by C. J. Sansom
‘This house was half ruined,’ Maestre said. ‘Good furniture used for firewood. Everything broken or damaged. The families the Republic put in here could not even use the toilet, but the worst was our family things, photographs sold in the Rastro because they were framed in silver. You can see why Negrín being given a home in London angers people.’ Maestre looked across at his daughter, his face full of tenderness for a moment. ‘Milagros is a sensitive child, she found it hard to bear. She is not happy. I fear she is too delicate a plant to flourish in Spain now. I sometimes even think she might be happier abroad.’ He put his arm round his wife’s shoulders. ‘I think we should start the dancing, my dear. I will ask the chamber orchestra to come in.’ He smiled at Harry. ‘Only the best for Milagros. I will tell her she must give you a dance. Excuse us.’ He led his wife away.
‘Hell,’ Tolhurst said. ‘I’m awful at dancing.’
‘This Juan March,’ Harry said in neutral tones. ‘He’s quite an important man, isn’t he?’
‘I’ll say. He’s got millions. Gigantic crook, started as a smuggler. Lives in Switzerland now, took all his money out before the Civil War started. Pro-Monarchist. Probably just come to sort out his affairs.’ Tolhurst spoke lightly, but Harry saw a watchfulness come into his face. He changed the subject. ‘Terrible about the Maestres’ losses, all the upper- and middle-class families suffered dreadfully. One thing about this regime, at least they protect people of – you know, our class.’
‘Yes, I suppose they do. Our class. You know, I was thinking. In a funny way, I think the fact we’re both Rookwood old boys means more to Sandy than to me now. He still has feelings about it, even if it’s only hate.’
‘And you?’
‘I don’t know any more, Tolly.’
Four men in dinner jackets carrying musical instruments appeared with Señora Maestre, followed by a group of the kaftaned servants pushing a little wooden stage. The guests clapped and cheered. Harry saw Milagros waving her fan at him from the other side of the room. He raised his glass. Beside him, Tolhurst sighed.
‘Oh lor’,’ he said. ‘Here we go.’
Chapter Eighteen
BARBARA HADN’T WANTED to go and meet Harry. He had been kind to her three years before and it had been good to see a friendly English face, but seeing Bernie’s best friend felt somehow like tempting fate. She had considered telling Harry but he seemed so friendly with Sandy. And he had changed: there was an angry unhappiness about him that had not been there three years ago. She had to keep everything secret. Harry was here now and Sandy had taken a shine to him, so she must brazen it out and deceive Harry too. A second person to deceive, and Bernie’s best friend this time.
On Saturday she had heard on the BBC about a big German raid on Birmingham. Nearly two hundred people had been killed. She had sat by the radio, aghast. She hadn’t told Sandy; he would have comforted her but she felt she couldn’t stand that, she didn’t deserve it. She worried for two days but that morning a telegram had arrived from her father, saying they were all well, the raids had been in the town centre. She had wept with relief.
She was due to meet Luis again in two days. She feared the money from her bank in England might not come in time. Doubtful of Luis’s story though she had been after their first meeting, now she was more inclined to believe him. If he turned up at the cafe with proof, that would settle it. She cautioned herself that it was what she wanted to believe, she mustn’t hope too much. And if it were true? Helping Bernie escape from a prison camp, getting him to the embassy? And what if Sandy found out? What would he do? Lately she had come to realize that among the complex of emotions she felt for Sandy, there was an element of fear, fear of the ruthlessness she knew was part of him.
The previous evening she had done something that only a few weeks ago she would have found inconceivable. Sandy had been out with some of his cronies and she had gone into his study to try and find out what money he had. She told herself she would never steal from him, but if her savings did not arrive in time perhaps she could get money from him with some lie. If he had enough. Like most men, Sandy didn’t think money was something women should know about.
Her heart beating fast, feeling she was crossing some sort of boundary for good, Barbara had hunted for the key to Sandy’s desk in his study. He kept it in the bedroom, in his sock drawer – she had seen him put it there sometimes when he came to bed after an evening’s work. She found it right at the back, inside a folded sock. She looked at it, hesitated again for a moment, then went to his study.
Some of the drawers were locked, but not all. In one she found two bank books. One was an account with a local branch of a Spanish bank containing a thousand pesetas; the records showed regular payments and withdrawals that she guessed covered their expenses. To her surprise the second was with a bank in Argentina. There were several entries but no withdrawals, and the balance was nearly half a million Argentine pesos, however much that was. Of course, there was no way of getting the money out herself: the accounts were in Sandy’s sole name. She felt oddly relieved.
She left the study, pausing at the door to make sure Pilar was not around. Putting the key back, she felt that something steely was entering into her, something she hadn’t known was there.
SHE HAD ARRANGED to meet Harry in a restaurant near the Royal Palace, a quiet little place that served good black-market food. She was late. The daily maid had been in a state because she had been stopped by the civiles on the way to work and had forgotten her papers; Barbara had to write a letter confirming she worked for her. Harry was already sitting at one of the little tables reading a newspaper. A few businessmen and well-to-do couples occupied the other tables. Harry rose to greet her.
‘Barbara, how are you?’ He looked pale and tired.
‘Oh, not so bad.’
‘It’s cold.’
‘Yes, winter’s nearly here.’
The waiter took her coat and hat and laid menus in front of them.
‘Well, how are you?’ she asked brightly. ‘How’s the embassy?’
‘A bit boring. Interpreting at meetings with officials mostly.’ He seemed nervous, ill at ease.
‘How are your people? All right?’
‘My uncle and aunt are fine. Down in Surrey you’d hardly know there was a war on. My cousin’s family had it a bit rough in London though.’ He paused, looked at her seriously. ‘I hear Birmingham’s been hit.’
‘Yes. They sent me a telegram, they’re all OK.’
‘I thought about you when I heard. You must have been terribly worried.’
‘I was, and I expect there’ll be more raids.’ She sighed. ‘But you’ve had them much longer in London, haven’t you?’
‘There was one when I was there last month, with my cousin Will. But he’s safe in the country now, some secret work.’
‘That must be a relief.’
‘Yes.’
Barbara lit a cigarette. ‘I think my parents are just trying to carry on, same as everyone. What else can they do? Mum and Dad don’t say much in their letters.’
‘How’s Sandy’s father? The bishop?’
‘Do you know, I haven’t the faintest idea. They haven’t been in touch since Sandy came out here. He never talks about his father, or his brother. It’s sad.’ She studied Harry. He did look different, very tense. He had been quite good-looking when she met him three years ago, though not her type. Now he looked older, fleshier, with new lines around his eyes. She thought, a whole generation of men is ageing fast. She hesitated, then asked, ‘How are you these days? You look a bit tired.’
‘Oh, I’m OK. I had shell shock, you know,’ he added suddenly. ‘I used to get bad panic attacks.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘But I’m much better now, haven’t had one for a while.’
‘At least you’re doing something useful at the embassy.’
He smiled, a tense smile. ‘You look very different from the last time we met,’ he said.
Barba
ra blushed. ‘Yes, all those tatty jumpers. I didn’t care how I looked then, I was in such a state.’ She smiled at him warmly. ‘You helped me.’
He bit his lip, staring at her with his earnest blue eyes so that for a second she thought, oh God, he’s guessed something. Then he said, ‘What’s it like, living here? Madrid seems in a terrible state. The poverty and misery, all the beggars. It’s worse than during the Civil War.’
She sighed. ‘The Civil War wrecked Spain, especially Madrid. The harvest’s been bad again and now there’s our blockade, limiting the supplies they can bring in. According to the papers anyway. Though I don’t know.’ She smiled sadly. ‘I don’t really know what to believe.’
‘It’s the silence I can’t stand. Remember how noisy Madrid used to be? It’s as though all the energy and hope has been sucked out of people.’
‘That’s war.’
Harry looked at her seriously. ‘You know what frightens me? We stopped Hitler invading England this year, but if he tries again next year we might lose. We’d fight like hell, fight on the beaches and in the streets like Churchill said, but we could lose. I imagine Britain ending up like Spain, a wrecked, ruined country ruled by corrupt fascists. This could happen at home.’
‘Could it? I know discipline’s harsh, but there are people like Sebastian de Salas who really do want to rebuild the country.’ She stopped, passed a hand across her brow. ‘Oh God,’ she said. ‘I’m defending them. Everyone I know is on their side, you see.’ She bit her lip. She should have known if she met Harry all her confusion and fear would come to the surface. But perhaps it was good for her to face some things. So long as they kept off the subject of Bernie.
‘What does Sandy think of them?’ Harry asked.
‘He thinks Spain is better off than if the Reds had won.’
‘Do you agree?’
‘Oh, who the hell knows?’ she said with sudden emotion.
Harry smiled. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve been going on. Let’s change the subject.’
‘Shall we look at the menu?’
They made their choices and the waiter brought a bottle of wine. Harry tasted it and nodded.
‘Very nice.’
‘Most of the wine is awful, but they have a good cellar here.’
‘You can get it if you can afford it, eh?’
She glanced up at the bitterness in his voice.
‘I’m starting work at an orphanage soon,’ she said.
‘Back to nursing?’
‘Yes. I wanted to do something positive. Sandy suggested it actually.’
Harry nodded, hesitated again, then said, ‘He looks well. Very prosperous.’
‘He is. He’s so good at organization. He’s a good businessman.’
There was a pause as the waiter brought their soup, then Harry said, ‘Sandy always carved out his own path. Even at school. He certainly looks successful.’ He looked at her. ‘Working with the Ministry of Mines, didn’t he say the other night?’
Barbara shrugged. ‘Yes. I don’t know much about it. He says it’s confidential.’ She smiled sadly. ‘I’ve become the little housewife; I don’t concern myself with business matters.’
Harry nodded. The restaurant door opened. Three young men in Falange uniform appeared in the doorway. A door at the rear of the restaurant opened and a little plump man in a stained frockcoat appeared, smiling nervously at the blue-shirted visitors.
‘Buenas tardes, señor,’ one of them said cheerfully. He was about Harry’s age, tall and slim with the usual pencil moustache. ‘A table for three, please.’ The manager bowed them to an empty table.
‘I hope they don’t get too raucous,’ Barbara whispered.
The Falangist glanced round. Then he came over to their table, smiling broadly. He extended a hand. ‘Ah, foreign visitors? Alemanes?’
‘No. Inglés.’ Barbara smiled nervously. The Falangist dropped his hand, though the smile remained.
‘So. Ingléses.’ He nodded cheerfully. ‘Unfortunately you will have to leave soon; the Generalísimo is going to join the Führer’s crusade against England. Soon we shall have Gibraltar.’
Barbara glanced nervously at Harry. His face was coldly impassive. The leader gave a mock bow and went to rejoin his friends. They looked over at her and Harry and laughed mockingly. Harry was red with anger.
‘Keep quiet,’ she said. ‘Don’t antagonize them.’
‘I know,’ Harry muttered. ‘Bastards.’
The waiter bustled over with their main course. The man looked nervously between them and the Falangists, but they had turned to the menus.
‘Let’s finish quickly and get out,’ she said. ‘Before they start drinking.’
They hurried through the rest of the meal. Harry told her about the Maestres’ party, then turned the conversation back to Sandy. He seemed to want to talk about him.
‘He showed me a dinosaur claw he’s found.’
She smiled. ‘He gets very enthusiastic about his fossils. He’s like a little boy then, it’s sweet.’
‘He used to say at school, fossils were the key to the secrets of the earth.’
‘That sounds like Sandy.’ They had finished their meal, and she saw the Falangists had started on the wine – they were laughing noisily. ‘We should go.’
‘Of course.’ Harry signalled for the bill. The waiter brought it over at once, pleased to be rid of them, no doubt, in case the Falangists started some trouble. They paid and got their coats. Outside Harry said awkwardly, ‘I was wondering, would you mind if we took a look at the Royal Palace, it’s just over the road? I’ve never seen it close up.’
‘Yes, all right. Let’s do that. I’ve plenty of time.’
They walked across. There was a hazy sun but the afternoon was cold. Barbara buttoned up her coat. They halted before the gates. They were closed, civiles on guard outside. Harry studied the white walls with their ornate decorations.
‘No one’s painted “Arriba España” on the side,’ he said.
‘The Falange wouldn’t touch the palace. It’s a symbol for the Monarchists. They hope Franco will let King Alfonso back one day.’
She paused to light a cigarette. Harry walked to the end of the road. On the other side of high railings was a sheer drop to the palace gardens. Beyond that you could see the Casa de Campo, a jumble of brownish-green landscape. She joined him.
‘The battlefield,’ Harry said quietly.
‘Yes. The park’s still a dreadful mess, apparently. But people have started going for walks there again. There are still unexploded shells but they have safe paths marked.’
Harry looked over the park. ‘I’d like to go and see it. Would you mind?’
She hesitated; she didn’t want be reminded of war, of the Siege.
‘Rather not?’ he asked gently.
Barbara took a deep breath. ‘No, let’s go. Perhaps I ought to see.’
IT WAS ONLY a couple of stops on the tram. They got off and walked up a short avenue. There were other visitors walking in the same direction, a young soldier with his girlfriend and two middle-aged women in black. They rounded a little hill and suddenly they were facing a wasteland of broken ground, dotted here and there with burnt-out tanks and broken rusty artillery pieces. Nearby a brick wall, pitted with bullets, was all that was left of a building. Springy grass had grown back over most of the ground but shell craters filled with water dotted the landscape and long lines of trenches cut through the earth like open wounds. Paths led across the devastated landscape, little wooden notices every so often reminding people not to leave them because of unexploded shells. In the distance the palace stood out white and clear, like a mirage.
Barbara had imagined the sight would upset her but she felt only sadness. It reminded her of pictures of the Great War. Harry seemed more affected, his face was pale. She touched his arm gently.
‘Are you all right?’
He took a deep breath. ‘Yes. It brought Dunkirk back, for a moment. There was abandoned artillery everywh
ere there as well.’
‘Do you want to go back? Perhaps we shouldn’t have come.’
‘No. Let’s go on. Here’s a path.’
They walked in silence for a while. ‘They say it’s worse in the north,’ Barbara said. ‘Where the Ebro battles were. Miles of abandoned tanks. ’
Over to their left the two women in black followed another path, holding each other tightly. ‘So many widows.’ Barbara smiled sadly. ‘I was in the same boat as them, lost, till I met Sandy.’
‘How did that come about?’ Harry asked.
She stopped, lighting another cigarette. ‘The Red Cross sent me to Burgos, of course. It was so different from Madrid. Well behind the lines, for a start. It’s a gloomy city, full of big medieval buildings. The local Red Cross was full of retired generals and worthy Spanish matrons. They were kind actually, not as paranoid as the Republicans. But they could afford to be. They knew they were going to win even then.’
‘It must have been strange, working with Bernie’s enemies.’
It was the first time Harry had mentioned his name. She looked at him, then looked away.
‘I didn’t share his politics, you know that. I was a neutral. In the Red Cross that doesn’t mean something negative, wishy-washy, it’s positive, trying to be a force to ease suffering. People don’t understand that. Bernie didn’t.’ She turned and looked him in the eye. ‘Do you think I’ve done wrong?’ she asked suddenly. ‘Going with a man who supports the regime? I know Sandy and Bernie weren’t friends at school.’
Harry smiled. ‘No. No, I’m a neutral myself by nature.’
She felt a wave of relief at his answer, somehow she couldn’t have borne it if he disapproved. She looked at him, she wanted to shout, he may be alive, he may be alive! She bit her lip.
‘You remember the state I was in, Harry. I wasn’t bothering about the politics, it was a struggle just to get through my work. It was like I was surrounded by a grey fog. I had to keep quiet about Bernie, of course. You couldn’t expect people who were on the Nationalist side to be happy that I went out with someone they fought.’
