Maisie nodded. Yes, she understood. She was in the company of a free agent, a man who manipulated those in power, who likely inspired the many who fought. A man who was answerable to no one, yet took orders at the highest level. And because of that, she suspected he must also be a marked man. The naive Babayoff must have rendered him more so, for a time.
“Now you are here, Miss Dobbs, what will we do with you?”
Maisie stood up. “I think I have seen enough, Mr. Wright. I have listened enough, too; through those walls, I can certainly hear enough of the battle. You need do nothing with me. I have plans of my own.” She stepped forward and extended her hand. “We won’t meet again, of that I am sure, though I am equally positive I’ll cross paths with people of mutual acquaintance. Indeed, it would not surprise me to see Robert MacFarlane waiting for me on the other side of the border.”
Vallejo exchanged nods with Wright. Maisie turned to leave.
“One moment, Miss Dobbs.”
For the first time since Maisie had entered the room, she detected a certain reticence in Wright’s demeanor. He clasped his hands, circling his thumbs around each other, then came to his feet.
“I am not sure how you will use this information, and I am in two minds as to whether to bring it to your attention. But John Otterburn is both your friend and your foe. He is too valuable to your country—and I have to say, ultimately, to peace—to render him anything other than untouchable. You do not have to nurture his friendship, Miss Dobbs, but you would do well not to put your hand near the hornets’ nest. Remember how much you have witnessed of his activities; that renders you vulnerable too. In these times, as far as certain politicians in your country are concerned, he is a Goliath.”
A rogue nerve in Maisie’s eye twitched, and she wondered if Wright had noticed. “And we know what happened to Goliath. Don’t we, Mr. Wright?”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Maisie was silent on the way back to the hotel. The journey, though not long, was slow, again snaking along roads all but destroyed by the relentless bombing, past shattered houses and offices with walls sheared off to reveal the contents of rooms, some with furniture still standing, doors hanging off, beds still clothed and pictures hanging askew on the walls, as if the sides had been taken from a doll’s house to reveal the normal life torn to shreds.
“You don’t approve of our fight, do you, Miss Dobbs?” Vallejo did not turn to face her as the motor car bumped down a narrow thoroughfare, past fractured concrete and fallen masonry.
She said nothing for a while, but continued looking out of the window. It was as if every scene before her had been overlaid with another image, the work of a clever photographer who had pointed his camera at two subjects at once, and developed the film to reveal tragedy doubled—the ruins of a city, and a small aircraft spiraling down to oblivion on an escarpment in Canada.
“It’s not a question of approving or disapproving. I see how the gaping abyss between those who have much and those who have nothing can cause dangerous fractures in society. I see how power corrupts, how the people are manipulated and kept in their place. I see all of that, Professor Vallejo. But I am always left wondering if the fighting is worth so many dead. This country has been torn apart by authority-hungry men in all realms—in business, politics, and religion. It is the ordinary people who are crushed like ants underfoot. That is what happens. That is the only comment I have.”
“And you think we’re mad for trying to do something about it.”
She felt Vallejo prodding her, and turned to face him. “No. Not at all. You and Wright are risking your lives, are standing up to be counted. You can call yourselves Communists, socialists, whatever you wish—but I can see you believe you are on the side of good. But at what point does being on the side of good lapse into thinking one is God? Where’s the line? And again, what about the innocents?”
Vallejo nodded slowly. Maisie thought that the folds in his skin had become deeper since they first met. It was a moment before he spoke again, his voice edged with melancholy.
“You know, the Communists in Spain would never have become so powerful had not Germany and Italy sent their forces to join the Nationalists. The Moors from North Africa, especially, have been brutal, sweeping through the villages, tearing them apart, violating women and murdering them.” Vallejo cleared his throat, as if he had realized his voice had become loud, almost as if he were trying to speak above music that had stopped without warning. “And you, what will you do, considering what you have seen, and what you now understand?”
Maisie looked out of the window once more, at a child with a bandage around her head helping a limping elderly man along the street. “Me? That remains to be seen, Professor Vallejo. It really remains to be seen.”
At seven o’clock in the hotel bar, once again thronged by what Maisie thought of as “battle tourists,” along with journalists, doctors, some soldiers, and minor politicians from other countries, she wove her way through the clusters of people to the two nurses who had claimed a small table at the far end of the room. They waved when they saw her.
“Do join us for a drink, Maisie,” said Hattie.
Maisie shook her head. “Not for me—I’d like a hot soak while it’s quiet, and while I can. I don’t want to be caught in the bathtub during an air raid.”
“Did you manage to help us with a motor car?” asked Freda.
“Yes. A man named Raoul will collect us at five o’clock tomorrow morning, and we’ll get on our way. He’s completely trustworthy. We’ll have to begin our journey back to the hotel at about five, perhaps earlier—is that all right?”
Both women nodded.
“Right ho!” said Hattie. “Thank you very much, Maisie. A woman of connections! Not a bad thing, here.”
“I suggest you don’t wear your uniforms—just trousers and cotton blouses, though if you can acquire armbands with a red cross, that would be handy. And for Raoul and me too.”
“It’s as good as done. Five o’clock by the door, then?”
“Yes. I’ll ask the clerk if we can have bottles of water and some sandwiches—or whatever looks like a sandwich here.”
“You’ve done enough, Maisie—we’ll bring food and water for the day, and we’ve medical supplies ready to take with us.” She paused. “We’re glad you’re coming with us.”
On the way to her room, Maisie stopped at the hotel clerk’s desk and asked for a bowl of lemon chicken soup and some bread, to be brought to her quarters. Now she wanted to be alone. Now she wanted to think about James. She did not want to linger, this time, on the circumstances of his death. She wanted to sit and remember everything, from the first time he took her in his arms to the moment she came to him in his study at their apartment in Toronto, leaned into his neck, and told him he might have to move his papers and books to the box room, because the study was the best for conversion to a nursery. And before she had even slipped the key into the lock of her hotel room door, she felt again the tears of joy they’d shared, that their late union was to be so very blessed. Now she could feel herself slipping back, as if she had managed to climb almost to the top of grief’s dark void, only to lose her strength, her fingernails ceasing to hold. She stood at her bedroom window and looked down at the damage wrought by battle, and at people on the streets—life going on. She stared at humanity enduring, then spoke in a soft voice.
“Don’t worry, James, I will prevail. I am resilient too.”
Raoul was waiting in front of the hotel, as arranged. By the time Maisie came down from her room, he was loading two boxes of medical supplies into the car boot as Freda pushed a bag made of sackcloth onto the back seat. It seemed as if sustenance for several days had been prepared, not just a few hours. Raoul nodded to Maisie as if pleased to see a familiar face, his usual taciturn manner replaced by gratitude that she was there to take charge, rather than allow him to be bossed by the two doughty British nurses.
Maisie approached and thanked him, slipping a note of cur
rency into his palm, a promise that he would be well remunerated for his trouble. She took the seat next to him, while the cousins slid across the passenger seat, close to one another.
“Is bumpy,” said Raoul, shaking his head up and down to demonstrate that the journey would not be an easy one.
“Oh, don’t worry about us,” said Hattie. “We’re just grateful you can take us, Raoul—thank you. Bread and cheese, anyone?”
Maisie shook her head. “Perhaps later.”
The nurses showed no fear as they made their way through the city and out onto the Valencia road. Maisie looked back once and saw a certain dullness in their eyes, as if their emotions had been anesthetized. It was a look she recognized, for she had seen it in herself once, a long time ago, when she was a young nurse in France. Compassion had not been lost, but it was on a leash. Nothing could hamper the work of a nurse; the time it took to brush away one tear could mean the difference between saving a soldier or laying him out after death.
Lulled by the motion of the motor car, even while negotiating the rough roads, Maisie dozed, sometimes half waking to hear the low mumble of the cousins talking, sometimes hearing nothing but Raoul rhythmically tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.
When the slowing car woke her again, the landscape outside had changed. Now they were surrounded by mountainous country, with rough hills and low vegetation. A series of sand-colored buildings were clustered around a church with a bell tower and spire. The heat seemed to glance off the walls where, in shallow shade, a couple of dogs lay back and yawned as the motor car came to a halt. Women scrubbing sheets in a series of barrels looked up at the same time as a small woman bustled from one of the buildings toward them, wiping her hands on a towel. She was not dressed like a nun—she wore a blouse and full skirt with a clean white apron, and her hair was secure under a scarf tied at the nape of her neck—but Maisie instinctively knew this was Sister Teresa. She spoke English very well.
“Are you the British nurses?” she asked, still approaching them, now raising a hand to her brow and squinting.
Maisie was surprised. Sister Teresa seemed much younger than she had at first imagined. About thirty years of age, she had a broad smile and a welcoming demeanor, though the deep lines around her eyes betrayed her. This was a woman burdened with constant worry.
“And we’ve brought another, with more experience of the front lines than us two,” said Hattie.
Maisie stepped forward to greet the nun, who clasped her hands in both her own. “Much gratitude, much gratitude. You are most kind to be of service.”
“I fear I might not live up to expectations, Sister Teresa. I was last a nurse some years ago, but I will do what I can to help.”
“Good. That is good. I am very busy here, and our women help where they can. They believe the Republicans have made sure there are books in our schools, and pencils, paper, and teachers for the children, so we must do everything we can to help.” She ushered them into the building as if she were a mother hen, arms wide, drawing the three women into a cluster.
Maisie looked back at Raoul, who had stepped out of the motor car and was watching the women talk, while also keeping an eye on the children gathered around the motor car. He pointed to the back of the building, to indicate that he would be leaving the vehicle there, in the shade and out of sight.
Inside the first building, Sister Teresa led her volunteer nurses into an anteroom that Maisie suspected should have been filled with medicines and bandages, with disinfectants and clean, sterilized equipment—but instead it was almost bare. Hattie and Freda lifted their boxes onto a table and looked at each other, then Maisie. Sister Teresa was swaying, as if she were unwell.
“You’ve been trying to do so much with so little, Sister,” Maisie said. “You must need rest so very badly.”
The nun shook her head. “I cannot, because—”
“Well, you can for a few hours. Just show us what’s what, and we’ll get stuck in,” said Hattie.
Sister Teresa gestured for them to follow her through the anteroom. A heavy carved wooden door led into a long ward, set up with five beds on either side. Four were empty. She took the women to each bed and described the wounds suffered by the Republican fighters who had made their way to her makeshift hospital. In Maisie’s estimation, every man could have been considered an acute case—and underneath the fumes left by disinfectant, she could smell the unmistakable odor of gangrene.
“There has been a lot of fighting in the hills these past few days, so I expect more to come in this evening. They often come after nightfall, when it is clear to move the wounded. I could send a message—one of the boys would take it—to say that it would be better to take the chance now.”
Maisie glanced at the other two women and nodded, then turned back to the nun. “Do that, Sister. By the time the boy is back, we will be ready. First, though, let us get our supplies stored, the preparation room organized, and examine your patients here.” She paused, not quite sure whether she should ask the question that seemed to linger on the lips of the three visitors. “Have you had medical training, Sister Teresa?”
The nun shook her head. “I was a teacher, but my father was a physician—not that it gives me any training, but I knew enough to at least try to help.”
“You are here alone,” said Maisie. “Where are the other nuns?”
Sister Teresa’s eyes filled with tears. “There are those who no longer revere the church, and so they take vengeance on God. Our sisters have gone to safety, but I decided to remain here. Whatever army a man is with, if he needs care, I will provide it—though in our hills fighters are for the Republic. They know I will help them.” She paused, wiping her brow and looking at her hand, and then focused on the women again. “Let me show you the other room—through here, to the right of the door that leads from the square. It’s where we treat the wounded when they first come in.”
She led the way through the preparation room to another oak door, which she opened into a stark whitewashed room with four scrubbed tables. Maisie saw Hattie and Freda exchange glances. The floor had been cleaned, but livid bloodstains remained across the tiles, as if red paint had been spilled. Someone had used a pick to create a makeshift gulley, so blood and water could be sluiced outside through a small hole in the wall where it met the floor. Beside each table, a smaller metal trolley had been situated, ready to hold the tools of surgery, water, bandages, swabs—the basic essentials required to tend a wounded fighter.
“We have everything but a doctor,” said Sister Teresa.
“You have enough, Sister—and that is better than nothing,” said Maisie. “We will prepare as quickly as we can.” She looked at the cousins.
“You can bet on it,” said Hattie.
Freda nodded, her face pale.
“Now then, you must go and rest—please, Sister,” said Maisie. “We’ll come for you if we need you, and definitely before we leave.”
Sister Teresa nodded. As the three began walking toward the small preparation room, she called out to Maisie, “Does your driver chop wood?”
“I’m sure he can. What do you need?”
“The fire outside needs to be kept alight, to heat water for boiling bandages and cleaning wounds.”
“I’ll see to it while Hattie and Freda sort out the supplies, and then we’ll all get to work. Come, let me take you to your chamber—the least I can do is make sure you follow orders to rest.”
Sister Teresa led Maisie through the church to another series of small rooms, set out in a square flanking a courtyard. One of the rooms was the nun’s private cell. A narrow bed was set alongside the far wall, topped with a mattress so thin, Maisie wondered if she ever slept. A single sheet and blanket were folded at one end and it seemed undisturbed, as if unused for days. A small table positioned to the left, underneath an engraving of the Madonna, held a bowl and ewer half filled with water. Sister Teresa walked over to the bed. It was time to leave her alone with her prayers and—Maisie h
oped—to sleep.
The women worked with speed, Maisie picking up her rhythm from Hattie and Freda. She had not hit her stride yet, but she understood what was required. Soon the preparation room was disinfected, its cupboards scrubbed and dried, and new supplies stored within easy reach. The surgical room was swabbed again, and necessary supplies placed on each of the trolleys.
“Now to the patients in the ward,” announced Hattie.
Maisie took a large jug and left the building to go to the pump, to which a local woman had directed her earlier. She filled the jug and returned. The women had found cups, which had been washed and were now draining, so Maisie set them out and filled them, ready to be taken to the men once their examinations had been completed.
“We’re in the deep end now, Maisie,” said Hattie, looking at her watch. “We’ve got to get a lot done quickly. I’ll take these two, Freda will take those two men and if you examine the pair at the end, we’ll get it all finished in no time.”
Maisie nodded. “Right you are,” she said, taking up one of three trays, already prepared with swabs, bandages, scissors, scalpel, and a basin of water, plus disinfectant and—finally—morphia. She remembered her first day at the casualty clearing station in France, arriving with Iris and seeing approaching ambulances, rocking from side to side, as wounded were brought in from the battlefield. The screeching of shells falling assaulted her ears, the strange crump, crump, crump when they fell to earth to do their job—to kill. “You’re in the deep end now,” the nurse in charge had told them, before they had even caught their breath. Death’s deep end.
Maisie greeted her first patient, a man with a bandaged shoulder. “Señor,” she said, smiling before placing a white mask over her mouth and nose, “soy una enfermera.” I am a nurse. She cleaned and dressed his wounds, a task that took longer than expected, due to his pain and the severity of the wound—they were saving as much morphia as they could for new patients. She was in the midst of caring for the second soldier when a boy of about ten years old came in, shouting.
A Dangerous Place Page 24
