‘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 call
ing 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 o
ver 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.’