Winter in Madrid (49 page)

‘Yes, but—’

‘I will only be a minute.’ She touched his arm, smiled and was gone. Harry leaned against the cold tram stop, taking deep breaths, in through his nose and out through his mouth as they had told him at the hospital. A few moments later a taxi drew up.

He felt better at once, sitting down in the warmth. He smiled
sadly at Sofia. ‘What an end to the evening, eh? Drop me off and I’ll pay the taxi to get you home.’

‘No, I want to make sure you are all right. You are very pale.’ She studied him with a professional gaze.

The taxi dropped them off. Harry was afraid he would need her help to get up the stairs but he was much better now; he walked up unaided. He let them in and they went into the
salón
.

‘Sit down on the settee, there,’ she said. ‘Have you any spirits?’

‘There’s some whisky in that cupboard.’

She fetched a glass from the kitchen and made him drink. The whisky gave him a little jolt. She smiled. ‘There. The colour is coming back to your cheeks.’ She lit the
brasero
then sat on the other end of the settee, looking at him.

‘Have one yourself,’ he said.

‘No thank you. I do not like it much.’ She looked at his parents’ photograph.

‘That’s my mother and father.’

‘It is a nice photograph.’

‘Your mother showed me her wedding photograph, that day I brought Enrique back.’

‘Yes. Her and Papa and Uncle Ernesto.’

‘Your uncle was a priest, wasn’t he?’

‘Yes. In Cuenca. We haven’t heard from him since the Civil War started. He may be dead; Cuenca was in the Republican zone. Do you mind, Harry, may I smoke?’

‘Of course.’ He took an ashtray from the coffee table and passed it to her. His hand trembled slightly, he saw.

‘Was it bad?’ she asked. ‘The war in France?’

‘Yes. A shell landed right beside me, killed the man I was with. I was deaf for a while and had these wretched panic attacks. It’s been much better recently. I fought it, I thought I’d beaten it, but it came back tonight.’

‘I wonder if you take enough care of yourself.’

‘I’m all right. I can’t complain, I get good rations and live in this big flat.’

‘Yes, it is nice.’ She looked around the room. ‘But it has a gloomy atmosphere somehow.’

‘It’s too big for me really. I rattle about a bit. It used to belong to a Communist official.’

‘Those people did themselves well.’ She sighed.

‘Sometimes I seem to feel his presence.’ Harry laughed self-consciously.

‘Madrid is full of ghosts now.’

All the lights went out, plunging them into total darkness except for the glow of the
brasero
. They both exclaimed, then Sofia said, ‘It is only another power cut.’

‘God, what a moment for that to happen.’

They both laughed.

‘I’ve got some candles in the kitchen,’ Harry said. ‘Give me a match to see by and I’ll fetch them. Unless you’d rather go home now?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘It is good to talk.’

Harry lit candles and set them in saucers. They cast a flickering yellow light over the room. Where it caught the candlelight Harry noticed again how her hair wasn’t quite black, there were elusive shades of brown there too. Her face was sad.

‘We are always getting cuts,’ she said. ‘We get used to it.’

Harry was silent a moment, then said, ‘I’ve seen more hardship here than I ever thought possible.’

‘Yes.’ Sofia sighed again. ‘Remember our
beata
, Señora Avila? She visited us yesterday. She says the priest is concerned we cannot afford to look after Paco properly; he wants us to let him go to the orphanage. The priest would not come himself as we do not go to church. That of course is the real reason they want Paco away from us. But they will not get him.’ Her mouth went hard for a moment. ‘Enrique will soon be able to work again. There may be a place for him at the dairy.’

‘I have a friend, an Englishwoman, she worked for a while in one of the orphanages. She said it was a bad place. She left.’

‘I have heard of children who kill themselves. That is what I fear for Paco. He is always so frightened. He hardly ever speaks, and only to us.’

‘Is there nobody who could – I don’t know – help him?’

She laughed bitterly. ‘Who? There is only us.’

‘I’m sorry.’

She leaned forward, her large eyes glinting in the candlelight. ‘You have no reason to be sorry. You have been kind. You care. The foreigners, and those who have money here, they shut their eyes to how people live. And those who have nothing are beaten down, apathetic. It is good to meet someone who cares.’ She gave a little smile. ‘Even if it makes you sad. You are a good man.’

Harry thought of Gomez, his terrified eyes. He shook his head. ‘No, I’m not. I’d like to be but I’m not.’ He put his head in his hands. He sighed deeply, then looked up at her. She smiled. Then he slowly put out his hand and took hers. ‘You are the good one,’ he said.

She did not move her hand. Her eyes softened. He leaned slowly towards her and put his lips to hers. Her dress made a rustling sound as she leaned forward and kissed him back, a long deep kiss with a sharp exciting tang of smoke. He pulled away.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘You’re alone in my flat, I didn’t mean—’

She smiled and shook her head. ‘No. I am glad. It was not hard to see how you felt. And I have been thinking of you since the first time you came, sitting in our
salón
looking so lost but wanting to help us.’ She lowered her head. ‘I did not want to feel this, our lives are complicated enough. That is why I did not get the doctor at first.’ She smiled. ‘Poor Enrique. You see, I
am
selfish really.’

He leaned forward and took her hand. It was small, warm, pulsing with life.

‘You’re the least selfish person I’ve ever met.’ Something in him still hesitated, he couldn’t quite believe this was happening.

‘Harry,’ she said.

‘You pronounce my name like no one else,’ he said with a little choking laugh.

‘It is easier to pronounce than the way the English say David.’

‘The boy from Leeds?’

‘Yes. We were together for a while. In war you have to take chances while you can. Perhaps I shock you. The Catholics would say I am an immoral woman.’

‘Never.’ He hesitated, then leaned forward and kissed her again.

B
ARBARA HAD HEARD
that if you loved a person and then stopped loving them, sometimes it turned into hate. She hadn’t believed it but it was true. Sandy had said her heart was full of sentimental mush, but it wasn’t, it was full of loathing now.

She had to hide her feelings. It was Wednesday, and she had met Luis again; Agustín would be back from leave in three weeks’ time, on the fourth of December. As soon as he came back, Luis would go to Cuenca and finalize everything. The date for the escape would depend on the guards’ timetables but they should be able to do it before Christmas. During that time she had to make sure Sandy suspected nothing.

The house with its big rooms and expensive, immaculately clean furniture felt increasingly oppressive. Sometimes Barbara wanted to pull down the highly polished mirrors and smash them on the waxed tables. As she moved restlessly through the house or looked out at the wintry garden, she began wondering if she was going a little mad.

After their argument over the orphanage Barbara had once again made herself as agreeable and submissive as she could. The Sunday after their row Sandy went out for the morning in the car; business, he said. Barbara went for a walk and bought some Andalusian roses in an exclusive flower shop; they were expensive but they were Sandy’s favourites. She brought them in to dinner in a vase. He picked one up and sniffed it.

‘Very nice,’ he said flatly. ‘You’re out of the sulks, then?’ He was still in an angry mood.

She said quietly, ‘There’s no point in quarrelling.’

‘Your letter to Sister Inmaculada’s raised a few eyebrows. One or two people have asked if I’m harbouring a subversive.’

‘Look, Sandy, I don’t want to cause problems with your business
friends. Why don’t I volunteer for something else, work at one of the veterans’ hospitals perhaps?’

He grunted. ‘They’re mostly run by the Falange. I don’t want you rowing with them next.’

‘So long as I don’t have to see children mistreated, that’s all.’

He looked at her, his eyes bleak and cold.

‘Most children are mistreated. It’s the way of the world. Unless you’re lucky, like my brother. You were mistreated, so was I.’

‘Not like that.’

‘It’s all mistreatment.’ He shrugged. ‘I’ll talk to Sebastian about the veterans.’

‘Thanks.’ She tried to sound grateful. Sandy grunted and bent his head to his plate.

He hadn’t approached her for sex since their row. The next afternoon, Barbara had gone down to the kitchen to speak to Pilar and on the stairs she had heard a laugh. Sandy was there, leaning on the table, smoking a cigarette and smiling, a lubricious smile. Pilar stood washing dishes at the sink, laughing too; when she caught sight of Barbara she blushed scarlet and bowed her head.

‘I’ve brought the shopping list, Pilar,’ Barbara said coldly. ‘I’ll leave it on the table.’

Afterwards she said nothing but he did. They were sitting in the
salón
and he sat back, twirling his whisky glass. He smiled. ‘Nice girl, Pilar. She can be quite cheeky sometimes.’

Barbara continued threading a needle. He’s doing this to punish me, she thought, as though I cared now. ‘How you men like to flirt with servants,’ she said lightly. ‘I suppose it’s a fantasy, a public-school thing.’

‘If you knew what some of my fantasies are,’ he said, ‘you wouldn’t like them.’ Something in his tone made her look at him sharply. He looked at her coldly and took another swig of whisky.

‘I must get that pattern Mum sent,’ she said. She went out and stood in the hall, taking deep breaths. Sometimes she just had to get away from him. She would think, I’ll sit with him for an hour, then get out for a few minutes. And that’ll be another hour nearer getting away for good.

She went up to their bedroom. She didn’t need the pattern but
supposed she had better take it. While she was there she unlocked the drawer in her bureau and fingered her bank book. She was glad the bureau had a good strong lock; she always kept the key in her pocket.

She took a deep breath. She would have to go back downstairs, try to calm things. She could ask him how things were going with Harry, whether Harry was joining this project, whatever it was. But if he insisted on using Pilar to mock her, let him. She would pretend to be hurt and that would be another excuse to avoid making love if he came near her again.

T
O HER RELIEF
Sandy didn’t mention Pilar again that evening. When she asked him about Harry he said he had invited him to dinner again on Thursday week. He got up, saying there was some paperwork he needed to sort out in his study. She sighed with relief as the door closed behind him.

Shortly afterwards she heard the telephone ring twice then suddenly stop; Sandy must have answered it on the study extension. It made her jump slightly; she started again a moment later as the doorbell rang loudly. Who on earth’s this, she thought, it’s getting late. She put down her sewing.

She heard Pilar come up from the kitchen, her heels clacking on the tiles. A minute later she knocked and entered the
salón
. Little as she cared what Sandy did now, Barbara felt a spurt of anger. ‘Who is it?’ she asked.

Pilar wouldn’t meet her eyes. ‘If you please,
señora
, it is a man to see Señor Forsyth. He looks a little –’ she hesitated – ‘foreign. I know Señor Forsyth does not like to be disturbed in his study.’

‘I’ll see who it is.’ She got up and walked past the girl. A blast of cold air came from the hall; Pilar had left the front door ajar. A small elderly man in a stained coat and a battered Homburg hat stood on the doorstep. He wore spectacles held together over the bridge of his nose with tape. He lifted his hat.

‘¿Perdone, señora, esta el señor Forsyth en casa?’
He spoke Spanish slowly and with effort, in a strong French accent. Barbara replied in French.

‘Yes. How can we help you?’

The old man’s face creased with relief. ‘Ah, you speak French. My Spanish is poor. I am sorry to disturb you. My name is Blanc, Henri Blanc, I have something I must give Señor Forsyth.’ He felt inside his coat, producing a little canvas bag. It made a chinking sound. Barbara stared in puzzlement.

‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘I should explain. I am one of the refugees Señor Forsyth has been assisting.’

‘Oh, I see.’ That explained the down-at-heel clothes, the French accent. He was one of the Jews. She held the door open. ‘Please come in.’

The old man shook his head. ‘No, no, please. I do not wish to disturb you so late. Only I heard today I have my pass to go to Lisbon.’ He smiled, unable to conceal his delight. ‘I leave with my family early tomorrow. I could not go without bringing what I had promised.’ He proffered the bag again. ‘Please, take it. Tell him it is pure quality as I said. These have been in our family a long time but it is worth it to get to Lisbon.’

‘All right.’ Barbara took the package. ‘You must have had a long walk – are you sure you won’t come in for a minute?’ She looked at his shoes, the heels were almost worn away, he had probably walked from France in them.

‘No, thank you. I must get back.’ He smiled. ‘But I had to keep my promise. Thank Señor Forsyth for me. We have been so worried; we hear the Germans are sending Republican refugees back from France and worry they may demand us in return. But now we will be safe, thanks to your husband.’ He reached out and shook her hand, then replaced his hat and turned, limping slowly down the drive.

Barbara closed the door. She saw a shadow at the top of the basement stairs and realized Pilar had been standing there listening. Was this how it was going to be with her from now on?

‘Pilar,’ she called sharply, ‘could you make me a chocolate please.’ The shadow jumped and the girl called, ‘
Sí, señora
.’ Her footsteps clumped rapidly down the steps to the kitchen. Barbara stood in the hall, weighing the bag in her hands. It wasn’t coins, it was something lighter. She went back into the salon and opened the drawstring. She tipped the contents into her palm.