‘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 s
ome 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.’