickered over the desk; there were cardboard folders and papers but he couldn’t see what they were.

‘Look at this.’ Sandy switched on the little light above the figure of the man sprawled over the distorted horse, limping across the desert.

‘I think it’s a Dalí,’ he said. ‘Isn’t it amazing?’

‘Disturbing,’ Harry said. Most of the objects displayed in the room had an unsettling quality: a woman’s hand in a lace sleeve exquisitely sculpted in silver; a Japanese vase showing a bloody battle scene, the colours extraordinary.

‘You can pick up the most astonishing things in the Rastro,’ Sandy said. ‘Stuff the Reds looted from rich people’s houses during the war. Here, this is what I want to show you.’ He opened a drawer in the desk and lifted out a tray. It was full of fossils, stones with the bones of strange creatures embedded inside.

‘My collection. The best bits, anyway.’ He pointed to a dark stone. ‘Remember that?’

‘God, yes. The ammonite.’

‘I used to enjoy our fossil hunts – like I said the other day, they’re the only good thing I remember about Rookwood.’ He smiled awkwardly. Harry felt oddly touched, suddenly guilty for what he was doing.

‘Now,’ Sandy said. ‘Have a look at this.’ He knelt and lifted the lid from a long, flat wooden box that lay by his desk. Inside was a large, flat white stone.

‘Found that down towards Extremadura a few months ago.’

Embedded in the stone were the bones of a long foot, the three toes ending in curved claws. One claw was much bigger than the other two, the length of a man’s hand.

‘Beautiful, isn’t he? Early Cretaceous, over a hundred million years old.’ His face was alight with genuine wonder; for a moment he looked like a schoolboy again.

‘What species is it?’

‘That’s the interesting bit. I think it may be something new. I’m going to take it to the Natural History Museum when I go home. If it’s still there.’

Sandy looked down at the fossil. ‘By the way, another thing when you see Barbara. I’ve told her I wasn’t friendly with Piper, but I didn’t tell her we didn’t get on at all. Thought it better not to.’

‘I understand.’

‘Thanks.’ Sandy gave an awkward smile. ‘I hated that school so much.’

‘I know. You’ve done OK now, though.’ Harry laughed. ‘Do you remember when you left, you told me you thought you were fated always to be the bad lad, the loser?’

Sandy laughed. ‘Yes. I was letting the bastards get me down. I got a better education on the racetracks. I learned there you can make your own future, be what you want to be.’

‘I sometimes wonder myself.’

‘What?’

‘Oh – whether Rookwood did give you a distorted picture of the world. A complacent one.’

Sandy nodded. ‘Like I said in the cafe, the future belongs to people who can reach out and seize life. We should never let the past hold us back. And there’s no such thing as fate.’

He looked at Harry intently. Harry looked down at the dinosaur’s limb. He noticed the claws were curled, as though the creature had been about to strike when it died.

Chapter Fifteen

HARRY WAS DEBRIEFED by Hillgarth the next morning. He was delighted with his progress. He told him to see Sandy again as soon as possible, try to lead him on to talk about the gold, and push Barbara for information too when he met her.

It was almost lunchtime when he returned to his office. He had been translating a new speech from the governor of Barcelona but found that it had been taken from his desk. He went to see Weaver.

‘Had to give it to Carne,’ Weaver said languidly. ‘Didn’t know how long you’d be with the sneaky beakies, and it needed to be done.’ He sighed. ‘You might as well take the rest of the day off now.’

Harry left the building and walked home. The two other translators, he knew, were annoyed that he kept leaving his work, a frostiness was growing up between them. Blow them, Harry thought. They were affected foreign-office types and he couldn’t be bothered with them. He was becoming more and more conscious, though, of loneliness; apart from Tolhurst, he had no friends at the embassy.

At home he ate a cold lunch and then, not wanting to stay in the flat on his own all afternoon, changed into casual clothes and went out for a walk. The weather was still cold and dank, a faint mist obscuring the end of the street. He stood in the square, wondering where to go, then turned down the street that led into La Latina, with Carabanchel beyond, what Tolhurst had called a bad area that first afternoon. He remembered Bernie’s friends, the Meras. He wondered if they might still be down there somewhere.

As he walked through La Latina he thought about Barbara. He didn’t relish the task before him, asking prying questions about Sandy’s work without seeming too obvious. She had changed out of all recognition. But she wasn’t happy, he could see. He had told Hillgarth that, then felt guilty.

He walked down to the Puerta de Toledo. Beyond lay Carabanchel. He hesitated for a few moments, then crossed the bridge and walked into the warren of tall tenements.

On this damp cold afternoon, the barrio was almost deserted, only a few people walking by. He thought, how Bernie and I must have stood out here in ’31, pale and English in our white shirts. Some of the houses looked about to fall down and were supported by wooden beams; the streets were full of potholes and broken slabs and there was the occasional bombsite, half-demolished walls standing among piles of rubble like broken teeth. Harry flinched as a large rat ran from a bombed house and streaked along the gutter ahead of him.

Then he heard steady footsteps behind. He swore quietly. His spy again, he must have been waiting near the flat. In his preoccupation he had forgotten to watch out for him; bad tradecraft. He backed into the doorway of the nearest tenement. The door was closed and he reached for the handle, slipping into a dark hallway. Water dripped somewhere and there was a strong smell of urine. He pushed the door to, leaving just a crack to peer round.

He saw the pale young man plod past, hunched into his coat. Harry waited a few minutes, then emerged and turned down a side street. The area seemed familiar. A little group of middle-aged men eyed him coldly as he passed the corner where they stood talking. He remembered with a stab of sadness how welcoming the people had been nine years before.

He turned into a square. Two sides had been shelled into rubble, all the houses down, a chaos of broken walls rising from a sea of shattered bricks and sodden rags of bedding. Weeds had grown up between the stones, tall scabrous dark-green things. Square holes in the ground half filled with green scummy water marked where cellars had stood. The square was deserted and the houses that had been left standing looked derelict, their windows all broken.

Harry had never seen destruction on such a scale; the bombsites in London were small by comparison. He stepped closer, looking over the devastation. The square must have been intensively shelled. Every day there was news of more raids on England – did London look like this now?

Then he saw a sign on a corner, Plaza General Blanco, and felt a dreadful lurch in his stomach. This was the square where the Mera family had lived. He looked round again, trying to fix his bearings, and realized that the tenement block where the family had lived was gone, rubble. He stood there, his mouth falling open.

There was a flash of movement and Harry started as a dog jumped on to the remains of a wall and stood looking at him. It was a little tan mongrel with a curly tail; once it had been someone’s pet but now it was half starved, ribs showing through a coat half eaten away by mange.

It barked twice, sharply, and a dozen shapes slipped from behind walls and through the weeds, thin mangy dogs of all shapes and sizes. Some were no bigger than the mongrel, but there were three or four large ones including an Alsatian. They gathered together, watching him. Harry stepped back, remembering what Tolhurst had said on his first day about feral dogs, rabies. He looked round frantically but apart from the dogs there was no sign of life in the misty shattered square. His heart began thumping and a hissing noise sounded in his bad ear.

The dogs padded over the rubble towards him, fanning out slowly and carefully, unnervingly quiet. The Alsatian, evidently the leader, stepped ahead and bared its teeth. How easily that lift of the lip could transform a dog into a wild animal.

You mustn’t show fear. That was what they said about dogs. ‘¡Vete!’ he shouted. ‘Go away!’ To his relief they paused, stopping ten yards from him. The Alsatian bared its teeth again.

Harry stepped back, keeping his eyes on them. He almost stumbled on a half brick and flailed his arms to keep his balance. Staring into the Alsatian’s eyes, he bent and picked the half brick up. The dogs tensed.

He hurled it at the Alsatian with a shout. It caught the animal on a scabby haunch and it yelped, twisting away. ‘¡Vete!’ Harry yelled again. For a second the dogs hesitated, then they turned and ran after their leader.

The pack stopped just out of range and stood watching him. Harry’s legs were shaking. He picked up another piece of brick, then slowly retreated. The dogs stayed where they were. He stopped at the far side of the square, his back pressed against a wall. A tattered Republican poster still hung from it, steel-helmeted soldiers leaping into gunfire.

He retraced his steps slowly, keeping against the walls, watching for movement from the bombsite. The dogs had disappeared among the rubbish but he felt their eyes on him and did not turn his back till he was in the street that led to the square. He leaned against a wall, taking deep breaths.

Then he heard the scream, a yell of pure terror. Another followed, even louder. Harry hesitated a moment, then ran back.

The spy was standing at the edge of the bombsite. The dogs had him surrounded, jumping up at him. A big mongrel had him by the shin, worrying it, trying to bring him down as he screamed again. His trouser leg and the dog’s muzzle were red with blood. As Harry watched one of the smaller dogs leapt up and seized the man’s arm, making him stumble. He went down on the ground with another yell. The Alsatian leaped for his neck. The man managed to throw his arm across his throat but the Alsatian seized the arm. The dogs gave low growls of excitement as he almost disappeared under them.

Harry picked up another piece of brick and threw it. It landed among the dogs and they jumped back, baring their teeth and snarling. He ran across the square in a half crouch, picking up stones and pieces of rubble and hurling them with both hands, yelling at the dogs. Again he aimed mostly for the leader, the Alsatian. The dogs hesitated and Harry thought they were about to go for him too but the Alsatian jumped back and ran off. It was limping; the brick he had thrown earlier must have done some damage. The others followed, disappearing once more among the weeds.

The man lay spreadeagled on the broken cobbles, holding his arm over his throat. He stared at Harry open-mouthed, breathing in loud gasps. His trouser leg was torn and covered with blood.

‘Can you get up?’ Harry asked. The man stared up at him, his eyes wide with shock. ‘We’ve got to get away,’ Harry said gently. ‘They could come back, they’ve tasted blood now. Come on, I’ll help you.’

He took the man under the arms and helped him to his feet. He was light, no more than skin and bone. He stood on one leg, put the other to the ground then lifted it again, wincing. The Alsatian reappeared, watching them from the top of a pile of rubble. Harry shouted and it retreated again. He helped the man from the square, glancing back every few seconds. Once they were a couple of streets away he lowered him to the front step of a tenement. A woman looked out of a window at them, then closed her shutters.

‘Thank you,’ the spy said breathlessly. ‘Thank you, señor.’ His leg was still bleeding, there was blood on Harry’s trousers. He thought of rabies – if the dogs had it, the spy would die.

‘I thought I’d shaken you off,’ Harry said.

The spy looked terrified. ‘You know?’ His eyes widened. He was even younger than Harry had thought, little more than a boy. His pale face was quite white now, from shock and fear.

‘I’ve known for a while. I thought I’d got rid of you.’

The man looked at him sadly. ‘I am always losing you. I lost you when you went out this morning. Then later I saw you near your flat, but I lost you again before the square.’ He gave Harry a weak grin. ‘You are better at this than me.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Enrique. Enrique Roque Casas. You speak good Spanish, señor.’

‘I’m a translator. But you know that, I expect.’

He looked shamefaced. ‘You have saved my life. Believe me, señor, I did not want this job, but we need the money. Now I am ashamed.’ He laid his hand on his leg and drew it away covered in blood. His teeth began to chatter.

‘Come on, I’ll help you home. Where do you live?’ The reply was a mumble Harry couldn’t catch, there was a faint hissing in his bad ear. He bent his good ear towards him and asked again.

‘Only a few streets away, near the river. Madre de Dios – I had heard about those dogs, but I forgot. I did not want to have to report I had lost you again. They are not happy with me as it is.’ Enrique was shivering now, shock setting in.

‘Come on,’ Harry said. ‘Take my coat.’ He took it off and wrapped it round the thin shoulders. Supporting him, Harry followed Enrique’s directions through the narrow streets, ignoring the stares of passersby. He thought, this is ridiculous, but he couldn’t just leave the wretched man; he was in shock and that leg needed seeing to.

‘So who do you work for?’ he asked brusquely.

‘The Foreign Ministry, señor. Our block leader got me the job. They said they wanted me to follow a British diplomat, tell them everywhere you went.’

‘I see.’

‘All the diplomats are followed, except the Germans. Even the Italians. They said you were a translator, señor, you would probably only go to the embassy and the good restaurants in town, but I was to record it all.’

‘And they might get something useful. If I went to a brothel, say, I could be blackmailed.’

Enrique nodded. ‘You know how the business works, señor.’

Only too well, Harry thought.

They stopped before a broken-down tenement. ‘This house, señor,’ Enrique said.

Harry pushed the door open and entered a dank gloomy hall. ‘We are on the first floor,’ Enrique said. ‘If you could help me.’

Harry helped him up a flight of stairs. Enrique produced a key and opened a door with a shaking hand. It led into a small, gloomy hall. There was a close, fusty smell. Enrique opened another door and limped into a small salón. Harry followed, taking off his hat. A brasero burned under a table but the room was still chilly. A couple of scuffed wooden chairs were drawn up to a table where a small thin boy of about eight sat, scrawling dark shapes over and over again with a crayon on a copy of Arriba. At the sight of Harry he jumped up and ran to a sagging single bed in one corner. Curtains had been rigged round it but they were open. An old woman lay there, propped up against pillows, thin grey hair spilling round a wrinkled face that had one side twisted into a leering grimace, the eye half shut. The boy jumped on to the bed, wriggling against the old woman’s side. Harry was shocked by the fear and anger in his look.

The old woman heaved herself up on one arm. ‘Enrique, what has happened, who is this?’ She spoke slowly, her voice slurred, and Harry realized that she had had a stroke.

Enrique seemed to regain control of himself. He went over and kissed her cheek, patting the boy’s head. ‘It is all right, Mama. An accident, some dogs, this man helped me home. Please, señor.’ He pulled out one of the rickety wooden chairs and Harry sat down. It creaked under his weight. Enrique limped back to the old woman. He sat on the bed and took her hand. ‘Don’t worry, Mama, it’s all right. Where’s Sofia?’

‘Gone to the shops.’ The old woman leaned over to pat the boy. He had burrowed against her left arm, which was white and shrivelled. He sat up and pointed at Enrique’s leg.

‘¡Sangre!’ he shouted shrilly. ‘¡Sangre!’ Blood!

‘It’s all right, Paquito, it’s only a cut, it’s nothing,’ Enrique said reassuringly. The old woman stroked the child’s head. ‘No es nada, niño. It’s all right, it’s nothing.

She looked at Harry. ‘Foreigner?’ she said in a loud whisper to her son. ‘Is he German?’

‘I’m English, señora.’ She looked at him anxiously, and Harry guessed she knew what her son did for a living. He looked at Enrique’s tattered, blood-spotted trousers.

‘You should get that leg washed.’

The old woman nodded. ‘Water, Enrique, get water.’

‘Sí, Mama.’ Enrique nodded and limped to the door. Harry rose to help but Enrique waved him back.

‘No. No, stay here, señor, please. You have done enough.’ He picked up a bucket from the corner and went out, leaving Harry standing awkwardly. He supposed he could leave but he didn’t want to be rude. He remembered the Alsatian tearing at the spy’s arm, trying to reach his throat, and shivered.

The pair on the bed stared at him. It was hard to read any expression on the old woman’s face, but the boy’s was angry and afraid. Harry smiled awkwardly. He looked round the room. It was clean. If the old woman was here all the time it was probably impossible to avoid that fusty smell. There were dried flowers in vases and cheap pictures of country scenes on the walls, an effort had been made to make the room look cheerful, but Harry saw that the wall under the window was covered with black streaks of fungus where water dripped from a rotten windowsill on to a folded blanket. He looked away. There were photographs too, he saw, pinned to the wall. The old woman pointed at one of them. ‘My wedding,’ she croaked. ‘With my brother.’

Harry nodded politely and got up to look, the child tensing as he crossed the room. The photograph showed a young couple standing in the doorway of a church, a smiling young priest next to them. From the clothes it seemed to have been taken around the same time as his parents’ wedding. The woman smiled with the half of her face that could still move. ‘Dias mas felices,’ she whispered. Happier days.

‘Sí, mas felices, señora.’

‘Please, señor, sit down.’

Harry took his chair again. The old woman stroked the boy’s hair. He stared at Harry with frightened eyes.

The door opened and a girl in a heavy coat came in, carrying a shopping bag. She was in her early twenties, small and dark-haired, with a heart-shaped face and large brown eyes. When she saw Harry she stopped dead. He stood up.

‘What has happened?’ she asked sharply. ‘Who are you?’

‘It’s all right,’ the old woman said. ‘Some dogs attacked Enrique. This man helped him home. Your brother has gone to get some water.’

She lowered her bag to the floor, still frowning anxiously.

‘I’m sorry if I startled you,’ Harry said.

‘Where are you from?’

‘I’m English. My name’s Harry Brett. I work at the embassy.’

Her eyes widened. ‘Then – you are the one who he—’

‘Er, yes.’ So the girl knew what her brother did for a living too.

‘What has he done now?’ She gave Harry a long hard look, then turned and left the room.

‘My daughter,’ the old woman said. She smiled. ‘Mi Sofia. Corazón de mi vida.’ Heart of my life.

There were voices on the stairs, the girl’s angry, Enrique’s an apologetic mumble. He limped in, followed by the girl who was carrying the bucket of water. Enrique sat in a chair opposite Harry, and the girl took a pair of scissors from a drawer. She looked over at the boy.

‘Paquito, go into the kitchen. Go on. Light the oven for heat.’

Obediently the boy got up from the bed and left the room, with a last scared glance at Harry.

‘I think his leg’s the worst,’ Harry said. ‘But they got his arm too. Can I help?’

She shook her head. ‘I am all right.’ She turned to her brother. ‘You’re going to have to find some new trousers from somewhere.’ She began cutting his trouser leg, Enrique biting his lip to stifle cries of pain. The leg was a mess, full of puncture marks, lengthened into tears in the flesh where the dogs had torn at it. Sofia took off his jacket and cut his shirtsleeve, revealing more bites. She produced a bottle of iodine from the drawer. ‘This will sting badly, Enrique, but otherwise these wounds will become infected.’

‘Is there any sign of rabies?’ Enrique asked tremulously.

‘You cannot tell,’ she replied quietly. ‘Were any of the dogs behaving wildly, staggering or blinking?’

‘One staggered, the Alsatian,’ he replied anxiously. ‘Is that not right, señor?’

Sofia looked at Harry, her face sharp with fear.

‘I hit it with a stone when it went for me earlier. That was why. None of the dogs seemed ill.’

‘Then that is hopeful,’ Sofia said.

‘Those dogs are a danger,’ Harry said. ‘They should be destroyed.’

‘That will be the day, when the government does something for us.’ Sofia went on bathing her brother’s leg. Harry watched, surprised by her steady cool professionalism.

‘Sofia was to be a doctor,’ the old woman croaked from the bed.

Harry turned to her. ‘Really?’ he asked awkwardly.

Sofia did not look up. ‘The war put a stop to my training.’ She began cutting cloth into strips.

‘Oughtn’t your brother see a doctor?’

‘We cannot afford one,’ she replied brusquely. ‘I will see the wounds are kept clean.’

Harry hesitated. ‘I could pay. After all, I rescued him, I ought to see it through.’

She looked at him. ‘There is something else you could do for us, señor, something that would cost no money.’

‘Whatever I can.’

‘Say nothing. My brother told me on the stairs you have known for some time he was following you. He only did it because we need the money.’

Harry looked at Enrique; sitting there in his cloth bandages he looked weary, a scared boy.

‘The block leader, the Falange official for this tenement, he knew we were struggling and said he could get Enrique work. We were not happy when we learned what it was but we need the money.’

‘I know,’ Harry said. ‘Your brother told me.’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘So you asked him about what he did.’

‘Wouldn’t you?’

The girl pursed her lips. ‘Perhaps.’ She went on looking at him. Her face was serious, but it wasn’t pleading; he sensed she wasn’t someone who would plead.

‘Thank God Ramón was not around downstairs,’ Enrique said.

‘Yes, that gives us a chance. We can say Enrique was attacked by dogs but not that you were there; they might even pay him till he is better.’

‘And when I am better, señor, you will not have to worry about who is following if you know it is only me,’ Enrique added. ‘I will say you just walk the streets for fresh air, which is all I have seen you do anyway.’

Harry laughed and shook his head. Enrique laughed too, nervously. Sofia frowned.

‘I’m sorry,’ Harry said. ‘I’m sorry, only the whole thing is so strange.’

‘It’s the world we live in all the time,’ she replied sharply.

‘I didn’t bring this situation about, you know,’ Harry replied. ‘All right, I’ll say nothing.’

‘Thank you.’ Sofia exhaled with relief. She produced a packet of cheap cigarettes and passed one to Enrique before offering one to Harry.

‘No, thanks. I don’t.’

Enrique took a deep draw. There was a harsh snore from the bed; the old woman had fallen asleep.

‘Is she all right?’ Harry asked.

The girl looked at her tenderly. ‘She sleeps all the time. She had a stroke when Papa was killed fighting for the militia.’

Harry nodded. ‘And Paquito is your little brother?’

‘No. He lived in the flat opposite with his parents.’ She looked at him with that unflinching stare. ‘They were union activists. One day last year I came home and found the door of his flat open, blood smeared on the walls. They had taken his parents and left him behind. We took him in, so the nuns would not get him.’

‘He has not been as he should in the head since then,’ Enrique added.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Sofia has work in a dairy,’ Enrique continued. ‘But it is not enough to keep four of us, señor, that is why I took that job.’

Harry took a deep breath. ‘I won’t say anything. I promise. It’s all right.’

‘Only please, señor,’ Enrique said with another attempt at humour. ‘Do not lead me into that square again.’

Harry smiled. ‘I won’t.’ He felt an odd sense of kinship with Enrique; someone else forced by circumstances to be a reluctant spy.

‘That was a strange place for a diplomat to go walking,’ Sofia said, her eyes keen.

‘There was a family I knew there once. Years ago, before the Civil War. They lived in the square where the dogs were. Their block had been bombed.’ He sighed. ‘I don’t know what became of them.’

‘No one is left there now,’ Sofia said. She looked at him curiously. ‘So you knew Spain before – this?’

‘Yes.’

She nodded but said no more. Harry got up.

‘I won’t say anything about Enrique. And please, you must let me pay for a doctor.’

Sofia stubbed out her cigarette. ‘No. Thank you, you have done enough.’

‘Please. Send the bill to me.’ He took out a piece of paper and wrote his address down, handing it to her. She got up and took it. He realized that of course Enrique knew where he lived anyway.

‘We will see you,’ she said noncommittally. ‘Thank you, Señor – Brett, is that how you say it?’ she asked, rolling her ‘r’s.

‘Yes.’

‘Brett.’ She stood and nodded gravely. ‘And I am Sofia.’ She extended a small, shapely hand. It was warm and delicate. ‘We are in your debt, señor. Goodbye.’

It was a dismissal. To his surprise, Harry realized he didn’t want to leave. He wanted to stay, learn more about their lives. But he rose, picking up his hat.

‘Adios.’

He left the flat and descended the dark staircase to the street. As he walked back to the Puerta de Toledo he found his legs were shaking a little and the buzzing was back in his ears. The ruined square came back to him, the dogs. Were the Mera family all dead, he wondered. Like Bernie?

Chapter Sixteen

IT WAS BECAUSE OF Bernie’s parents that Harry had met Barbara. He had spent Easter 1937 with his aunt and uncle. He was in the first year of his fellowship then. Since going up to Cambridge four years before he had seen little of them; strangely, that seemed to make them miss him and on his rare visits they greeted him with affection, eager to hear his news.

One afternoon at the end of April the telephone rang in the hall of the big old house. Uncle James came into the lounge where Harry was reading the Telegraph He looked worried.

‘That was your friend Bernie Piper’s mother on the phone,’ he said. ‘The boy you went to Spain with.’

Harry hadn’t heard from Bernie in five years. ‘Has something happened?’

‘It was hard to follow her, she was gabbling so, I don’t think she’s used to the telephone. Apparently he went out to fight in the war in Spain. For the Reds,’ Uncle James added with distaste. ‘They’ve had a letter saying he’s missing in action. She wants to know if you can help. Sounds like a can of worms to me. I told her you weren’t in, actually.’

Harry felt a chill settle on his stomach. He remembered Bernie’s mother, a nervous, birdlike woman. Bernie had taken him to see her in London just before they went to Spain in 1931; he wanted Harry to convince her they would be safe. She had believed his reassurances, if not her son’s; perhaps he represented the respectable solidity of Rookwood that Bernie had rejected.

‘I ought to talk to her. I’ll phone back.’

‘They don’t have a phone. She asked if you could go and see her. Bit of a cheek.’ He paused. ‘Still, poor woman must be desperate.’

Harry took the train to London the next day. He remembered the way to the little grocer’s shop on the Isle of Dogs, among the little streets where shabby unemployed men walked. The shop was the same, vegetables in open boxes on the floor, cheap canned goods on the shelves. Bernie’s father sat behind the counter. He was as tall and strongly built as Bernie and must once have been as good-looking, but now he was faded, stooped, with sad dead eyes.

‘It’s you,’ he said. ‘Hello. Mother’s in there.’ He jerked his head to a glassed door behind the counter. He didn’t follow Harry in.

Edna Piper was sitting at the table in the little parlour. Her narrow face under its untidy hair lit up when Harry appeared. She stood and took his hand in a bony grip.

‘ ’Arry, ’Arry. How are you?’

‘I’m all right thanks, Mrs Piper.’

‘I was so sorry Bernie lost touch with you, wasting his time with those people in Chelsea—’ she broke off. ‘Did you know he’d gone to fight in Spain?’

‘No. I’m afraid I haven’t heard from Bernie for years. We lost touch.’

She sighed. ‘It’s as though he’d never been to the school, apart from the way he speaks. Sit down, I’m sorry, would you like some tea?’

‘No. No, thanks. What – what’s happened? My uncle wasn’t very clear, I’m afraid.’

‘We had a letter a month ago from the British Embassy. It said there was some battle in February and that Bernie was missing in action. It was so short and curt.’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘His pa says that means he’s dead, they just never found a body.’

Harry sat opposite her. There was an envelope on the table with a bright Spanish stamp. Mrs Piper picked it up, turning it over and over.

‘Bernie just breezed in here one day last October and said he was going out to fight the Fascists. Looked at me all defiant because he knew I’d argue. But it was his father it affected most. Bernie didn’t think of that, but I saw how he slumped like all the air was sucked out of him when he told us. This’ll finish him.’ She looked bleakly at Harry. ‘Sometimes children crucify their parents, you know.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘You lost both yours, didn’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Pete won’t come in, he’s certain Bernie’s dead.’ She held up the letter. ‘Would you look at this? It’s from an English girl Bernie knew out there.’

Harry pulled out the letter and read it. It was dated three weeks before:

‘Dear Mr and Mrs Piper,

You don’t know me but Bernie and I were very close and I wanted to write to you. I know the embassy has written saying Bernie is missing believed killed. I work for the Red Cross out here and I wanted you to know I am working hard to try and find out more, whether he could possibly still be alive. It is difficult to get information here but I will go on trying. Bernie was always such a wonderful person.

Yours truly,

Barbara Clare’

‘I don’t know what she means,’ Mrs Piper said. ‘She says he may still be alive, then that he was a wonderful person, like he was dead.’

‘It sounds like she’s hoping against hope,’ Harry said. His heart seemed to fall; for the first time it sunk in that Bernie was gone. He put the letter down.

‘He wrote to us about her, you know, back at Christmas. Said he’d met an English girl out there. She must be in a dreadful state. I don’t like to think of her there alone.’

‘Have you written back?’

‘Straight away, but there’s been no reply.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I don’t think letters always get through. I wondered – you speak Spanish, don’t you, you know the country?’

‘I’ve not been to Spain since 1931,’ Harry said hesitantly.

‘Which side do you support?’ she asked suddenly.

He shook his head. ‘Neither. I just think the whole thing’s a tragedy.’

‘I’ve had the Spanish Dependants’ Aid round, but I don’t want money, I just want Bernie.’ Mrs Piper looked him in the eye. ‘Would you go there? Try to find this girl, find what happened?’ She leaned forward and grasped his hand in both of hers. ‘It’s a lot to ask but you were such good friends. If you could find out for sure, find out if there’s any hope.’

TWO DAYS AFTER his visit to Mrs Piper, Harry took the train for Madrid. He had managed to book a hotel room. The travel agent said it would be full of journalists; they were the only people travelling to Spain now.

From the train window Harry saw slogans everywhere proclaiming the workers’ war. It was a warm, fresh Castilian spring but people looked grim, embattled. When he arrived in Madrid he was astonished how different everything looked from the time of his first visit: the huge posters, the soldiers and militia everywhere, the people with the strained worried faces despite the propaganda booming from the loudspeakers around the Centro. The newspapers were full of an attempted coup in Barcelona by ‘Trotsky-Fascist’ traitors.

He checked into the hotel, it was near the Castellana. He had Barbara’s address but wanted to orient himself first. That afternoon he went for a walk through La Latina to Carabanchel. He remembered walking down here with Bernie in 1931 to visit the Meras, the heat of that summer, how carefree they had been.

The further south he walked the fewer people there were. Soldiers eyed him suspiciously. There were barricades across many of the streets, crude structures built with cobblestones, a small gap for pedestrians; the streets without their cobbles were seas of mud. The sound of artillery became audible, occasional whistles and crumps in the distance. Harry turned back. He wondered, feeling sick to his stomach, whether the Meras were still down in Carabanchel.

In his hotel that evening he met a journalist, a cynical scholarly looking man called Phillips. He asked him what had happened in Barcelona.

‘The Russians asserting control.’ He laughed. ‘Trotskyists my arse. There aren’t any.’

‘So it’s true? The Russians have taken over the Republic?’

‘Oh it’s true all right. They run everything now; they’ve got their own torture chambers in a basement in the Puerta del Sol. They’ve got the trump card, you see. If the government challenges them, Stalin can say all right, we’ll stop the arms shipments. He’s even got them to ship the Bank of Spain’s gold to Moscow. They won’t see that again in a hurry.’

Harry shook his head. ‘I’m glad we’re following non-intervention.’

Phillips laughed again. ‘Non-intervention my fanny. If Baldwin had let the French give the Republic arms last year, they wouldn’t have touched the Russians with a barge pole. This is our fault. The Republic will lose in the end; the Germans and Italians are pouring in arms and men.’

‘And then what?’

Phillips stretched out an arm in the Fascist salute. ‘Sieg heil, old boy. Another Fascist power. Well, I must toddle off to bed. Got to do a report from the Casa de Campo tomorrow, worse luck. Wish I’d brought my tin hat.’

HARRY WENT TO Red Cross HQ next day and asked for Miss Clare. He was shown into an office where a harassed-looking Swiss man sat behind a trestle table stacked with papers. They spoke in French. The official looked at him seriously.

‘Do you know Miss Clare personally?’

‘No, it was her friend I knew. His parents asked me to contact her.’

‘She has taken it badly. We have given her a period of sick leave but we wonder if she might be better off returning to England.’

‘I see.’

‘It would be a great shame, she has been a tower of strength in the office. But she won’t go, not till she knows for sure about her boyfriend, she says. But she may never know for sure.’ He paused. ‘I have had a complaint from the authorities, I am afraid. She is becoming a nuisance. We need to keep good relations with them. If you could help her see things in some sort of perspective …’

‘I’ll do what I can.’ He sighed. ‘Perspective seems in short supply here.’

‘It is. Very short.’

THE ADDRESS was a block of flats. He knocked at her door and heard shuffling footsteps within. He wondered if he had got the wrong flat, they sounded like an old lady’s footsteps, but it was a tall young woman with disordered red hair and a strained puffy face who opened the door. There were bags under the startlingly green eyes half hidden by smeared glasses.

‘¡Sí?’ she asked without interest.

‘Miss Clare? You don’t know me. My name’s Brett, Harry Brett.’ She looked at him uncomprehendingly. ‘I’m a friend of Bernie’s.’

At his name she came to life. ‘Is there news?’ she asked eagerly. ‘Have you news?’

‘I’m afraid not. Bernie’s parents had your letter, they asked me to come out and see what could be done.’

‘Oh.’ She was downcast again at once, but held the door open. ‘Come in.’

The flat was cluttered and untidy, the air thick with cigarette smoke. She frowned, a puzzled look. ‘I know your name from somewhere.’

‘Rookwood. I was there with Bernie.’

She smiled, her face suddenly warm. ‘Of course. Harry. Bernie talked about you.’

‘Did he?’

‘He said you were his best friend at school.’ She paused. ‘He hated that school, though.’

‘Still?’

She sighed. ‘It was all tied up with his politics. Looks like it’s done for him in the end, his bloody politics. Sorry, my manners are awful.’ She swept a pile of clothes from an armchair. ‘Sit down. Coffee? It’s pretty dire, I’m afraid.’

‘Thanks. That would be nice.’

She made him a coffee and sat opposite him. The life seemed to have gone out of her again. She slumped in her chair, smoking strong Spanish cigarettes.

‘Did you go to the Red Cross?’ she asked.

‘Yes. They said you were on sick leave.’

‘Nearly two months now, it’s been.’ She shook her head. ‘They want me to go back to England, they say Bernie’s bound to be dead. I believed that at first but now I’m not sure, I can’t be sure till someone tells me where the body is.’

‘Have you made any progress?’

‘No. They’re getting fed up of me, they’ve told me not to come again. They’ve even complained to old Doumergue.’ She lit another cigarette. ‘There was a commissar Bernie knew from the fighting in the Casa de Campo, a Communist who worked at army HQ. Captain Duro. He was kind; he was trying to find out what he could but he left suddenly, last week, transferred or something. There have been a lot of changes recently. I asked if I could go out there, to the lines, but of course they said no.’

‘Maybe it would be better to go home.’

‘Nothing to go home for.’ Her eyes went blank, inward-looking; she seemed to forget he was there. Harry felt desperately sorry for her. ‘Come for lunch at my hotel,’ he said.

She gave him a quick, sad smile and nodded.

HE SPENT most of the next couple of days with her. She wanted to hear all he could tell her about Bernie. It seemed to lift her out of herself for a while, though she kept slipping back into that withdrawn, glassy-eyed sadness. She wore old skirts and unironed blouses and no make-up; she didn’t seem to care how she looked.

On the second day he visited the British Embassy but they said what everyone else had: that ‘missing believed killed’ meant they hadn’t found an identifiable body. He walked back to Barbara’s flat. He wasn’t looking forward to telling her what they had said. He had promised to visit army HQ the next day, perhaps they would take more notice of a man; after that he didn’t see what else he could do. He was sure Bernie was dead.

He rang her bell and heard the dragging footsteps again. She opened the door and leaned against it, staring at him. She was drunk. ‘Come in,’ she said.

There was a half-empty bottle of wine on the table and another in the wastepaper basket. She slumped into a chair beside the table.

‘Have a drink,’ she said. ‘Drink with me, Harry.’

‘Don’t you think you’ve had enough?’ he asked gently.

‘No. Take a cup and have one.’

He let her pour him a drink. She raised her cup. ‘Here’s to the bloody revolution.’

‘The bloody revolution.’

He told her what the embassy had said. She put down her glass. The inward look came over her face again. ‘He was so full of life, always. So funny. So beautiful.’ She looked up. ‘He said some of the boys at school got crushes on him. He didn’t like it.’

‘No. No, he didn’t.’

‘Did you have a crush on him?’

‘No.’ Harry smiled sadly. He remembered the night Bernie had gone to the prostitutes. ‘I was jealous of his looks sometimes.’

‘Have you a girlfriend back in England?’

‘Yes.’ He hesitated. ‘A nice girl.’ He had been going out with Laura for some months; he was surprised to realize he had hardly thought of her since coming to Madrid.

‘They say there’s someone for everyone, and there is, but they don’t tell you sometimes they’re just taken away from you again. Gone. Vanished.’ She clenched a fist against her forehead and began to cry, harsh wracking sobs. ‘I’ve just been deluding myself, haven’t I? He’s gone.’

‘I’m afraid it looks that way,’ Harry replied quietly.

‘Visit army HQ for me tomorrow, though, will you? Speak to Captain Duro. But if they’ve no more news. I’ll – I’ll give up. I’ll have to accept it.’

‘I will. I promise.’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t usually get like this. I’ve shocked you, haven’t I?’

He leaned across the table and took her hand. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said gently. ‘I’m so, so sorry.’

She clasped his hand and leaned her head against it and wept and wept.

THE SOLDIER at the entrance to military headquarters was reluctant to let Harry in but he explained what he wanted in Spanish and that helped. Inside he told a sergeant he had come to see what he could find out about a soldier missing on the Jarama. He mentioned Bernie’s name and the name of the Communist Barbara said had helped her. The sergeant said he would consult an officer and showed him to a little windowless office to wait. He sat down at a table. He stared at a picture of Stalin on the wall, the screwed-up little eyes and the big moustache, a smile like a grimace. There was a map of Spain, too, pencil lines marking the shrinking areas the Republic held.

A Spaniard in a captain’s uniform came in, carrying a folder. He was short and swarthy and had a tired, stubbly face. There was another captain with him, a tall pale burly man. They sat opposite him. The Spaniard nodded curtly.

‘I understand you are making enquiries about a certain Captain Duro.’

‘No. No, I’m trying to find out about an English volunteer, Bernie Piper. His girlfriend has been here, she said Captain Duro was helping her.’

‘May I see your passport, please?’

Harry handed it over. The Spaniard opened it, holding it up to the light. He grunted and slipped it into his folder.

‘Could I have that back, please?’ Harry said. ‘I need it.’

The captain folded his arms on top of the folder and turned to his colleague. The other man nodded. ‘You speak good Spanish, señor.’ His accent was foreign, guttural.

‘It’s my subject. I’m a lecturer – at Cambridge.’

‘Who sent you here?’

Harry frowned. ‘Private Piper’s parents.’

‘But his woman is already here. The records say he is missing believed killed. That means dead but no body. But we have first this woman from the Red Cross coming day after day, and now you. And always you talk about Captain Duro.’

‘Look, we just want to know, that’s all.’ Harry was getting angry now. ‘Private Piper came to fight for your Republic, don’t you owe us that much?’

‘You support the Nationalists, señor?’

‘No, I don’t. I’m English, we’re neutral.’ Harry began to feel uneasy. He noticed both officers wore revolvers. The foreign officer snatched the folder brusquely from his colleague.

‘Miss Barbara Clare, who has been here many times, I see she asked to visit the battlefield. That is a restricted zone. As she works for the Red Cross, she should know that. They have denied responsibility for her enquiries.’

‘She wasn’t asking on their behalf. Look, Bernie Piper was her – well, her lover.’

‘And you, what is your connection with him?’

‘We were at school together.’

The captain laughed, a harsh sound deep in his throat. ‘You call that a connection?’

‘Look here,’ he said. ‘I came here in good faith to find a missing soldier. But if you won’t help me, perhaps I’d better go.’ He started to rise.

‘Sit down.’ The foreign officer stood up and pushed him hard on the chest. Harry was taken off balance and fell over on the floorboards, landing painfully on his pelvis. The officer looked at him coldly as he stood up. ‘Sit on that chair.’

Harry’s heart was beating hard. He remembered what the journalist had said about torture chambers in the Puerta del Sol. The Spanish officer looked uneasy. He leaned over and whispered something in his colleague’s ear. The other man shook his head impatiently, then took out a packet of cigarettes and lit one. Harry stared at the pack; there was Cyrillic writing on it.

The officer smiled. ‘Yes, I am Russian. We help our Spanish comrades with matters of security. They need that help; there are Fascist and Trotskyist spies everywhere. Asking questions. Making up lies.’

Harry tried to keep his voice steady. ‘I came here to make enquiries about a friend—’

‘Private Piper did not come out here via established International Brigade procedures. He simply turned up in Madrid last November. That is not normal.’

‘I don’t know anything about that. I haven’t seen Bernie for years.’

‘Yet you came out here looking for him?’

‘His parents asked me to.’

The Russian leaned forward. ‘And who told you to ask about Captain Duro?’

Harry took a deep breath. He was in an underground room in a foreign city under martial law. There was no way out of here unless they let him go.

‘Miss Clare. She said Captain Duro introduced himself when she first came here making enquiries. I told you, he met Bernie in the Casa de Campo. He tried to find out more for her. Then she was told he had been transferred. No one else would help her.’

‘Now we are getting somewhere. Captain Duro was not, in fact, transferred. He was arrested as a saboteur. He was overheard saying we should have treated with the rebels in Barcelona.’ He leaned back, crossing his arms. ‘Treated with Trotsky-Fascist saboteurs.’

‘Look, I really don’t know anything about this. I’ve only been in the country three days.’

‘This Private Piper’s file shows that after he was injured in the fighting in the Casa de Campo, he offered to help with the reception of volunteers arriving from England. But it was felt he was a bourgeois, a sentimentalist, one likely to disapprove of some of the hard measures we need here. It was felt he should be allowed to recover then sent to the front. He was foot-soldier material, not one of the men of steel we need now.’

Harry stared at the Russian.

‘Such people are easily seduced by Trotsky-Fascism.’ The Russian turned to his colleague. The Spaniard leaned in close; Harry caught the whispered words, ‘Red Cross.’ The Russian frowned.

‘We shall discuss this outside.’ He turned to Harry. ‘You, Señor Brett, you stay here.’ Harry felt a shiver run down his spine, felt cold in the hot stuffy room.

The soldiers went out. Harry heard a low rumble of voices. He thought feverishly about what would happen if they took him away somewhere. Barbara was expecting him back at the flat. She had seemed calmer after her outburst yesterday; he hoped she hadn’t hit the bottle again. She would look for him if he didn’t return. His palms were sweating. He told himself he must stay calm.

The voices from the corridor rose. He heard the Russian shouting. ‘Who is in charge here?’ Footsteps retreated, then there was silence, a thick silence he could almost feel. He remembered the boys talking eagerly about types of torture at school. What the rack did, thumbscrews, new tortures with electric shocks.

The door opened and the Spanish officer entered, alone, his face set. He handed Harry his passport.

‘Be thankful for your Red Cross connections,’ he said coldly. ‘Be grateful we need their medicines. You can go. Get out now before he changes his mind.’ He stared into Harry’s eyes. ‘You have twenty-four hours to leave Spain.’

BACK IN THE FLAT, Harry told Barbara what had happened. He had to leave Spain at once and she should go too; she must never go back to military HQ. He had thought she might not believe what had occurred, but she did.

‘We know about what’s happening,’ she said quietly. ‘In the Red Cross, I mean. The arrests and disappearances.’ She shook her head. ‘I’d just stopped thinking about it. I haven’t thought of anything but finding out about Bernie. I’ve been so selfish. I’m sorry you went through that.’

‘I volunteered to go. Maybe we’ve both been naive.’

‘Less excuse for me, I’ve been here nine months.’

‘Barbara, you should come back to England.’

‘No.’ She stood up, a new decisiveness about her. ‘I’ll go back to work, tell Doumergue what’s happened. I’ll see if I can get a transfer.’

‘Are you sure you’re up to that?’

She smiled wanly. ‘I’ll be better working. It’ll help me pull myself together.’

Harry packed, then went back to Barbara’s flat for supper. Neither of them felt like going out into the city.

‘I had to have some hope,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t accept Bernie was dead.’

‘What will you do now?’

She smiled bravely. ‘I talked Doumergue into transferring me. I’m going to help organize medical supplies in Burgos.’

‘The Nationalist zone?’

‘Yes.’ She gave a brittle laugh. ‘See the other side of the story. There’s no fighting in Burgos, it’s well behind the lines.’

‘Will you be able to stand that? Working with the people Bernie fought against?’

‘Oh, the Nationalists and the Communists are no better than each other. I know that, but I just want to do my job, help the people caught in the middle. Damn all the bloody politics. I’m past caring.’

Harry looked at her. He wondered if she was up to it.

‘Can you feel Bernie’s presence?’ she asked suddenly. ‘Here, in the flat?’

‘No.’ He smiled awkwardly. ‘I don’t get feelings like that.’

‘Sometimes a sort of warmth steals over me, as though he was here. I suppose that just proves he’s dead.’

‘Whatever happens, you’ve some good memories. That’ll be a comfort, in time.’

‘I suppose so. What about you?’

He smiled. ‘Back home to the routine.’

‘It sounds a good life. Are you happy?’

‘Content, I suppose. Perhaps that’s as much as we should hope for.’

‘I always wanted more.’ Her eyes took on a faraway look for a moment. ‘Oh God, I’m going to have to pull myself together to work in Burgos.’ She smiled. ‘Will you write to me?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Tell me all about Cambridge, while I’m up to my neck in forms.’ She gave that quick, sad little smile again.

Chapter Seventeen

GENERAL MAESTRE’S HOUSE was an eighteenth-century mansion in the northern suburbs. He sent a car to pick up Harry and Tolhurst, a big American Lincoln; they drove at speed up a dark empty Castellana from which the Nazi flags had been taken down. Himmler had gone, but the previous day the newspapers had sprung even more sensational news: Hitler and Franco had met at the town of Hendaye on the French border for six hours of talks. The papers predicted that Spain would soon join the war.

‘The meeting went badly, actually, that’s the word from Sam,’ Hillgarth had told Harry and Tolhurst that afternoon. He had summoned them to a meeting in Tolhurst’s office. Dressed today in an ordinary suit, he looked tired. He sat with one leg crossed over the other, constantly jiggling his free foot. ‘He’s got a source in Franco’s entourage. Said Franco told Hitler he’d only enter the war if Hitler guaranteed huge amounts of supplies. He knows we’d let nothing through the blockade. Well, let’s hope that’s right.’ He picked up a copy of ABC from Tolhurst’s narrow desk; the Generalísimo was shown leaning down from the royal train to greet Hitler, grinning broadly, eyes alight.

‘Franco’s besotted with Hitler, wants to be part of the New Order.’ Hillgarth shook his head, then looked at them keenly. ‘You’re both going to that party tonight, aren’t you? See if you can find out from Maestre how the new trade minister’s doing. Carceller made a pro-Fascist speech the other day; Maestre may not last much longer as deputy. Then we’ll have lost a friend.’

‘Did you see the report from our man in Gerona, sir?’ Tolhurst asked. ‘Food trains heading for the French border, “For Our German Allies” painted on the side?’

Hillgarth nodded. He shifted in his chair, bringing his foot to rest. ‘Time to move on with Forsyth, Brett. Find out more about this damned gold. And what about this Clare woman, where does she fit in?’

‘I don’t think Barbara knows anything.’

Hillgarth eyed him keenly. ‘Well, find out,’ he said tersely. ‘You know her.’

‘Not well. But we’re meeting for lunch on Monday.’ He had phoned yesterday; Barbara had seemed hesitant but accepted his invitation. Harry felt guilty but at the same time full of curiosity about her relationship with Sandy. Being a spy stimulates nosiness, he thought. ‘I think my best bet’s to follow up what Sandy said about business opportunities,’ he went on. ‘It may help me get a picture of what he’s doing.’

‘When are you seeing him again?’

‘I thought I’d arrange something when I met Barbara.’

Hillgarth’s foot jigged again. ‘This can’t wait. You should have organized something when you spoke to the woman.’

‘We don’t want to seem too eager,’ Tolhurst interjected.

Hillgarth waved a hand impatiently. ‘We need that information.’ He rose abruptly. ‘I’ve got to go. See to it.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘He’s worried,’ Tolhurst said as the door closed. ‘Better fix another meeting with Forsyth pronto.’

‘All right. But Sandy’s sharp.’

‘We’ll have to be sharper.’

THE BALL HAD a Moorish theme. A pair of Moroccan guards flanked the front door, dressed in turbans and long yellow cloaks and holding lances. Harry looked at their impassive brown faces as he passed, recalling the savage reputation the Moors had during the Civil War.

Inside, the wide hallway was decorated with Moorish tapestries; guests circulated, the men in evening dress and many of the women in wide Andalusian skirts. A partition separating the hall from the salón had been pushed back, creating one enormous room. It was full of people. A servant, Spanish but wearing a fez and kaftan, took their names and waved a waiter across to serve them drinks.

‘Know anyone?’ Harry asked.

‘One or two people. Look, there’s Goach.’ The old protocol expert stood in a corner, talking earnestly to a tall red-robed cleric. ‘He’s a Catholic, you know, loves a monsignor.’

‘Look at the waiters in fancy dress. They must be hot.’

Tolhurst leaned close. ‘Talking of things Moroccan, look over there.’

Harry followed his gaze. In the middle of the room Maestre stood with two other men, like him in uniform. One was a lieutenant. The other, a general like Maestre, was an extraordinary figure. Elderly, thin and white-haired, he was talking animatedly, threatening to splash his companions with the drink he held in one hand. His other sleeve hung empty. His cadaverous scarred face had only one eye, a black patch screwed into an empty socket on the other side. He laughed, showing an almost toothless mouth.

‘Millán Astray,’ Tolhurst said. ‘You can’t mistake him. Founder of the Spanish Foreign Legion. Astray’s pro-Fascist and mad as a hatter, but his old troops love him. Franco served under him, and so did Maestre. Chief of the bridegrooms of death.’

‘The what?’

‘That’s what they called the legion. Make the French legion look like Sunday-school teachers.’ Tolhurst leaned closer and lowered his voice. ‘The captain told me a story about Maestre. Some nuns from a nursing order came out to Morocco during the tribal rebellions. Maestre and some of his men met them at Melilla docks and presented them with a huge basket of roses – with the heads of two Moroccan rebel leaders in the middle.’

‘Sounds like a tall story.’ Harry looked again at Maestre. Millán Astray’s gestures had become even wilder and Maestre looked a little strained, but still bent his head politely to listen.

‘Maestre told Captain Hillgarth himself. Nuns never batted an eyelid, apparently. The legion had a bit of a thing about heads, used to parade with them stuck on the end of their bayonets.’ Tolhurst shook his head wonderingly. ‘Half the government are ex-legion now. It’s one thing that holds the Monarchist and Falangist factions together. A shared past.’

Millán Astray had put down his drink and was squeezing the shoulder of Maestre’s other companion as he went on talking animatedly. Even that hand, Harry saw, had fingers missing. Maestre caught Harry’s eye, and muttered something to Millán Astray. The old man nodded and Maestre and the lieutenant came over to Harry and Tolhurst. On the way Maestre whispered to a small plump woman in a wide Andalusian skirt and long white gloves and she followed the others over. Maestre extended a hand to Harry with a welcoming smile.

‘Ah, Señor Brett. I am so glad that you could come. And you must be Señor Tolhurst.’

‘Yes, sir. Thank you for inviting me.’

‘I am always glad to welcome friends from the embassy. I should be circulating but I have been reliving old times in Morocco. My wife, Elena.’

Harry and Tolhurst bowed.

‘And my right-hand man from those days, Lieutenant Alfonso Gomez.’

The other man shook hands and bowed stiffly. He was short and stocky, with a stern face the colour of mahogany and keen eyes. ‘You are English?’ he asked.

‘Yes, from the embassy.’

Señora Maestre smiled. ‘I am told you were at Eton, Señor Tolhurst?’

‘A fine place.’ Maestre nodded approvingly. ‘Where English gentlemen are bred, eh?’

‘I hope so, sir.’

‘And you, Señor Brett?’ Señora Maestre asked.

‘I went to another public school, señora. Rookwood.’ He saw Gomez looking at him, weighing him up.

Señora Maestre nodded. ‘And what do your family do?’

Harry was taken aback by her directness. ‘I’m from an army background.’

She nodded happily. ‘Excellent, just like us. And you are a lecturer at Cambridge?’ Her eyes were keen, probing.

‘Yes. In peacetime. Only a fellow, not – senior.’

Maestre nodded approvingly. ‘Cambridge. How I loved my time there, as Señor Brett knows. It was there I got my love of England.’

‘You must meet my daughter,’ Señora Maestre said. ‘She has never met an Englishman. Only Italians, and they are not a good influence.’ She raised her eyebrows and gave a little shudder.

‘Yes, you young men go with Elena,’ Maestre added. As Harry passed him he touched his arm and spoke softly, his keen brown eyes serious. ‘You are among friends tonight. No Germans here, and no blue shirts, except for Millán Astray and he is an exception. He has little to do nowadays, we invited him as a kindness.’

Harry and Tolhurst followed Señora Maestre as she cut a path through the crowd, skirts swishing. At the far end three girls stood together self-consciously, nursing tall crystal glasses of wine. Two wore flamenco dresses; the third, short and plump like her mother with olive skin and a round face with heavy features, wore an evening dress of white silk. Señora Maestre clapped her hands and they looked up. Harry remembered for an instant the flamenco singers who had danced in El Toro when he and Bernie were there nine years before. But those had been dressed in black.

‘Milagros!’ Señora Maestre said. ‘You should talk to your guests. Señor Brett, Señor Tolhurst, my daughter Milagros and her friends, Dolores and Catalina.’ She turned quickly to a man who was passing by. ‘Marque«s! You came!’ She took the man’s arm and led him away.

‘Are you from London?’ Milagros asked Harry with a shy smile. She seemed nervous, ill at ease.

‘Near there. A place called Surrey. Simon’s from London, aren’t you?’

‘What – oh, yes.’ Tolhurst had gone red and was starting to perspire. A lock of fair hair fell over his forehead and he brushed it away, almost spilling his drink. Milagros’s friends exchanged glances and giggled.

‘I have seen pictures of your King and Queen,’ Milagros said. ‘And the princesses, how old are they now?’

‘Princess Elizabeth’s fourteen.’

‘She is very pretty. Don’t you think so?’

‘Yes, yes she is.’

A waiter passed by, filling their glasses again. Harry smiled at Milagros, delving for something to say. ‘So, you are eighteen today.’

‘Yes, tonight I am launched on the world.’ She spoke with an undertone of regret, for her childhood perhaps. She studied Harry for a moment, then smiled and seemed to relax. ‘My father says you are a translator. Have you been doing that for long?’

‘No. I used to be a university teacher.’

Milagros smiled again, sadly. ‘I was not clever at school. But now that time is over.’

‘Yes,’ one of her friends said cheerfully. ‘Now it is time for her to find a husband.’ They giggled and Milagros flushed. Harry felt sorry for her.

‘I say,’ Tolhurst broke in suddenly. ‘Your name, Milagros. And yours, Dolores. They sound very strange in English – Miracles and Sadness. We don’t have religious names for girls.’ He laughed and the girls looked at him coldly.

‘There’s Charity,’ Harry said awkwardly.

‘Are you a little hot, Señor Simon?’ Dolores asked maliciously. ‘Would you like a cloth for your brow?’

Tolhurst reddened even further. ‘No, no, I’m all right. I—’

‘Look, Dolores, there’s Jorge,’ Catalina said excitedly. ‘Come on.’ Giggling, the two girls walked off to a good-looking young man in a cadet’s uniform. Milagros looked embarrassed.

‘I am sorry, my friends were a little impolite.’

‘It’s all right,’ Tolhurst said awkwardly. I’ll – uh – go and get something to eat.’ He walked away, head lowered.

Harry smiled ruefully. ‘I don’t think he’s been to a big occasion like this for a while.’

The girl produced a fan and waved it gently in front of her face. ‘Neither have I, there have been no parties since we came back to Madrid last year. But now things are getting back to normal a little. But it feels rather strange after so long.’

‘Yes. Yes, it does. It’s my first party too, for – for a while.’ Since Dunkirk. Harry felt oddly apart, as though there was a glass wall between him and the partygoers. On his deaf side it was hard to make out any words in the cacophony of noise.

Milagros looked at him seriously. Harry turned his head so that his good ear was towards her. ‘How I hope Spain can stay out of the war in Europe,’ she said. ‘What do you think, señor?’

‘I hope so too.’

Milagros studied him again. ‘Forgive me asking, but are you a soldier? My family have been soldiers for generations; we cannot help noticing when a man stands awkwardly, like your friend. But you stand like a soldier.’

‘That’s clever of you. I was in the army until a few months ago.’

‘Papa was in Morocco when I was young. It was a terrible place. I was so glad to come home. But then the Civil War came.’ She smiled, making an effort to be cheerful. ‘And you, señor, were you in the army for long?’

‘No. I only joined up when the war started.’

‘They say the bombing of London is terrible.’

‘Yes. It’s a difficult time.’ He remembered the bombs falling.

‘It is so sad. And London is so beautiful, I hear. Many museums and art galleries.’

‘Yes. They’ve taken the pictures away for the war.’

‘In Madrid we have the Prado. They are putting the pictures back there now. I have never seen them, I should like to go.’ She smiled at Harry, encouragingly but a little embarrassed, and he thought, she wants me to take her. He was flattered but she was so young, scarcely more than a child.

‘Well, I’d like to go too, though just now I’m very busy …’

‘That would be so nice. We have a telephone, you could ring my mother to arrange it—’

Catalina and Dolores reappeared with a group of cadets crowding round them. Milagros frowned.

‘Milagros, you must meet Carlos. He has a medal already, he has been fighting the Red bandits in the north—’

‘Excuse me,’ Harry said. ‘I’d better find Simon.’ He made his escape, puffing out his cheeks with relief. She was a nice child. But just a child. He collected another glass from a passing waiter. He’d better watch how much he had. He thought of Sofia, as he had several times since the day before. She had seemed full of life, energy. He had said nothing to Hillgarth about the spy. He would keep his promise.

Tolhurst was standing in the middle of the room, talking to Goach, who was looking at him with slight distaste through his monocle. Poor old Tolly, Harry thought suddenly. With his big frame Tolhurst should have looked impressive but there was always something slouched and drooping about him.

Goach cheered up as Harry joined them. ‘Evening, Brett. I say, you’d better watch out. The general and his wife are looking for a good catch for Milagros. The general’s brother told me. Monsignor Maestre.’ He nodded to where the priest was talking to a couple of older women. Harry could see a resemblance to Maestre in the thin face, the authoritative manner.

‘You know him, sir?’

‘Yes, he’s quite a scholar. Expert on Spanish church liturgy during the Reconquista period.’ Goach smiled and bowed as the monsignor, hearing his name, came over.

‘Ah, George,’ the monsignor said in Spanish. ‘I have been getting some more subscriptions.’ His eyes flicked over Harry and Tolhurst, quick and sharp as his brother’s.

‘Splendid, splendid.’ Goach made introductions. ‘The monsignor’s head of an appeal for rebuilding all the burned-out churches in Madrid. The Vatican’s been a great help but it’s a huge task, needs a lot of money.’

Monsignor Maestre shook his head sorrowfully. ‘Indeed it does. But we are getting there. Though nothing can replace our martyrs, our murdered priests and nuns.’ He turned to Harry and Tolhurst. ‘I remember, during the darkest time of our war, some English churches sent us their church plate to make up for what we had lost. It was a great comfort, made us feel we were not forgotten.’

‘I’m glad,’ Harry said. ‘It must have been a hard time.’

‘You do not know, señor, the things they did to us. It is as well you do not. We want to rebuild the churches in La Latina and Carabanchel.’ The priest looked at Harry seriously. ‘The people there need a beacon, something to cleave to.’

‘There’s a burned-out church near where I live, at the top of La Latina,’ Harry said.

The monsignor’s face hardened. ‘Yes, and the people who did it need to be shown they could not destroy the authority of Christ’s church. That we have returned stronger than before.’

Goach nodded. ‘Quite.’

A burst of harsh laughter made Monsignor Maestre frown. ‘It is a pity my brother invited Millán Astray. He is so inculto. And a Falangist. They are all so irreligious.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘We needed them during our war, but now – well, thank God the Generalísimo is a true Christian.’

‘Some of the Falangists would make him their God,’ Goach said quietly.

‘Indeed they would.’

Harry looked between them. They were both being very outspoken. But they were all Monarchists here, except for Millán Astray. The crippled general was holding forth to a group of cadets now; they seemed to be hanging on his every word.

The monsignor took Goach’s arm. ‘George, come with me, I’d like you to meet the bishop’s secretary.’ With a nod at Harry and Tolhurst, he led Goach away, red skirts billowing around his feet. Tolhurst took a swig of wine.

‘I thought he’d never stop. How did you get on with the señorita?’

‘She wanted me to take her to the Prado.’ Harry looked over to where Milagros was talking to her friends again. She caught his eye and smiled uncertainly. He felt guilty, his sudden departure must have seemed rude.

‘Lot of little cats.’ Tolhurst wiped his glasses on his sleeve. ‘I suppose I was a bit stupid, making fun of their names. I don’t know, I can’t seem to get on with girls, not socially.’ He swayed slightly, more than a little drunk. ‘You see, I was in Cuba so long, I got used to tarts.’ He laughed. ‘I like tarts, but you forget how to talk to respectable girls.’ He looked at Harry. ‘Señorita Maestre not your type, then?’

‘No.’

‘No Vera Lynn, is she?’

‘She’s young. Poor girl, she’s scared for the future.’

‘Aren’t we all? Listen, there’s a chap in the press office, knows this little brothel near Opera—’

Harry nudged him to be quiet. Maestre was approaching again, smiling broadly.

‘Señor Brett, I hope Milagros has not abandoned you.’

‘No, no. She does you credit, general.’

Maestre looked across to where the girls were deep in conversation with some more cadets. He shook his head indulgently. ‘I am afraid they cannot resist a young officer. The young all live for the day now. You must forgive them.’ He must have thought Milagros left me, Harry thought.

Maestre took a drink, wiped his little moustache and looked at them. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said. ‘You both know Captain Hillgarth, yes? He and I are good friends.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Tolhurst’s face was immediately attentive.

‘He should know there is a lot of annoyance in the government over Negrín. It was not a good idea for England to give asylum to the Republican prime minister. These noises in the British Parliament annoy our friends.’ He shook his head. ‘You English, you let vipers into your bosom sometimes, you know.’

‘It’s difficult, sir,’ Tolhurst said seriously. ‘I don’t know how the Commons got wind Sir Samuel recommended Negrín be asked to leave, but it’s got the Labour members hot under the collar.’

‘Surely you can control your Parliament?’

‘Not really,’ Tolhurst said. ‘It’s democracy,’ he added apologetically.

Maestre spread his hands, smiling in puzzlement. ‘But England is not a decadent republic like France was, you have a monarchy and aristocracy, you understand the principle of authority.’

‘I’ll tell Captain Hillgarth,’ Tolhurst said. ‘By the way, sir,’ he added quietly, ‘the captain was asking how things are going with the new minister.’

Maestre nodded. ‘Tell him there is nothing to worry about there,’ he replied softly.

Señora Maestre appeared. She tapped her husband’s arm with her fan. ‘Santiago, are you talking politics again? This is our daughter’s ball.’ She shook her head. ‘You must forgive him.’

Maestre smiled. ‘You are right, my dear, of course.’

She smiled brightly at Harry and Tolhurst. ‘I hear Juan March is in Madrid. If he has returned to stay, he is bound to be doing some entertaining.’

‘I heard it was just a short visit,’ Maestre replied. Harry looked at him. Juan March again. The name Hillgarth had told him to forget, along with the Knights of St George.

Señora Maestre beamed at her guests. ‘He is Spain’s most successful businessman. He had to leave under the Republic of course. It would be good if he returned. You cannot imagine how grey life was in the Nationalist zone during the war. It had to be that way, of course. And then when we came back—’ A shadow flitted across her face.

‘This house was half ruined,’ Maestre said. ‘Good furniture used for firewood. Everything broken or damaged. The families the Republic put in here could not even use the toilet, but the worst was our family things, photographs sold in the Rastro because they were framed in silver. You can see why Negrín being given a home in London angers people.’ Maestre looked across at his daughter, his face full of tenderness for a moment. ‘Milagros is a sensitive child, she found it hard to bear. She is not happy. I fear she is too delicate a plant to flourish in Spain now. I sometimes even think she might be happier abroad.’ He put his arm round his wife’s shoulders. ‘I think we should start the dancing, my dear. I will ask the chamber orchestra to come in.’ He smiled at Harry. ‘Only the best for Milagros. I will tell her she must give you a dance. Excuse us.’ He led his wife away.

‘Hell,’ Tolhurst said. ‘I’m awful at dancing.’

‘This Juan March,’ Harry said in neutral tones. ‘He’s quite an important man, isn’t he?’

‘I’ll say. He’s got millions. Gigantic crook, started as a smuggler. Lives in Switzerland now, took all his money out before the Civil War started. Pro-Monarchist. Probably just come to sort out his affairs.’ Tolhurst spoke lightly, but Harry saw a watchfulness come into his face. He changed the subject. ‘Terrible about the Maestres’ losses, all the upper- and middle-class families suffered dreadfully. One thing about this regime, at least they protect people of – you know, our class.’

‘Yes, I suppose they do. Our class. You know, I was thinking. In a funny way, I think the fact we’re both Rookwood old boys means more to Sandy than to me now. He still has feelings about it, even if it’s only hate.’

‘And you?’

‘I don’t know any more, Tolly.’

Four men in dinner jackets carrying musical instruments appeared with Señora Maestre, followed by a group of the kaftaned servants pushing a little wooden stage. The guests clapped and cheered. Harry saw Milagros waving her fan at him from the other side of the room. He raised his glass. Beside him, Tolhurst sighed.

‘Oh lor’,’ he said. ‘Here we go.’

Chapter Eighteen

BARBARA HADN’T WANTED to go and meet Harry. He had been kind to her three years before and it had been good to see a friendly English face, but seeing Bernie’s best friend felt somehow like tempting fate. She had considered telling Harry but he seemed so friendly with Sandy. And he had changed: there was an angry unhappiness about him that had not been there three years ago. She had to keep everything secret. Harry was here now and Sandy had taken a shine to him, so she must brazen it out and deceive Harry too. A second person to deceive, and Bernie’s best friend this time.

On Saturday she had heard on the BBC about a big German raid on Birmingham. Nearly two hundred people had been killed. She had sat by the radio, aghast. She hadn’t told Sandy; he would have comforted her but she felt she couldn’t stand that, she didn’t deserve it. She worried for two days but that morning a telegram had arrived from her father, saying they were all well, the raids had been in the town centre. She had wept with relief.

She was due to meet Luis again in two days. She feared the money from her bank in England might not come in time. Doubtful of Luis’s story though she had been after their first meeting, now she was more inclined to believe him. If he turned up at the cafe with proof, that would settle it. She cautioned herself that it was what she wanted to believe, she mustn’t hope too much. And if it were true? Helping Bernie escape from a prison camp, getting him to the embassy? And what if Sandy found out? What would he do? Lately she had come to realize that among the complex of emotions she felt for Sandy, there was an element of fear, fear of the ruthlessness she knew was part of him.

The previous evening she had done something that only a few weeks ago she would have found inconceivable. Sandy had been out with some of his cronies and she had gone into his study to try and find out what money he had. She told herself she would never steal from him, but if her savings did not arrive in time perhaps she could get money from him with some lie. If he had enough. Like most men, Sandy didn’t think money was something women should know about.

Her heart beating fast, feeling she was crossing some sort of boundary for good, Barbara had hunted for the key to Sandy’s desk in his study. He kept it in the bedroom, in his sock drawer – she had seen him put it there sometimes when he came to bed after an evening’s work. She found it right at the back, inside a folded sock. She looked at it, hesitated again for a moment, then went to his study.

Some of the drawers were locked, but not all. In one she found two bank books. One was an account with a local branch of a Spanish bank containing a thousand pesetas; the records showed regular payments and withdrawals that she guessed covered their expenses. To her surprise the second was with a bank in Argentina. There were several entries but no withdrawals, and the balance was nearly half a million Argentine pesos, however much that was. Of course, there was no way of getting the money out herself: the accounts were in Sandy’s sole name. She felt oddly relieved.

She left the study, pausing at the door to make sure Pilar was not around. Putting the key back, she felt that something steely was entering into her, something she hadn’t known was there.

SHE HAD ARRANGED to meet Harry in a restaurant near the Royal Palace, a quiet little place that served good black-market food. She was late. The daily maid had been in a state because she had been stopped by the civiles on the way to work and had forgotten her papers; Barbara had to write a letter confirming she worked for her. Harry was already sitting at one of the little tables reading a newspaper. A few businessmen and well-to-do couples occupied the other tables. Harry rose to greet her.

‘Barbara, how are you?’ He looked pale and tired.

‘Oh, not so bad.’

‘It’s cold.’

‘Yes, winter’s nearly here.’

The waiter took her coat and hat and laid menus in front of them.

‘Well, how are you?’ she asked brightly. ‘How’s the embassy?’

‘A bit boring. Interpreting at meetings with officials mostly.’ He seemed nervous, ill at ease.

‘How are your people? All right?’

‘My uncle and aunt are fine. Down in Surrey you’d hardly know there was a war on. My cousin’s family had it a bit rough in London though.’ He paused, looked at her seriously. ‘I hear Birmingham’s been hit.’

‘Yes. They sent me a telegram, they’re all OK.’

‘I thought about you when I heard. You must have been terribly worried.’

‘I was, and I expect there’ll be more raids.’ She sighed. ‘But you’ve had them much longer in London, haven’t you?’

‘There was one when I was there last month, with my cousin Will. But he’s safe in the country now, some secret work.’

‘That must be a relief.’

‘Yes.’

Barbara lit a cigarette. ‘I think my parents are just trying to carry on, same as everyone. What else can they do? Mum and Dad don’t say much in their letters.’

‘How’s Sandy’s father? The bishop?’

‘Do you know, I haven’t the faintest idea. They haven’t been in touch since Sandy came out here. He never talks about his father, or his brother. It’s sad.’ She studied Harry. He did look different, very tense. He had been quite good-looking when she met him three years ago, though not her type. Now he looked older, fleshier, with new lines around his eyes. She thought, a whole generation of men is ageing fast. She hesitated, then asked, ‘How are you these days? You look a bit tired.’

‘Oh, I’m OK. I had shell shock, you know,’ he added suddenly. ‘I used to get bad panic attacks.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘But I’m much better now, haven’t had one for a while.’

‘At least you’re doing something useful at the embassy.’

He smiled, a tense smile. ‘You look very different from the last time we met,’ he said.

Barbara blushed. ‘Yes, all those tatty jumpers. I didn’t care how I looked then, I was in such a state.’ She smiled at him warmly. ‘You helped me.’

He bit his lip, staring at her with his earnest blue eyes so that for a second she thought, oh God, he’s guessed something. Then he said, ‘What’s it like, living here? Madrid seems in a terrible state. The poverty and misery, all the beggars. It’s worse than during the Civil War.’

She sighed. ‘The Civil War wrecked Spain, especially Madrid. The harvest’s been bad again and now there’s our blockade, limiting the supplies they can bring in. According to the papers anyway. Though I don’t know.’ She smiled sadly. ‘I don’t really know what to believe.’

‘It’s the silence I can’t stand. Remember how noisy Madrid used to be? It’s as though all the energy and hope has been sucked out of people.’

‘That’s war.’

Harry looked at her seriously. ‘You know what frightens me? We stopped Hitler invading England this year, but if he tries again next year we might lose. We’d fight like hell, fight on the beaches and in the streets like Churchill said, but we could lose. I imagine Britain ending up like Spain, a wrecked, ruined country ruled by corrupt fascists. This could happen at home.’

‘Could it? I know discipline’s harsh, but there are people like Sebastian de Salas who really do want to rebuild the country.’ She stopped, passed a hand across her brow. ‘Oh God,’ she said. ‘I’m defending them. Everyone I know is on their side, you see.’ She bit her lip. She should have known if she met Harry all her confusion and fear would come to the surface. But perhaps it was good for her to face some things. So long as they kept off the subject of Bernie.

‘What does Sandy think of them?’ Harry asked.

‘He thinks Spain is better off than if the Reds had won.’

‘Do you agree?’

‘Oh, who the hell knows?’ she said with sudden emotion.

Harry smiled. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve been going on. Let’s change the subject.’

‘Shall we look at the menu?’

They made their choices and the waiter brought a bottle of wine. Harry tasted it and nodded.

‘Very nice.’

‘Most of the wine is awful, but they have a good cellar here.’

‘You can get it if you can afford it, eh?’

She glanced up at the bitterness in his voice.

‘I’m starting work at an orphanage soon,’ she said.

‘Back to nursing?’

‘Yes. I wanted to do something positive. Sandy suggested it actually.’

Harry nodded, hesitated again, then said, ‘He looks well. Very prosperous.’

‘He is. He’s so good at organization. He’s a good businessman.’

There was a pause as the waiter brought their soup, then Harry said, ‘Sandy always carved out his own path. Even at school. He certainly looks successful.’ He looked at her. ‘Working with the Ministry of Mines, didn’t he say the other night?’

Barbara shrugged. ‘Yes. I don’t know much about it. He says it’s confidential.’ She smiled sadly. ‘I’ve become the little housewife; I don’t concern myself with business matters.’

Harry nodded. The restaurant door opened. Three young men in Falange uniform appeared in the doorway. A door at the rear of the restaurant opened and a little plump man in a stained frockcoat appeared, smiling nervously at the blue-shirted visitors.

‘Buenas tardes, señor,’ one of them said cheerfully. He was about Harry’s age, tall and slim with the usual pencil moustache. ‘A table for three, please.’ The manager bowed them to an empty table.

‘I hope they don’t get too raucous,’ Barbara whispered.

The Falangist glanced round. Then he came over to their table, smiling broadly. He extended a hand. ‘Ah, foreign visitors? Alemanes?’

‘No. Inglés.’ Barbara smiled nervously. The Falangist dropped his hand, though the smile remained.

‘So. Ingléses.’ He nodded cheerfully. ‘Unfortunately you will have to leave soon; the Generalísimo is going to join the Führer’s crusade against England. Soon we shall have Gibraltar.’

Barbara glanced nervously at Harry. His face was coldly impassive. The leader gave a mock bow and went to rejoin his friends. They looked over at her and Harry and laughed mockingly. Harry was red with anger.

‘Keep quiet,’ she said. ‘Don’t antagonize them.’

‘I know,’ Harry muttered. ‘Bastards.’

The waiter bustled over with their main course. The man looked nervously between them and the Falangists, but they had turned to the menus.

‘Let’s finish quickly and get out,’ she said. ‘Before they start drinking.’

They hurried through the rest of the meal. Harry told her about the Maestres’ party, then turned the conversation back to Sandy. He seemed to want to talk about him.

‘He showed me a dinosaur claw he’s found.’

She smiled. ‘He gets very enthusiastic about his fossils. He’s like a little boy then, it’s sweet.’

‘He used to say at school, fossils were the key to the secrets of the earth.’

‘That sounds like Sandy.’ They had finished their meal, and she saw the Falangists had started on the wine – they were laughing noisily. ‘We should go.’

‘Of course.’ Harry signalled for the bill. The waiter brought it over at once, pleased to be rid of them, no doubt, in case the Falangists started some trouble. They paid and got their coats. Outside Harry said awkwardly, ‘I was wondering, would you mind if we took a look at the Royal Palace, it’s just over the road? I’ve never seen it close up.’

‘Yes, all right. Let’s do that. I’ve plenty of time.’

They walked across. There was a hazy sun but the afternoon was cold. Barbara buttoned up her coat. They halted before the gates. They were closed, civiles on guard outside. Harry studied the white walls with their ornate decorations.

‘No one’s painted “Arriba España” on the side,’ he said.

‘The Falange wouldn’t touch the palace. It’s a symbol for the Monarchists. They hope Franco will let King Alfonso back one day.’

She paused to light a cigarette. Harry walked to the end of the road. On the other side of high railings was a sheer drop to the palace gardens. Beyond that you could see the Casa de Campo, a jumble of brownish-green landscape. She joined him.

‘The battlefield,’ Harry said quietly.

‘Yes. The park’s still a dreadful mess, apparently. But people have started going for walks there again. There are still unexploded shells but they have safe paths marked.’

Harry looked over the park. ‘I’d like to go and see it. Would you mind?’

She hesitated; she didn’t want be reminded of war, of the Siege.

‘Rather not?’ he asked gently.

Barbara took a deep breath. ‘No, let’s go. Perhaps I ought to see.’

IT WAS ONLY a couple of stops on the tram. They got off and walked up a short avenue. There were other visitors walking in the same direction, a young soldier with his girlfriend and two middle-aged women in black. They rounded a little hill and suddenly they were facing a wasteland of broken ground, dotted here and there with burnt-out tanks and broken rusty artillery pieces. Nearby a brick wall, pitted with bullets, was all that was left of a building. Springy grass had grown back over most of the ground but shell craters filled with water dotted the landscape and long lines of trenches cut through the earth like open wounds. Paths led across the devastated landscape, little wooden notices every so often reminding people not to leave them because of unexploded shells. In the distance the palace stood out white and clear, like a mirage.

Barbara had imagined the sight would upset her but she felt only sadness. It reminded her of pictures of the Great War. Harry seemed more affected, his face was pale. She touched his arm gently.

‘Are you all right?’

He took a deep breath. ‘Yes. It brought Dunkirk back, for a moment. There was abandoned artillery everywhere there as well.’

‘Do you want to go back? Perhaps we shouldn’t have come.’

‘No. Let’s go on. Here’s a path.’

They walked in silence for a while. ‘They say it’s worse in the north,’ Barbara said. ‘Where the Ebro battles were. Miles of abandoned tanks. ’

Over to their left the two women in black followed another path, holding each other tightly. ‘So many widows.’ Barbara smiled sadly. ‘I was in the same boat as them, lost, till I met Sandy.’

‘How did that come about?’ Harry asked.

She stopped, lighting another cigarette. ‘The Red Cross sent me to Burgos, of course. It was so different from Madrid. Well behind the lines, for a start. It’s a gloomy city, full of big medieval buildings. The local Red Cross was full of retired generals and worthy Spanish matrons. They were kind actually, not as paranoid as the Republicans. But they could afford to be. They knew they were going to win even then.’

‘It must have been strange, working with Bernie’s enemies.’

It was the first time Harry had mentioned his name. She looked at him, then looked away.

‘I didn’t share his politics, you know that. I was a neutral. In the Red Cross that doesn’t mean something negative, wishy-washy, it’s positive, trying to be a force to ease suffering. People don’t understand that. Bernie didn’t.’ She turned and looked him in the eye. ‘Do you think I’ve done wrong?’ she asked suddenly. ‘Going with a man who supports the regime? I know Sandy and Bernie weren’t friends at school.’

Harry smiled. ‘No. No, I’m a neutral myself by nature.’

She felt a wave of relief at his answer, somehow she couldn’t have borne it if he disapproved. She looked at him, she wanted to shout, he may be alive, he may be alive! She bit her lip.

‘You remember the state I was in, Harry. I wasn’t bothering about the politics, it was a struggle just to get through my work. It was like I was surrounded by a grey fog. I had to keep quiet about Bernie, of course. You couldn’t expect people who were on the Nationalist side to be happy that I went out with someone they fought.’

‘No.’

They crossed a couple of wooden planks laid over a trench. There were old rotten boots in the bottom, and a pile of rusty sardine tins labelled in Russian. On the lip of the trench a notice board displayed an arrow pointing in each direction. ‘Nosotros’ and ‘Ellos’. Us and them. In the distance the two women walked slowly on, still clinging to each other.

‘And then you met Sandy?’ Harry interrupted her thoughts.

‘Yes.’ She looked at him seriously. ‘He rescued me, you know.’

‘He told me he was out there doing tours of the battlefields.’

‘Yes. I was very lonely in Burgos. Then I met him at a party and he sort of – took me up. Supported me through everything.’

‘Quite a coincidence, meeting another Rookwood man.’

‘Yes. Though all the English people in Nationalist Spain met at one time or another. There weren’t many of us.’ She smiled. ‘Sandy said it was fate.’

‘He used to believe in fate. He told me he didn’t any more.’

‘I think he does, though he doesn’t want to. He’s a complex man.’

‘Yes. He is.’ They had come to another trench. ‘Watch these duckboards. Give me your arm.’

He took her hand and guided her over. Again, the ‘us’ and ‘them’ signs pointing in different directions.

‘He’s been very good to me,’ Barbara said. ‘Sandy.’

‘Sorry.’ Harry turned to her. ‘I didn’t hear. I’m still a bit deaf on that side.’ His expression was momentarily lost, confused.

‘I said Sandy’s been good to me. He’s persuaded me to do this voluntary work, he knew I needed something new.’ She wondered bitterly, is it guilt that makes me defend him like this?

‘Good.’ Harry’s tone was careful, neutral. Barbara thought with sudden surprise, he doesn’t like Sandy. Then why had he made friends with him again?

‘He’s trying to help some of the Jews who fled from France.’

‘Yes. He mentioned that.’

‘When the Germans invaded a lot of them fled down here with nothing but what they could carry. They try to get to Portugal and then on to America. They’re terrified of the Nazis. There’s a committee that tries to help them and Sandy’s on it.’

‘There was a Falange demonstration at the embassy recently, yelling anti-semitic slogans at the tops of their voices.’

‘The regime have to toe the Nazi line, but they let Sandy’s committee carry on so long as they’re discreet.’

Over in the distance the two women had stopped. One was crying, the other held her close. Barbara looked at Harry again. ‘Sandy and I aren’t really married, did he tell you that?’

He hesitated. ‘Yes.’

She reddened. ‘Perhaps you think we’re awful. But we – we weren’t ready for that step.’

‘I understand,’ he said awkwardly. ‘These aren’t normal times.’

‘Are you still with that girl, what was her name?’

‘Laura. No, that ended ages ago. I’m single at the moment.’ Harry looked at the Royal Palace in the distance. ‘Do you think you’ll stay in Spain?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know. I don’t know what the future will bring.’

He turned to her. ‘I hate it,’ he said with sudden passion. ‘I hate what Franco’s done. I used to have this idea of Spain, the romanticism of its winding streets and decayed buildings. I don’t know why, perhaps because when I came here in ’31 there was a spirit of hope, even among people with nothing, like the Mera family. Do you remember them?’

‘Yes. But Harry, those dreams, socialism, it’s all over—’

‘I went to the square where they lived last week, it had been bombed or shelled. Their flat was gone. There was a man – ’ he paused, then went on, his eyes bright with anger – ‘a man who was attacked by some dogs that had gone wild. I helped him, took him home. He lives in a tiny damp flat with his mother, she’s had a stroke but I don’t think she gets any care, and a little boy who went half mad when his parents were taken away, and his sister, this bright intelligent girl who was a medical student but works in a dairy now.’ He took a deep breath. ‘There’s the New Spain.’

She sighed. ‘I know, you’re right. I feel guilty at how we live, among all that. I don’t tell Sandy but I do.’

He nodded. He seemed calmer again, the anger gone. Barbara studied his face. She sensed there was more to his anger and disillusion than meeting a poor family, but she didn’t understand what.

He smiled suddenly. ‘Sorry to go on like that. Ignore me, I’m just tired.’

‘No. You’re right to remind me.’ She smiled. ‘Doesn’t look like you’re still neutral, though.’

He laughed bitterly. ‘No. Maybe not. Things change.’

They had arrived at the Manzanares, the little river that ran through the west of the city. Ahead was a bridge, then stairs leading up to the palace gardens.

‘We can get back to the palace from here,’ Barbara said.

‘Yes. I’d better get back to the embassy.’

‘Are you sure you’re all right, Harry?’ she asked suddenly. ‘You seem – I don’t know – preoccupied.’

‘I’m fine. It’s just, you know, Hendaye and everything. Everyone’s jumpy at the embassy.’ He smiled. ‘We must have dinner again. You could come round to my flat. I’ll give Sandy a ring.’

Chapter Nineteen

SANDY WAS HOME when Barbara returned to the house. He was in the salón, reading the paper and smoking one of the big cigars that filled the room with thick, heavy smoke.

‘Just got back?’ he asked.

‘Yes. We went for a walk in the Casa de Campo.’

‘What did you want to go there for? It’s still full of unexploded bombs.’

‘It’s safe now. Harry wanted to go.’

‘How was he?’

‘A bit down. I think Dunkirk affected him more than he lets on.’

Sandy smiled through the haze of smoke. ‘He needs to find himself a girl.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘What d’you want to do on Thursday? A dinner?’

‘What?’ She looked at him, puzzled.

‘It’s the third anniversary of the day we met. You hadn’t forgotten?’ He looked hurt.

‘No – no, of course not. Let’s have dinner somewhere, that would be good.’ She smiled. ‘Sandy, I’m a bit tired, I think I’ll go and lie down for a bit before dinner.’

‘Yes, all right.’ She could tell he was annoyed that she had forgotten the anniversary. It had completely slipped her mind.

When she went out Pilar was coming up the corridor. She looked at Barbara with those dark expressionless eyes. ‘Shall I make up the fire, señora? Only it is getting a little cold.’

‘See what Mr Forsyth thinks, Pilar. He’s in the lounge.’

‘Very well, señora.’ The girl raised her eyebrows a little; household matters were the mistress’s province. Barbara couldn’t be bothered. A heavy tiredness had descended on her on the way home from the meeting with Harry, she had to lie down. She went up and stretched out on the bed. She closed her eyes but her mind was whirling with images: Harry’s visit to Madrid after Bernie disappeared, the end of hope that Bernie was still alive, then Burgos, Burgos where she had met Sandy.

SHE HAD ARRIVED in the Nationalist capital in May 1937, as summer began, bright blue sunshine falling on brown ancient buildings. Crossing the lines was impossible; she had had to travel all the way from Madrid to France, then back again across the frontier with Nationalist Spain. On the way she had read a speech by Dr Marti, the venerable Red Cross statesman, to delegates in Spain. Do not choose sides, he had said, take only a clinical point of view of how best to help. That was what she must continue to do, she told herself. Travelling to Franco’s Spain wasn’t a betrayal of Bernie; she was going there to do her job, as she had in the Republican zone.

They put Barbara to work in the section that tried to send messages between family members left on different sides of the lines by the war. A lot of it was familiar administrative work, light compared to dealing with the prisoners and children. She knew from their solicitous manner that her colleagues knew about Bernie. She found herself resenting being treated with gentle sympathy, she who had always been in charge, the organizer. She developed a sharp, brittle manner with them.

She never spoke about Bernie to them, and she would not have dared to mention him to the Spaniards she met, officials and the middle-class matrons and retired colonels of the Spanish Red Cross. They were always civil, with an exaggerated politeness that made her nostalgic for the informality of the Republican zone, but at the meetings and receptions she had to go to they sometimes showed an anger and contempt for what she was doing. ‘I do not agree with exchanging captured soldiers,’ one old soldier from the Spanish Red Cross told her one day. ‘Children, yes, messages between separated families, yes, but to exchange a Spanish gentleman for Red dog – never!’ He concluded with such fierceness that a spray of spittle hit her chin. She turned away, went to the toilet, and vomited.

As the summer went on she found herself getting more depressed, more withdrawn from the people around her, as though surrounded by a thin grey fog. Summer changed to autumn and cold winds began blowing through the narrow, gloomy streets where people sat hunched in cafes and trucks of grim-looking soldiers passed through endlessly. She put everything into her work, into doing something, achieving something positive, creeping back exhausted to her little flat in the evenings.

For a few weeks in October she shared the flat with Cordelia, a volunteer nurse from England who had come to Burgos on leave. She was an aristocratic English girl who’d been a novice nun but found she didn’t have a vocation.

‘So I came out here to try and do some good,’ she said, a serious look on her kind ugly face.

‘I suppose I did too,’ Barbara replied.

‘For all the people who have been persecuted for their religious beliefs.’

Barbara remembered the church she and Bernie had visited the day the plane fell, that had been converted into a stable. The frightened sheep in the corner. ‘People are being persecuted for all types of belief. In both zones.’

‘You were in the Red zone, weren’t you? What was it like?’

‘Surprisingly like here in a lot of ways.’ She looked Cordelia in the eye. ‘I had a boyfriend there. An English International Brigader, he was killed at the Jarama.’

Barbara had been trying to shock Cordelia, but she only nodded, looking sad. ‘I’ll pray for him, light a candle.’

‘Don’t,’ Barbara said. ‘Bernie would have hated that.’ She paused. ‘I haven’t spoken his name aloud for months. Pray if you like, that can’t do any harm, but don’t light a candle.’

‘You were fond of him.’

Barbara didn’t reply.

‘You should try to get out a little,’ Cordelia said. ‘You spend too much time here.’

‘I’m too tired.’

‘There’s a fundraising dinner at the church I go to—’

Barbara shook her head. ‘I’m not going to turn to religion, Cordelia.’

‘I didn’t mean that. Just that you shouldn’t dwell on the past.’

‘I don’t dwell on it. I try not to think about him, though the feelings are always there, squashed down. The – ’ she looked into Cordelia’s face, then shouted – ‘the bloody anger! That he could go and leave me like that, go and get himself bloody killed, the bastard!’ She began crying, her body shaking with howls and sobs. ‘There, I’ve shocked you,’ she said through her tears. ‘I wanted to shock you.’ She laughed, it sounded hysterical. She felt a tentative hand on her shoulder.

‘Let it out,’ she heard Cordelia say. ‘You have to get it out somehow. I know. I’ve got a brother, he went to the bad, I loved him very much and I was angry with him, too, inside, furious. Don’t bury yourself in it, don’t.’

BARBARA LET Cordelia take her out sometimes, though she drew the line at church functions. Sometimes she felt awkward and clumsy and couldn’t be bothered to talk, but occasionally she met someone who was kind or interesting to talk to and the grey fog would lift a little. On the last day of October, just before Cordelia’s leave ended, they went to a party given by an official from Texas Oil, the company whose support kept Franco in fuel. She didn’t enjoy it; it was a glitzy reception in the best hotel in Burgos, loud Americans standing around, happy in the deference the Spanish guests showed them. She thought of what Bernie would have said, the international capitalist conspiracy in its peacock feathers or something like that. Cordelia was talking to a Spanish priest. Barbara stood on her own, smoking and sipping bad wine, and watched her. She would be going soon, her leave over. Barbara had grown fond of her despite the fact they had nothing in common apart from a sense that they were not cut out to be ordinary wives and mothers. Looking at her she knew she would miss her, miss her undemanding kindness. She felt suddenly dowdy among all the richly dressed women and decided to slip away. She turned to go, and saw a man was standing beside her. She hadn’t seen him approach. He smiled, showing large white teeth.

‘Was that English I heard you and your friend talking earlier?’

Barbara smiled uncertainly. ‘Yes.’ She introduced herself. She thought there was something a little flashy about the man, although he had a nice smile. He told her his name was Sandy Forsyth and he was a guide for English tourists looking at the battlefields. His upper-class drawl reminded her of Bernie.

‘It’s all very propagandist,’ he said. ‘I show them the battlefields and go into the military stuff, but slip in lots about Red atrocities. It’s usually old buffers with military interests. They’re amazingly ignorant. One asked if it was true the Basques all had six fingers.’

Barbara laughed. Encouraged, he told her about a busload of elderly English tourists stuck by the side of the road when the bus broke down, too inhibited to relieve their bursting bladders in the bushes and standing by the bus in agonies. She laughed again; it was months since anyone had made her laugh. He smiled.

‘I knew somehow that I could tell you that story and you wouldn’t be shocked, though it’s not really for mixed company.’

‘I’m a nurse. I’ve been in Spain over a year, on both sides of the lines. Nothing shocks me now.’

Sandy nodded, interested. He offered her a cigarette and they stood surveying the company for a moment.

‘Well,’ Sandy asked. ‘What do you think of the New Spain and its friends?’

‘I suppose it seems very orderly after Madrid. But it’s got a hard military feel. A hard place.’ She looked at Cordelia, still deep in conversation with the priest. ‘Maybe the Church will be a moderating influence.’

Sandy blew out a cloud of smoke. ‘Don’t you believe it. The Church knows what side its bread’s buttered on; it’ll let the regime do what it likes. They’re going to win, you know, they’ve got the troops and the money. They know it, you can see it in their faces. It’s just a matter of time.’

‘You think so?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Are you a Catholic?’

He laughed. ‘Heavens, no.’

‘My friend over there is. Yes, you’re right, they’re going to win.’ She sighed.

‘Better than the alternative.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘I might stay on when it’s over. I’m tired of England.’

‘No family ties?’

‘No. You?’

‘None to speak of.’

‘Fancy coming out for a drink one evening? I’m between jobs. I’m looking into getting some other work but it’s a bit lonesome here.’

She looked at him in surprise, she hadn’t expected that.

‘No strings,’ Sandy added. ‘Just for a drink. Bring your friend Cordelia if you like.’

‘Yes, all right,’ she said. ‘Why not?’ Though she knew, somehow, that Cordelia wouldn’t approve of Sandy.

WHEN THE EVENING came she didn’t want to go. Cordelia couldn’t come, she had another church function to attend, and Barbara felt tired and depressed after work. But she had agreed to go so she did.

They met in a dark, quiet little bar near the cathedral. Sandy asked what sort of a day she had had at work. The question irritated her slightly; he had asked it as though she worked in an office or a shop.

‘A bit grim, actually. They’ve moved me on to trying to get some children evacuated across the lines. Most of them are orphans. That’s always ghastly.’ She turned away, tears pricking unexpectedly at her eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’ve had a long day and this new work brings back – bad memories.’

‘Do you want to talk about it?’ he asked, with gentle curiosity.

She decided to tell him. Cordelia was right, it was no use just bottling it all up. ‘When I was working in Madrid there was this man – an Englishman in the International Brigades, actually. We were together over last winter. Then he went to the Jarama. Missing believed killed.’

Sandy nodded. ‘I’m very sorry.’

‘It’s only been nine months, it’s hard to get over.’ She sighed. ‘It’s a common enough story in Spain these days, I know.’

He offered her a cigarette, lit it for her. ‘One of the volunteers?’

‘Yes, Bernie was a Communist. Though he wasn’t working class, not really; he’d got a scholarship to a public school, he spoke like you. I found out later the party thought he might be ideologically suspect because of his complicated class origins. Not enough of a man of steel.’

She looked at Sandy and was surprised to see that he had leaned back in his seat and was looking at her with an intent, frowning stare.

‘Which public school did he go to?’ he asked quietly.

‘A place called Rookwood, in Sussex.’

‘His last name wasn’t Piper, by any chance?’

‘Yes.’ It was her turn to be shocked. ‘Yes, that’s right. Did you—’

‘I was at Rookwood for a while. I knew Piper. Not very well, but I knew him. I don’t suppose he ever mentioned me?’ Sandy laughed, a strange forced bark. ‘The bad hat of the form.’

‘No. He didn’t talk about his school much. Only that he wasn’t happy there.’

‘No. We had that in common, I remember.’

‘Were you friends?’ Barbara’s heart had leapt, it was as though a part of Bernie himself had returned.

Sandy hesitated. ‘Not really. Like I said, I didn’t know him well.’ He shook his head. ‘God, this is a coincidence.’

She smiled. ‘It’s like fate. Meeting someone who knew him.’

THE FACT SANDY had known Bernie, even if they hadn’t been friends, drew Barbara to him. They took to meeting every Thursday in the bar for drinks. She found herself looking forward to those nights. Cordelia had gone back to the front and these were her only nights out now. She had left one morning, giving Barbara a quick hug and refusing an offer to help carry her bags to the station. Barbara had thanked her for helping her begin to recover a little, but Cordelia had smiled and said that she would have done the same for anyone, her faith and love of God required it of her. The impersonal reply had hurt Barbara, left her feeling very alone again.

She learned that Sandy had known Harry, too, been his friend if not Bernie’s. He puzzled her in some ways. He was enigmatic, saying next to nothing about himself. He had no tours on at the moment but he stayed on in Burgos, trying to set up some business, he said. He would never tell her what. He was always immaculately dressed. Barbara wondered if he had a girlfriend somewhere but he never mentioned anyone. It crossed her mind that he might be a pansy but he didn’t seem to be. He was lonely too, though, you could see that.

One Thursday in December Barbara hurried to the cafe through cold relentless rain that hammered down from the darkened sky. When she arrived Sandy was already there, sitting at their usual table with a man in Falange uniform. Their heads were bent together, and although she couldn’t hear what they were saying, Barbara could tell they were arguing. She hesitated, rain dripping from her coat to the floor. Sandy, seeing her, waved her over.

‘Sorry, Barbara, I was just finishing some business.’

The Falangist stood up. He glanced at her. He was a middle-aged man with a stern face. He looked down at Sandy.

‘Business that should be for Spaniards, señor,’ he said. ‘Spanish business, Spanish profits.’ He bowed curtly to Barbara and walked away, heels clacking on the floorboards. Sandy looked after him, his face set and angry. She sat down, embarrassed. Sandy pulled himself together, gave a brittle laugh.

‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘Plan I had for some work, it’s fallen through. They don’t seem too keen on enterprise here.’ He sighed. ‘Never mind. Back to the tours, I suppose.’

He got Barbara a drink and came back to the table.

‘Perhaps you should think about going home,’ she said. ‘I’ve been wondering about what I’ll do when the war ends. I don’t think I want to go back to Geneva.’

He shook his head. ‘I don’t want to go back,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ve nobody there. England’s stifling.’

‘I know what you mean.’ She raised her glass. ‘To rootlessness.’

He smiled. ‘To rootlessness. You know, that first night we met, I thought, there’s a girl who stands apart, watching. Like me.’

‘Did you?’

‘Yes.’

She sighed. ‘I don’t like myself very much,’ she said. ‘That’s why I stand apart.’

‘Because you’re angry with Bernie?’

‘With Bernie? No. It’s not that. He made me like myself a little. For a while.’

Sandy looked at her seriously. ‘You shouldn’t leave it to other people to make you like yourself. I know, I was the same once.’

‘You?’ She was surprised. He always seemed so confident, so sure of himself.

‘Only before I was old enough to think for myself.’

She took a deep breath. ‘I had a bad time at school. I was bullied.’ She paused but he only nodded encouragingly. She told him the story. ‘I hear their voices in my head sometimes, you know. No, not hear them, that would mean I’m mad, but I remember them. When I’m tired and make mistakes at work. Telling me I’m ugly, speccy four-eyes, no good. More since Bernie died.’ She bowed her head. ‘I don’t talk about it. Only Bernie knew.’

‘Then I am privileged you’ve told me.’

She didn’t look up. ‘I feel I can tell you things. I don’t know why.’

‘Look up,’ he said quietly. ‘Look up at me, don’t be afraid.’

She raised her head, smiling bravely, blinking back tears.

‘Tell them to get lost,’ he said. ‘When you hear them, tell them they’re wrong and you’ll show them all. Not out loud but in your head. That’s what I did. With my parents, masters, telling me I was destined to go to the devil.’

‘Did it work? Yes, it must have – you believe in yourself, don’t you?’

‘You have to. You have to decide what you want to be and then go there. Don’t listen to other people’s opinion of you. Everyone’s looking for someone to put down. It makes them feel safe.’

‘Not everyone. I’m not.’

‘All right. Most people. Can I tell you something?’

‘If you like.’

‘You won’t be offended?’

‘No.’

‘You don’t make the best of yourself. It’s as though you don’t want to be respected. Just put a little effort into your clothes, your hair, you could be a very attractive woman.’

She lowered her head again.

‘That was the other thing I thought, the night we met.’ She felt the tips of his fingers touch hers. There was a moment’s silence. She had a vivid memory of the church, Bernie kissing her. She pulled her hand away, looked up.

‘I’m not – I’m not ready for this. After Bernie, I don’t think I can ever—’

‘Oh, come on, Barbara,’ he said gently. ‘Don’t tell me you believe that romantic stuff about there only being one person for everyone.’

‘I think I do, actually.’ She wanted to go, the turmoil of feelings inside her made her feel sick. He raised a hand.

‘All right. Forget it.’

‘I just want to be friends, Sandy.’

‘You need someone to look after you, Barbara.’ He smiled. ‘I’ve always wanted someone to look after.’

‘No, Sandy. No. Just friends.’

He nodded. ‘All right. All right. Let me look after you a bit, anyway.’

She leaned her head on her hand, hiding her face. They sat there in silence. The rain hissed down outside.

AUTUMN TURNED to winter. There were rumours of a new Nationalist offensive that would end the war. For a while Burgos was full of Italian soldiers, then they disappeared again.

Sandy kept his word; he made no more romantic overtures. She didn’t feel the same towards him as she had towards Bernie, that was impossible. Yet almost despite herself, she felt thrilled and excited that another man had found her attractive. She realized that part, a small part, of her grief had been for herself, that her only chance of love had come and gone. As though his declaration had unlocked something, she began to think of him as a man, a large strong man.

In mid-December the news came that the Republicans had preempted Franco’s offensive with one of their own at Teruel, far to the east. The weather was cold, there was snow on the ground in Burgos, and in the office they heard of soldiers having frostbitten feet amputated on the battlefield. The Red Cross office was busy again.

‘You should give it up,’ Sandy said to her when they met that Thursday evening. ‘It’s wearing you out.’ He looked at her with concern but also with that hint of impatience she had seen recently. Last week, for the first time, he had tried to take her hand as they left the bar. They had had more than usual to drink, he had kept ordering more wine. She had pulled it away.

She sighed. ‘It’s what I do. I’ve cancelled my Christmas leave to help.’

‘I thought you were going home. To Birmingham?’

‘I was. But I didn’t really want to, I’m glad of the excuse.’ She looked at him. ‘What about you? You never talk about your family, Sandy, all I know is you have a father and a brother.’

‘And a mother, somewhere, if she’s still alive. I told you, I’ve broken with them. They belong in the past.’ He looked at her. ‘I am going away for a couple of weeks, though.’

‘Oh?’ She felt her heart sink; she had relied on him being with her over Christmas.

‘Business opportunity. Importing cars from England. They don’t like outsiders getting involved in their deals, I’ve learned that, but they’ll need someone with English for this job. I’m going up to San Sebastián to look into it.’

She remembered the Falangist he had had the argument with. ‘I see. It sounds a good opportunity. But it’s a bad time of year to travel, and the roads will be full of soldiers, with this battle—’

‘Not the roads north. I’ll try and get back for Christmas Day.’

‘Yes. It would be nice to celebrate it together.’

‘I’ll try.’

HE WASN’T THERE, though. The call to the office she had hoped for never came. It affected her more than she would have expected. On Christmas Day she went for a walk alone through the snowy streets, looking enviously into the houses with their Nativity scenes in the gardens, the families going in and out of services in Burgos’s innumerable churches. She felt a sudden angry impatience with herself. Why didn’t she take what Sandy had offered her? What was she waiting for? Old age? She thought of Bernie and sorrow clutched at her heart again, but Bernie was gone.

HE PHONED HER at the office two days after Christmas. ‘Sorry I took so long,’ he said.

She smiled at the sound of his voice. ‘How did it go?’

‘Very well. You’re talking to a man with an import licence signed by the trade minister himself. Listen, want to go to the bar tonight? I know it’s not Thursday.’

She laughed. ‘Yes, that would be nice. Usual time?’

‘See you at eight. We’ll have some champagne, celebrate the deal.’

She wore her new coat, the green one Sandy had picked for her that he said went well with her hair. He was there before her as usual, a large brightly coloured parcel on the table. He smiled.

‘A belated Christmas present. To say sorry for being away so long.’

She opened it. Inside was a brooch in the shape of a flower. It was made of gold, little green stones glinting in the petals.

‘Oh, Sandy,’ she said. ‘It’s wonderful. Are those—’

He smiled. ‘Emeralds. Just little ones.’

‘You shouldn’t, it must have cost the earth.’

‘Not if you know where to look.’

‘Thank you.’ Her lip trembled. ‘I’m not worth it.’

‘I say you are.’ He reached out and took her hand. This time she didn’t withdraw.

He looked into her eyes. ‘Take off your glasses,’ he said. ‘I want to see your face without your glasses.’

Chapter Twenty

ON THE WEDNESDAY after her walk with Harry, Barbara went to meet Luis for the third time. It was a warm, sunny autumn day. As she walked down the Castellana dry leaves crunched underfoot and there was a faint tang of smoke from leaves burning somewhere. Barbara walked more and more lately; it helped her to think and she increasingly disliked being in the house.

Her money had not come from England and she was beginning to despair of it ever arriving. If Luis provided her with the proof she had asked for that Bernie was in the camp, she would have to chase it up somehow.

He was at the cafe already. He was smoking a good brand of cigarettes and she wondered if some of the money she had given him for the journey to Cuenca had gone on them; she didn’t know how much the fare was. She only had his word, of course, that he had actually been anywhere.

He got up and shook her hand, formally polite as ever, then went and fetched her a cup of coffee. The cafe was quiet, the one-legged veteran with the sewn-up trouser-leg alone at the bar.

She lit a cigarette, glancing deliberately at his own packet. ‘Did you get to Cuenca?’ she asked.

‘I did, señora.’ He smiled. ‘I met Agustín in the town again.’ He leaned forward. ‘Agustín managed to get a look at Bernard Piper’s file, though it was not easy. He told me many details.’

She nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘He was born in a place called the Island of Dogs, in London. He came to fight for the Republic in 1936 and suffered a small arm wound in the battles in the Casa de Campo.’

Barbara’s heart quickened. There was no way Luis, or Markby, could have known about that wound other than by looking at an official record.

‘When he recovered he was sent to the Jarama, wounded and taken prisoner.’

‘Wounded?’ she asked sharply. ‘How badly?’

‘Not serious. A flesh wound in the thigh.’ Luis smiled. ‘He bore a charmed life, it seemed.’

‘Not that charmed, Luis, if he ended up in the camp.’

‘Agustín described him,’ Luis continued. ‘He is a tall man, broad in the shoulders, with fair hair. Probably a very handsome man, Agustín said, though now of course he has a scrubby beard and lice.’ Barbara winced. ‘He is known to be a difficult man, his spirit is unbowed. Agustín has told him to be careful, that better times may be coming, though no more than that for now.’ Luis smiled wryly. ‘He says your man has duende. Courage, class. He thinks he has the will to try and escape. Many in the camp have lost the will, or the energy.’

Barbara’s heart was thumping wildly. She knew now it was all true, she was certain. Luis put his head on one side. ‘Are you satisfied, señora? Satisfied that I have told you the truth?’

‘Yes. Yes, I am. Thank you, Luis.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I haven’t had the money through from my bank in England yet. It’s difficult getting money out of the country now.’

He looked at her seriously. ‘It is very important to get this done before the bad weather sets in. The winters are hard up there, and start early. It will be getting cold already.’

‘And the diplomatic situation may change. I know. I’ll chase them, I’ll write again today. What if I meet you here, a week today again. I’ll have the money by then, one way or another. If it comes sooner, is there any way I can get in touch with you?’

‘I have no telephone, señora. Could I telephone you?’

She hesitated. ‘Safer not. I don’t want my husband learning anything, he’s worried about me as it is.’

‘A week, then. But we must make some arrangements then, one way or another. We will be into November soon.’

‘Yes, I know.’ As she spoke she thought, this doesn’t leave time for me to write again. What if I asked Harry for a loan? She knew he had money. But he was a diplomat, it would be dangerous for him—

She forced her mind back to the present. ‘The plan,’ she asked Luis. ‘It is still the same? Agustín helps him escape and I pick him up in Cuenca?’

‘Yes. There may be some way that we can get him civilian clothes, so he will not be so conspicuous. Agustín is looking into that. Then it would be up to you, señora, to get him away and to the embassy.’

‘That might not be so easy. I’ve walked past there, there are civiles outside.’

‘You must resolve that one, señora,’ Luis said with a little smile. He seemed to have lost interest now, it wouldn’t be his problem once Barbara picked Bernie up.

‘I’ll pay you some when we have a firm plan in place, and the rest when it’s all done,’ Barbara said. ‘It’s in all our interests the whole thing goes through.’

He looked at her. ‘You will make sure of that, I know.’

Barbara thought of Harry again. If she could bring Bernie into Madrid, hide him somewhere. She sighed. She became aware of Luis looking at her curiously.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘Forgive me asking, señora, but will this matter not have consequences for you and your husband? If Señor Piper reaches the embassy the matter is likely to become public knowledge, surely. At the least, representations will be made to our government. And your husband works with the government, does he not? You said so at our first meeting.’

‘Yes, Luis,’ she said quietly. ‘There may be consequences. I shall have to deal with them.’

He looked at her seriously. ‘You are a brave woman, to put your future at risk.’

She studied him. His face was tired and strained. He wasn’t much more than a boy really, made to deal with awful things too young, like half the men in the world today. ‘What will you and your brother do, Luis, when this is done and your brother gets out of the army?’

He smiled sadly. ‘I have a dream of us fetching my mother from Sevilla, getting somewhere to live in the country near Madrid, and perhaps growing vegetables. I have always liked growing things, and a big city needs vegetables, does it not? And we will all be together again, as a family.’ His face darkened. ‘Family is important to Spaniards, the war split up so many – you who come from England cannot know the pain of it. It is because of that I must do whatever I have to do to bring us together again. Can you understand that, señora?’

‘Yes. I hope you are able to do that.’

‘So do I.’ He bowed his head a moment, closing his eyes, then looked up with a smile. ‘Until next week, señora.’

‘I’ll have the money. One way or another.’

THAT EVENING over dinner Sandy told her he had booked a table at the Ritz for their anniversary the following night.

‘Oh,’ she said, surprised.

‘What’s wrong with that?’ he asked. He still hadn’t forgiven her for forgetting. ‘It’s the most expensive hotel in Madrid.’

‘I know, Sandy. Only, it’s always so full of the Germans and their Italian pals. You know I hate seeing them.’

He smiled. ‘Chance to show the flag.’ She wondered if he had chosen the Ritz deliberately to upset her. She looked at him, remembering his tenderness to her when they first met. Where had it gone? It was her discontent he didn’t like, she realized, her discontent with the life he had chosen for her that had been growing for a long time but had only really emerged since that dinner with Markby.

‘Do you remember that first Christmas after we met?’ he asked her, a hard mocking expression in his eyes.

‘Yes. When you went away on business, and couldn’t come back till after Christmas.’

‘That’s right.’

He smiled. ‘Only I could have. We finalized the deal before Christmas, I could have come back. But I knew that if I stayed away you’d realize how much you needed me. And I was right.’

She stared at him, she felt shocked and then furiously angry. ‘So you manipulated me,’ she said quietly. ‘Manipulated my feelings.’

He looked at her across the table, seriously now. ‘I know what people want, Barbara, I can sense it. It’s a gift, very useful in business. I see below the surface. Sometimes it’s easy. The Jews, for instance, they just want survival, they tremble and shake in their desperation to survive. The people I work with, what they want is usually money, though occasionally it’s something else. Whatever it is I try to help oblige them. You wanted me and you wanted security, only you couldn’t quite bring yourself to see it. I just helped bring that to the surface.’ He inclined his head, raised his glass.

‘And what about you, Sandy? What do you want?’

He smiled. ‘Success, money. Knowing I can cut the mustard, make people give me what I want.’

‘You’re a shit sometimes, Sandy,’ she said. ‘You know that?’

She had never spoken to him like that before and he looked taken aback for a moment. Then his face set.

‘You’ve been letting your appearance go lately, you know. You look a mess. I hope working at that orphanage will help you pull yourself together.’

She felt the words like a blow even as she realized he had chosen them because they would hit her where she was weakest. Something cold and hard came into her mind and she thought, don’t react, the facade needs to be kept up for now. She got up, laying her napkin carefully on the table, and left the room. Her legs were shaking.