Winter in Madrid (39 page)

‘Yes, it is very green.’

‘Even in summer?’

‘Especially then. Green grass, lots of big, broad trees.’

‘Madrid used to be full of trees. When we came back the Reds had cut them all down for firewood.’ She sighed. ‘I was happier in Burgos.’

‘Things are pretty insecure in England too now. It was different before the war.’ He smiled. ‘I remember at school, there was nothing nicer than a long game of cricket on a summer afternoon.’ He had a vision of the green playing fields, the boys in cricket whites, the clop of bat and ball. It was like a dream, as far away as the world his parents’ photograph had been taken in.

‘I have heard of cricket.’ Milagros laughed nervously, looking
more like a plump schoolgirl than ever. ‘But I do not know how it is played.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘I am sorry, this afternoon – I do not know anything about paintings, either.’

‘Neither do I, really,’ he replied awkwardly.

‘It was just, I had to think of somewhere we might go. But if you like we could go out to the country some time, I could show you the Guadarrama mountains in winter. Alfonso could take us in the car.’

‘Yes, yes perhaps.’ She was blushing, there was no doubt about it, she was soft on him. Oh hell, Harry thought. He looked at the wall clock. ‘It’s time to go,’ he said. ‘Alfonso will be waiting. Mustn’t annoy him again.’

Her mouth quivered slightly. ‘Yes.’

The old soldier was standing on the steps of the Prado, smoking and staring across the road at the Ritz. It was starting to get dark. He turned and this time he smiled at Harry.

‘Ah, right on time.
Bueno
. Did you have a good time, Milagros?’

‘Yes, Alfonso.’

‘You must tell your Mama all about the pictures you saw. The car is round the corner.’ He took Harry’s hand. ‘Perhaps I shall see you again, Señor Brett.’

‘Yes, Lieutenant Gomez.’ Harry shook hands with Milagros. She looked at him expectantly but he said nothing about meeting again. Her face fell and he felt guilty but he wasn’t going to string her along. He watched as they walked away. Why did she like him, they’d nothing in common at all. ‘Oh, hell,’ he said again, aloud.

H
ARRY WAS MEETING
Tolhurst for a drink at the Café Gijón. He passed the ministry where he had met Maestre, the street patrolled by
civiles
with sub-machine guns. He pulled his coat collar up. It was cold again; after the baking summer and the failed harvest, it looked like a cold winter was coming.

Paseo de Recoletes was the same as Harry remembered from 1937, a broad, tree-lined avenue stretching into the city. The shops were reopening after the siesta, yellow light spilling on to the pavement. Even here the window displays were sparse. He had heard of the
Gijón but never been there. Walking into the mirrored bar he saw people scattered about the tables. There were artistic types with beards and extravagant moustaches but no doubt they were regime supporters, like Dalf. ‘Fascism is the dream made real,’ a young man was saying enthusiastically to his companion; ‘the surreal made real.’ You can say that again, Harry thought.

Tolhurst was sitting with his bulk squeezed in behind a table against the wall. Harry raised a hand, then fetched a brandy from the bar and joined him.

‘How was the date?’ Tolhurst asked.

Harry took a slug of the brandy. ‘That’s better. Pretty awful actually. She’s nice enough but she’s – well – just a kid. She had a chaperone. Maestre’s ex-batman or whatever he is.’

‘They’ve got very old-fashioned ideas about women.’ Tolhurst looked at him. ‘Try and keep in with her if you can, it’s a link to Maestre.’

‘She wants to go for a drive in the Guadarrama.’

‘Ah.’ Tolhurst smiled. ‘Get you on her own, eh?’

‘With Gomez driving.’

‘Ah well.’ Tolhurst blew out his plump cheeks. ‘Oh God, I wish I was back home sometimes. I get homesick.’

‘Missing your family?’

Tolhurst lit a cigarette and watched the smoke curl up to the ceiling. ‘Not really. My father’s in the army, haven’t seen him for ages.’ He sighed. ‘I’ve always wanted to live in London, enjoy the high life. Never managed to – first it was school and then the diplomatic service.’ He sighed again. ‘It’s probably too late now. With the bombing and the blackout, all that sort of life must be over.’ He shook his head. ‘Have you seen the papers? They’re still saying how well Franco got on with Hitler at Hendaye. And Sam’s in appeasement mode; he’s told Franco Britain would be happy to see Spain take Morocco and Algeria from the French.’

‘What? As Spanish colonies?’

‘Yes. He’s playing up to Franco’s dreams of empire. Can see his reasoning, I suppose. The French are finished as a power.’

Tolhurst spoke of what ‘Sam’ was doing as though he was the
ambassador’s confidant, as he often did, though Harry knew he was probably just repeating embassy gossip.

‘We’ve got the blockade,’ Harry said. ‘We could turn off their food and oil supplies like a tap. Maybe it’s time we did. Warn them off Hitler.’

‘It’s not that simple. If we left them with nothing to lose they could join the Germans, march in and take Gibraltar.’

Harry took another swig of brandy. ‘D’you remember that night at the Ritz? I overheard Hoare saying there mustn’t be any British support for special operations here. I remember a speech Churchill made just before I came out. Britain’s survival kindling sparks of hope in occupied Europe. We could help the people here instead of sucking up to the leaders.’

‘Steady on.’ Tolhurst laughed nervously. ‘The brandy’s going to your head. The Reds would come back if Franco fell. They’d be even worse.’

‘What does Captain Hillgarth think? He seemed to be agreeing with Sir Sam that night at the Ritz.’

Tolhurst shifted uncomfortably. ‘Actually, Harry, he’d be a bit annoyed if he knew he’d been overheard.’

‘It wasn’t deliberate.’

‘Anyway, I don’t know anything,’ he added wearily. ‘I’m just the dogsbody. I arrange things, debrief sources and query their expenses.’

‘Tell me,’ Harry asked, ‘have you ever heard the expression, “The Knights of St George”?’

Tolhurst’s eyes narrowed. ‘Where did you hear that?’ he asked quietly.

‘Maestre used the phrase when he was talking to Captain Hillgarth, the first day I went with Hillgarth to do some translating. It means sovereigns, Tolly, doesn’t it?’ Tolhurst didn’t answer, just pursed his lips. Harry went on, not caring any more what protocols he might be breaking. ‘Hillgarth talked about Juan March as well. Are we involved in bribing the Monarchists? Is that the horse we’re backing to keep Spain out of the war? Is that why Hoare doesn’t want anything to do with the opposition?’

‘You know, Harry, it doesn’t do to be too curious.’ Tolhurst’s
voice was still quiet. ‘It’s not our job to think about – well –
policy
. And for fuck’s sake, keep your voice down.’

‘I’m right, aren’t I? I can see it in your face.’ Harry leaned forward, whispering intently. ‘What if it comes unstuck and Franco finds out? We’d be in the shit then, and so would Maestre and his pals.’

‘The captain knows what he’s doing.’

‘And what if it works? We’re tied to these bastards for good. They’ll rule Spain for ever.’

Tolhurst took a deep breath. His face reddened, his expression was angry. ‘Christ, Harry, how long has this been going round in your noddle?’

‘I only guessed what the Knights of St George might be the other day.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘Don’t worry, Tolly, I won’t say anything.’

‘You’d better not, if you don’t want a charge of treason. This is what comes of recruiting academics,’ he said. ‘You’re too bloody curious.’ He laughed, trying to put matters back on a friendly footing. ‘I can’t tell you anything,’ he continued. ‘You must see that. But the captain and Sam know what they’re doing. I’ll have to tell the captain you’ve twigged this. You’re sure you’ve told nobody else.’

‘I swear, Tolly.’

‘Then have another, and forget about it.’

‘All right,’ Harry said. He wouldn’t forget, but there was no point in sailing into trouble. He wished he hadn’t followed his impulse to ask Tolhurst.

Tolhurst heaved himself up, wincing as the corner of the table caught his belly. Harry stared into his glass. He felt a moment’s panic, his beliefs about the world and his place in it shifting under him again, like sand.

T
HE MONEY ARRIVED
on the fifth of November, the day before Barbara was due to meet Luis again. She was despairing of it ever coming and had prepared herself to plead with Luis to wait. As she grew more worried, Barbara knew she was becoming nervy and withdrawn. Sandy was clearly starting to wonder what was wrong with her. That morning she had pretended to be asleep while he dressed, though her eyes were open, staring down at the pillow, remembering it was Guy Fawkes Day. There would be no fireworks in England this year; they had enough real explosions every night. The BBC said there had been no more raids on the Midlands, but London was being bombed most nights. The Madrid papers said much of the city was reduced to rubble but she told herself that was propaganda.

After Sandy left she went down for the mail. There was one typed envelope on the mat with the King’s head on the stamp instead of Franco and his cold stare. She tore it open. In coldly formal tones, the bank told her they had transferred her savings to the account she had opened in Madrid: over 5000 pesetas. She could sense their disapproval of her taking money abroad in wartime.

She went back to the bedroom and put the letter in her bureau. There were a couple of guides to Cuenca in there now, which she had bought and studied carefully. She locked it.

She dressed hurriedly; she was due at the orphanage at nine. It was her second morning there. Yesterday she had worn her usual clothes but Sister Inmaculada had said she should not dirty a good dress. Barbara found it a relief to revert to an old skirt and baggy jumper. She glanced at her watch. It was time she was off.

B
ARBARA HAD ARRANGED
to come to the orphanage twice a week but already she was unsure if she could continue. She had been a nurse before but never in conditions like this.

She thought of the scrubbed, clinical corridors of the Birmingham Municipal Hospital with nostalgia as she approached the orphanage. A gasogene passed, the foul-smelling smoke belching from its little chimney making her cough. She knocked at the door and a nun let her in.

The grey nineteenth-century building was a former monastery, built round a central square with pillared cloisters. The cloister walls were covered with anti-communist posters: a snarling ogre wearing a cap with a red star looming over a young mother and her children; a hammer and sickle in a montage with a skull and the legend, ‘This is Communism’. Yesterday she had asked Sister Inmaculada whether the posters might frighten the children. The tall nun had shaken her head sadly.

‘Nearly all these children come from Red families. They have to be reminded they lived in the devil’s shadow. Otherwise how can their little souls be saved?’

Sister Inmaculada was finishing roll-call in the central cloister as Barbara arrived, her clear high voice ringing round the yard, a cane tucked into the belt of her habit. Fifty boys and girls between six and twelve stood in lines on the concrete. She lowered her clipboard. ‘Dismiss,’ she called, then raised an arm in the Fascist salute.
‘¡Viva Franco!’
The children replied in a ragged chorus, arms waving vaguely up and down. Barbara remembered the concert, Franco suppressing his yawn. She walked to the infirmary; ‘Spain Reconquered for Christ!’ was painted over the door.

Her first job of the day was to check the health of newly admitted children to see if any needed referring to the doctor. Inside the cold infirmary with its iron beds and steel instruments hanging from the walls her helper, Señora Blanco, was waiting. She was an elderly retired cook, a
beata
, a religious woman whose life revolved around the church. She had tight grey curls and wore a brown apron; her plump face was wrinkled and at first sight kindly.

‘
Buenas tardes
, Señora Forsyth. I have hot water ready.’

‘Thank you,
señora
. How many have we got today?’

‘Only two. Brought by the
civiles
. A boy caught burgling a house and a little girl living wild.’ She shook her head piously.

Barbara washed her hands. The children who came to the orphanage were mostly feral, living by begging and stealing. Their begging was a nuisance and when the police picked them up they handed them over to the nuns.

Señora Blanco rang a little bell and a nun led in a red-haired boy of about eight wearing a greasy brown coat too big for him. Sister Teresa was young, with a square peasant face. ‘Caught stealing, the little beast,’ she said admonishingly.

‘What a bad child,’ Señora Blanco said sorrowfully. ‘Take off your clothes, child, let the nurse see you.’ The boy disrobed sullenly and stood naked: ribs poking out, arms like matchsticks. He lowered his head as Barbara examined him. He smelled of stale sweat and urine; his skin as cold as a plucked chicken.

‘He’s very thin,’ she said quietly. ‘Nits, of course.’ The boy had a long cut on his wrist, red and weeping. ‘That’s a nasty cut,
niño
,’ she said gently. ‘How did you get that?’

The boy looked up with big frightened eyes. ‘A cat,’ he muttered. ‘It came into my cellar. I tried to pick it up and it scratched me.’

Barbara smiled. ‘Bad cat. We’ll put some ointment on it. Then we’ll get you something to eat, would you like that?’ He nodded. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Ivan,
señora
.’

Señora Blanco compressed her lips. ‘Who gave you that name?’

‘My parents.’

‘Where are your parents now?’

‘The
civiles
took them.’

‘Ivan is a bad name, a Russian name, do you not know that? The nuns will find you a better one.’ The boy hung his head.

‘I think that’s all,’ Barbara said. She wrote on a card and handed it to Señora Blanco, who led the boy away. Sister Teresa left by the other door to fetch the next child. The
beata
returned a few moments later, wiping her hands on her dark apron. ‘Dear Lord, how he smelt.’