‘That must be the place.’
Harry nodded and turned on to the track, the car bumping over frozen ruts. He halted behind the clump of trees. On the other side the meadow rose gently up to the horizon.
‘What d’you think?’ he asked.
‘It’ll be a long walk back,’ Barbara said.
‘We ought to follow Luis’s advice. He said it was the nearest concealed spot.’
‘All right.’
They opened the doors. Outside Harry felt suddenly vulnerable, exposed. A bitterly cold breeze ruffled their hair as they walked out to the road. Harry slung the rucksack with the clothes and food over his back. Sofia stood at the side of the road, looking towards Cuenca.
‘I can’t see the cathedral,’ Harry said.
‘It is at the very top of the hill. The gorge is behind it.’
‘And the Tierra Muerta is on the other side of the gorge?’ Barbara asked.
‘Yes.’ Sofia took a long breath, then began walking towards the town. The others followed her down the long empty road.
Only a couple of carts and a car passed them before they reached a bridge over a swirling grey-green river. By then the winter sun was low on the horizon. They walked through the poor shabby houses of the new town, past the railway station. There were few people around and no one paid them much heed. They kept an eye out for civiles patrolling the barrios but only a couple of mangy dogs challenged them, barking angrily but scurrying away at their approach. Their barking reminded Harry of the feral pack and he put his hand on the Mauser in his pocket for comfort.
Then they were climbing over worn cobbles into a soaring wilderness of stone, higher and higher as dusk began to fall. The narrow streets wound up and up: endless four-and five-storey tenements, centuries old, unpainted and with crumbling plaster. Each tenement block loomed over them, then they would climb to the next street and be looking down on the roofs. Weeds grew between cracked tiles, the only green things among all the stone. Thin wisps of smoke rose from the chimneys; there was a smell of woodsmoke and animal dung, stronger than in Madrid. Most windows were shuttered but occasionally they glimpsed faces peering at them, quickly withdrawn.
‘How old are these buildings?’ Harry asked Sofia.
‘I don’t know. Five hundred years, six. No one knows who built the hanging houses.’
In a little square halfway up the hillside they paused to let an old man lead his donkey past, the burro almost buried under a load of wood.
‘Gracias.’ He looked at them curiously. They paused for a moment to recover their breath.
‘I remember all this,’ Sofia said. ‘I worried I might have forgotten the way.’
‘It’s very bleak,’ Barbara said. The setting sun cast a cold glow on the street, turning the little piles of frozen snow in the gutters pink.
‘Not for a child.’ Sofia smiled sadly. ‘It was exciting, all the steep streets.’ She took Harry’s arm and they climbed on.
The old Plaza Mayor crowned the summit of the hill, municipal buildings lining two sides. The third side was a sheer drop over a parapet to the street below, left unbuilt on to give a clear view of the cathedral that dominated the fourth side, its huge square facade solid and intimidating. A wide flight of steps rose to where a group of beggars sat huddled in the deep porch of an immense doorway. There was a bar next to the cathedral but it was closed; apart from the beggars the plaza was deserted.
They stood in the doorway of the bar, their eyes darting over the shuttered windows surrounding them. An old woman carrying an immense bundle of clothes on her head passed across the square, her receding footsteps echoing through the frosty dusk.
‘Why is it so quiet?’ Harry asked.
‘This was always a quiet town. On a day like this people will be indoors, trying to keep warm.’ Sofia looked at the sky. Clouds were spreading across the sky from the north.
‘I think we should go into the cathedral.’ Barbara looked at the door, brown and studded with nails, the beggars crouched beside it eyeing them silently. ‘Get out of sight.’
Sofia nodded. ‘You are right. We should try to find the watchman.’ She led the way up the steps, shoulders hunched and hands thrust deep into the pockets of her old coat, past the beggars who stretched out their hands. She pushed the huge door and it slid open slowly.
The cathedral was vast, empty, lit with a cold yellowish light filtering through the stained-glass windows. Harry’s breath made a fog in the air in front of him. Barbara stood by his side. ‘There doesn’t seem to be anyone here,’ she whispered.
Sofia walked slowly on between the soaring pillars, towards the chancel where a huge altar screen, decorated in bright gold, stood behind high gates. She stood frowning up at the screen, a tiny figure in her old black coat. Harry went and put his arm round her.
‘So much gold,’ she whispered. ‘The church has never had any shortage of gold.’
‘Where’s the watchman?’ asked Barbara, who had walked up to them.
‘Let’s find him.’ Sofia pulled away from Harry’s side and continued down the nave. The others followed. The heavy rucksack dug into Harry’s shoulders.
To the right a large stained-glass window let in the fading light. Underneath stood a confessional box, a tall narrow thing of dark wood. As they progressed up the cathedral the light grew dimmer. Harry started violently at the sight of a figure standing in a side chapel. Barbara clutched his arm.
‘What is it?’
Looking closer, Harry saw it was a life-size tableau of the Last Supper. It was Judas that had made him start, a startlingly realistic Judas carved in the act of rising from the table. His face, turned slightly to the master he was about to betray, was brutally cold and calculating, his mouth half-open in a grim snarl. Beside him Christ in a white robe sat with his back to the nave.
‘Hideous, isn’t it?’ Barbara whispered.
‘Yes.’ Harry looked at Sofia, a little ahead, her hands still driven so deeply into her pockets the shoulder seams of her coat threatened to part. She stopped, and as they drew level with her she turned and whispered to Harry. ‘See, there he is, on that bench.’
A man was sitting beside a shrine to the Virgin, indistinct in the gloom. They approached him slowly. Then Harry heard a sharp gulp of indrawn breath from Sofia. She was looking at a large new plaque set into the wall. Candles were lit in niches beside it and a bunch of winter roses had been laid underneath. The inscription ‘Fallen for the Church’ stood out above a list of names.
‘He is there,’ Sofia said. ‘My uncle.’ Her shoulders sagged. Harry put his arm round her. She felt so small, so delicate.
She pulled away again. ‘We must go to the watchman,’ she said quietly.
The man rose from the bench as they approached. He was old, short and stocky, wearing an ancient greasy suit and threadbare shirt. He studied them with sharp blue eyes, his seamed face hostile and distrustful.
‘You are from Luis, the brother of Agustín?’ he asked Barbara.
‘Yes. You are Francisco?’
‘I was told to expect only one Englishwoman. Why are there three of you?’
‘The arrangement changed. Luis knows.’
‘Agustín said one.’ His eyes darted anxiously between them.
‘I have the money,’ Harry said. ‘So. Is it safe to wait, to bring our friend here?’
‘It should be. There is no evening service today. It is cold, no one has been in this afternoon except Father Belmonte’s sister.’ He nodded briefly at the memorial. ‘With flowers. He was one of those martyred for Spain,’ he added pointedly. ‘When priests were murdered and nuns raped for the pleasure of the Reds.’
So he’s a Nationalist, Harry thought. ‘We have the three hundred pesetas,’ he said.
The old man held out a hand. ‘Then give it to me.’
‘When the man we came for is here.’ Harry made his voice clipped, authoritative, an officer’s voice. ‘That was the arrangement.’ He reached into his coat pocket a
nd showed the old man the billfold, angling his body so he caught a glimpse of the gun as well. His eyes widened and he nodded.
‘Sí. Sí.’
Harry looked at his watch. ‘We are early. We will have to wait a little.’
‘Wait then.’ The watchman turned and shuffled back to his bench. He sat watching them.
‘Can we trust him?’ Barbara whispered. ‘He’s very hostile.’
‘Of course he is,’ Sofia replied sharply. ‘He supports them. Do you think the church recruits Republicans?’
‘Luis’s brother must trust him,’ Harry said. ‘And he could be shot if this goes wrong.’
They went and sat on a bench that gave a view of both the watchman and the door. ‘It’s six ten,’ Harry said. ‘Sofia, how long does it take to get to the bridge from here?’
‘Not long. Fifteen minutes. We should wait another quarter of an hour. I will take you – we go round the back of the cathedral and then we are at the gorge and the bridge.’
Barbara took a deep breath. ‘Leave me there and come back, Sofia. He’s expecting me to come alone.’
‘I know.’ Sofia leaned forward and squeezed Barbara’s hand. ‘It will be all right, everything will be all right.’
Barbara reddened at the unexpected gesture. ‘Thanks. I’m sorry about your uncle, Sofia.’
She nodded sadly.
Harry thought of the old priest put up against a wall and shot. He wondered if similar pictures were going through Sofia’s mind. He put his arm round her again.
‘Sofia,’ Barbara said quietly. ‘I wanted to say – I’m so grateful to you, for coming here. Neither of you needed to do this.’
‘I did,’ Harry said. ‘For Bernie.’
‘I wish I could do more,’ Sofia said with sudden fierceness. ‘I wish there were barricades again, I would take a gun this time. They should not have won. Even my uncle would not have died if they had not started the war.’ She turned to Barbara. ‘Do I seem hard to you?’
Barbara sighed. ‘No. It’s difficult for someone like me sometimes, to realize all you’ve been through.’
Harry squeezed Sofia’s hand. ‘You try your best to be hard but you don’t want to be, not really.’
‘I have had no choice.’
‘It will be different in England.’
They sat without speaking for a little while. Then Sofia slid Harry’s sleeve up to see his watch. ‘Six thirty,’ she said. ‘We should go.’ She glanced at the watchman. ‘You stay here, Harry, keep an eye on him. Give Barbara the rucksack.’
He didn’t want to leave her. ‘We should all go.’
‘No. One of us should stay here.’
Harry released her hand and the two women stood up. Then, with his back to the watchman, he took out the gun.
‘I think you should take it. In case of trouble. Not to shoot, just to threaten.’ He held it out by the barrel but Sofia hesitated; she seemed reluctant to take it now. Barbara reached out and grasped it gingerly.
‘I’ll take it,’ she said. She put it carefully in her pocket. Harry passed her the rucksack. She smiled wryly. ‘Funny, it does give you a sense of security.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Come on, Sofia.’
The two women walked to the door. It creaked open and closed again behind them. Harry felt the separation from Sofia like a physical pain. He looked at the old man. He could feel his hostile eyes.
Chapter Forty-Seven
OUTSIDE IT WAS ALMOST dark. Barbara shifted the rucksack with the clothes and food inside to the centre of her back. It was heavy. The beggars had gone from the steps. Clouds hid the moon but the weak streetlights had come on. Sofia led the way into a narrow alley running along the side of the cathedral. It led to a broad street with the back of the cathedral on one side. On the other, beyond a stone parapet, the street fell away into a broad, deep canyon. Barbara looked across the chasm. She could just make out the outlines of hills against the sky, a white line of road running along the bottom. A little way ahead a footbridge supported on iron struts spanned the gorge.
‘So that’s it,’ Barbara said.
‘Yes. The bridge of San Pablo. There is nobody guarding it,’ Sofia said eagerly. ‘The authorities cannot know he has escaped yet.’
‘If he has.’
Sofia pointed at the hills. ‘See, that is the Tierra Muerta. He will come down from there.’
To her right Barbara saw lights shining from houses built right on the cliff edge, balconied windows hanging out over the yawning drop.
‘The hanging houses,’ Sofia said.
‘Extraordinary.’ Barbara tensed suddenly at the sound of heavy footsteps approaching from a side road. A man in a long black cloak appeared, a slash of white at the throat. A priest. He was young, about thirty, with glasses and a round gentle face under red hair almost the same shade as hers. His expression was preoccupied but he smiled when he saw them.
‘Buenas tardes, señoras. It is late for a walk abroad.’ Hell, Barbara thought. She knew priests could question women out in the streets, order them home. Sofia dropped her eyes demurely.
‘We were just returning, señor.’
The priest looked at Barbara curiously. ‘Forgive me, señora, but are you from abroad?’
Barbara put on a cheerful tone. ‘I’m English, sir. My husband works in Madrid.’ She was conscious of the heavy weight of the gun against her side.
‘¿Inglesa?’ He looked at her intently.
‘Yes, señor. Have you been to England?’
‘No.’ He seemed about to say something more, then checked himself. ‘It is getting dark,’ he said gently, as though to a child. ‘I think perhaps you should both be getting home.’
‘We were about to go back.’
He turned to Sofia. ‘Are you from Cuenca?’
‘No.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I came to see the memorial in the cathedral. My friend brought me from Madrid. I had an uncle here, a priest.’
‘Ah. He was martyred in 1936?’
‘Yes.’
The priest nodded sadly. ‘So many dead. My daughter, I can see from your face you feel bitter, but I think we must begin to forgive if Spain is to be renewed. There has been too much cruelty.’
‘That is not a sentiment one hears much,’ Sofia said.
The priest smiled sadly. ‘No,’ he agreed. There was a short silence, then he asked, conversationally, ‘Where are you staying?’
Sofia hesitated. ‘The convent of San Miguel.’
‘Ah. So am I. Just for tonight. Perhaps I shall see you at dinner later. I am Father Eduardo Alierta.’ He nodded to them and turned into the street leading to the cathedral. His footsteps died slowly away. The women looked at each other.
‘We were lucky,’ Sofia said. ‘Some priests would have insisted on walking us back to the convent.’
‘If he’s going back there, he’ll find they’ve never heard of us.’
Sofia shrugged. ‘We will be gone by dinner-time.’
‘He seemed sad. Most priests look stern to me, but he looked sad.’
‘The whole of Spain is sad,’ Sofia said. ‘Come on.’
As they walked up to the bridge Barbara’s heart began pounding. Her mouth was dry. Images of Bernie filled her mind, Bernie as he had been. What would he be like now? She took hold of the metal strut at the end of the bridge and looked down at the walkway; wooden boards laid across iron meshwork. The far end of the bridge was a vague outline in the darkness.
‘You get back to Harry,’ she said to Sofia. ‘I’ll be back inside an hour, I hope.’
‘All right.’ Sofia hugged her quickly. ‘It will go well, you’ll see. Tell the brigadista a friendly Spaniard is waiting to meet him.’
‘I will.’
Sofia kissed her quickly on the cheek, then turned and walked back along the path. She glanced back once, then disappeared down the alleyway the priest had taken.
Barbara stood alone in the silent empty street. A pulse of excitement juddered at her throat. She stepped for
ward and took the handrail. The metal was cold. With her other hand she gripped the gun in her pocket. Be careful, she told herself. Don’t press the bloody trigger and shoot yourself in the leg. Not now. She stepped on to the bridge, moving slowly in case there was ice on the planks. Still she could not see the other side, only the bulk of the hill, a shade darker than the sky. She started walking. A light breeze, bitterly cold, ran down the river valley. Everything was silent, there was no sound from the river far below; looking down she could see only blackness, blackness underneath and all around the narrow iron bridge. For a moment her head spun with vertigo.
Pull yourself together! She took a couple of deep breaths and pressed on. She felt something cold on her cheek and realized it had started to snow lightly.
Then she heard footsteps, crossing the bridge from the other direction. She caught her breath. Could it be Bernie? Could he have seen her and Sofia from the other side and decided to cross and meet her? No, surely he would stay hidden till he could get rid of his prison clothes; it must be someone from the town.
The footsteps came closer; she could feel little reverberations through the wooden planks now. She walked on, gripping the rail hard, trying to force her face into a relaxed expression.
A tall male figure appeared, dressed in a heavy coat. He was walking down the centre of the bridge, not touching the handrail. Gradually she made out his face, saw the eyes staring fixedly at her. Her heart stopped for a second before thumping back into life.
Sandy stopped ten feet from her, in the middle of the walkway, one hand in his coat pocket and the other clenched in a fist at his side. He had shaved off his moustache and his face looked different, puffy and yellowish. He smiled, his old broad smile.
‘Hello, lovey,’ he said. ‘Surprised to see me? Expecting someone else?’
INSIDE THE CATHEDRAL the old man stood up and shuffled over to a switch on the wall. A loud click made Harry jump as an electric light came on above the altar, the white sodium glow bleaching the screen of its gold colour. He watched the old man trail back to his seat. He wished he had the gun, he had got used to its comforting feel. Like in the war. A picture of the beach at Dunkirk appeared in his mind, a vivid flash.