Winter in Madrid (25 page)

‘Agustín’s term of service ends in the spring and he does not want to have to renew it. There are some there who like that work but Agustín does not. He does it only to support our mother in Sevilla.’

‘How much, then?’

‘Two thousand pesetas.’

‘That’s a lot,’ she said, though it was less than she had feared.

‘Agustín has to risk his life.’

‘If I were to agree, I’d have to get the money from England. It wouldn’t be easy, with the exchange restrictions.’ She took a deep breath. ‘But if you can convince me Bernie is at that camp, then we’ll see.’

‘The money should be agreed, señora.’

‘No. I need the proof first.’ She drew on her cigarette, staring at him through the cloud of smoke. ‘One more visit to Cuenca won’t be risky. I’ll give you the money for the fare.’ And then, she thought, will I see you again?

He hesitated a moment, then nodded. Barbara thanked God for her years of negotiating with corrupt officials. Luis leaned back, looking tired. Barbara thought, he’s less used to this sort of thing than I am.

‘Did Agustín say anything about him – about Bernie, how he is?’ Her voice stumbled over his name.

‘He is well. But the winters are hard for the prisoners.’ He looked at her seriously. ‘If we do this, I think you will have to come out to Cuenca, get him away to Madrid, to the British Embassy. You have a car?’

‘Yes. Yes, I can do that.’

He studied her speculatively. ‘Your husband, he knows nothing?’

‘No.’ She raised her head. ‘I just want to rescue Bernie, get him to the British Embassy so they can send him home.’

‘Very well.’ He sighed wearily. Barbara lit another cigarette and gave him one.

‘Shall we meet here again then?’ she asked. ‘Next week?’

‘The same time.’ He looked awkward. ‘I shall have to have the fare now.’

Again they went outside to pass over the money. When she handed the envelope to him he gave a bitter little laugh.

‘Spaniards were a proud people once. The things we do now.’ He turned and walked quickly away, his thin shabby form disappearing up the road.

There were more road closures on the way home and she had to walk down Calle Fernando el Santo, past the British Embassy. She glanced at the building. Harry Brett was probably in there; she would see him tonight. Harry, Bernie’s friend.

At the bottom of the street
civiles
were turning pedestrians back from the Castellana.

‘I am sorry,
señora
,’ one said. ‘No one may cross for the next hour. Security.’

She nodded and stepped back. A little crowd had gathered. Somewhere up the road youthful voices cheered and then a black Mercedes, flanked by soldiers on motorcycles, drove slowly past. There was a swastika pennant on the bonnet. In the back Barbara saw a pale, puffy face, its owner’s black uniform and cap making it appear disembodied. There was a quick glint of sunlight on spectacles, and it seemed to Barbara that Heinrich Himmler turned and looked at her for a second. Then the car was gone in a swirl of autumn leaves. More cheers sounded from the Falange Youth ahead. Barbara shivered and turned away.

H
ARRY WALKED ALONG
the Castellana, the Nazi flags on the buildings looming up through the mist that had descended on the city. He wore his hat and coat; it was late October now and the evenings were getting chilly. He was on his way to take the tram out to Vigo district, for dinner with Sandy and Barbara.

He and Tolhurst had talked some more about Barbara that afternoon.

‘Bit of a turn-up, that,’ Tolhurst had said. ‘Never knew where he lived, you see. Our source said he was with a girly, but we thought it was some Spanish tart.’

‘I wish I understood how she ended up with Sandy.’ Harry shook his head. ‘Though she was in a bad way when I met her in ’37. I wrote afterwards but she never replied, or didn’t get the letters.’

‘She wasn’t political, was she? The Red boyfriend’s ideas didn’t rub off?’

‘No. She was Red Cross, a practical, commonsense type. I don’t know what she’ll make of the regime now.’

He would find out tonight. Walking along Harry felt a sudden weariness at the thought of the task before him. But he was committed, he had to go on.

He became conscious of footsteps behind him, a faint sound through the mist. Hell, his follower again. He hadn’t seen the man over the weekend but it sounded as though he was back. He quickly took a left turn, then a right. The doorway to a block of flats stood open, the concierge away somewhere. They were middle-class flats, well maintained, the air smelling of cleaning fluid. Harry stepped inside, stood behind the door, and peered out. He heard footsteps, a pit-pat and the crunching of dead leaves. A moment later the young man who had followed him before appeared. He stood in the centre
of the empty road, looking up and down, a frown on his pale delicate features. Harry quickly withdrew his head. He heard the footsteps recede, back the way they had come. He waited a few minutes, then stepped outside. The street was clear, save for a woman in a fur coat walking a dog; she gave him a suspicious look. He went back the way he had come. He shook his head. The man really wasn’t much good.

The spy hadn’t frightened him but he did feel a clutch of fear, that momentary light-headedness that came on him sometimes, as he walked up Sandy’s drive half an hour later. He hadn’t told Sandy about his panics after Dunkirk, despite the spies saying it could do no harm. Pride had stopped him, he supposed. The house was a big villa standing in a large garden. Harry stood on the step for a moment, collecting himself, then took a deep breath and rang the bell.

A young maid answered the door, pretty but rather glum-looking. She took him through a hall where Chinese porcelain stood on little tables into a large salon where a fire burned. Everything was comfortable, expensive.

Sandy came forward, taking his hand in a firm grasp. His dinner jacket was immaculate, his hair sleek with oil. ‘Harry, marvellous you could come. ‘Now then, Barbara you know, of course.’

She was standing smoking by the mantelpiece, a glass of wine in her hand. She looked utterly different, the old cardigans and untidy hair replaced by an expensive silk dress that set off her fine skin and figure, her face thinner, and carefully made up to emphasize her high cheekbones and bright green eyes, her long, styled hair curled at the ends. Only the glasses were the same. Despite the changes she looked tired and strained but her smile was warm as she took his hand.

‘Harry, how are you?’

‘I’m all right. You’ve changed a lot.’

‘I’ve never forgotten how kind you were three years ago. I was in such a state back then.’

‘Just did what I could. It was a rough time.’

‘Sandy says you tried to write to me. I’m so sorry, I never got the letters. The Red Cross moved me to Burgos. I needed to get away from Madrid, after—’ She made a gesture with one hand.

‘Yes. I wrote to you in Madrid. I guess letters weren’t forwarded across the lines.’

‘My fault,’ Barbara said. ‘I should have tried to keep in touch.’

‘I often wondered how you were. I hear you don’t work for the Red Cross any more?’

‘No, I gave that up after I met Sandy. Had to really, I wasn’t in a fit state to work. But I might be doing some voluntary work soon with war orphans.’

Harry shook his head, smiling. ‘And you met up with Sandy. How extraordinary.’

‘Yes. He helped put me back together.’

Sandy came over to her, putting an arm round her shoulders, squeezing protectively. It seemed to Harry that Barbara flinched a little.

‘And you, Harry,’ she asked. ‘Are you all right? Sandy said you were at Dunkirk.’

‘Yes. I’m fine now. Just a spot of deafness.’

‘How are things at home? I get letters from my family but they don’t give me much idea how people are bearing up. The Spanish papers say it’s pretty bad.’

‘People are coping well. The Battle of Britain was a boost.’

‘That’s good. One’s so far away, I didn’t worry too much during the phoney war, but since the bombing – I expect you hear all about how things are at the embassy. All the papers are censored here.’

Sandy laughed. ‘Yes, they even censor the fashion shows in the
Daily Mail
. If they think the dresses are too low-cut they put a black band across them.’

‘Well, things are tough, but not as bad as the papers here make them out. There’s an amazing spirit, Churchill’s rallied everyone.’

‘Have some wine,’ Sandy said. ‘We’re having some food later, once the others arrive. Look, why don’t you two meet up one afternoon, have a longer chat about home? It’d do Barbara good.’

‘Yes, yes we could.’ She nodded agreement, but Harry sensed reluctance in her voice.

‘That would be good.’ Harry turned to Sandy. ‘And what exactly are you up to now? You didn’t really say the other day.’

He smiled broadly. ‘Oh, I’ve fingers in a number of pies.’

Harry smiled at Barbara. ‘Sandy’s come up in the world.’

‘Yes, he has.’ She seemed bored by this mention of business. Harry felt glad. If she didn’t know anything she wouldn’t have anything to tell.

‘I’m involved mainly with a government-backed project just now,’ Sandy said. ‘Mineral extraction. All very dull, just exploratory stuff. Takes some organizing, though.’

‘Mining, eh?’ Harry asked. This had to be the gold. His luck was continuing. His heart pounded. Steady, he thought, take it carefully. ‘I remember at school you wanted to be a palaeontologist. The secrets of the earth, you used to say.’

Sandy laughed. ‘Oh, it’s not dinosaurs now.’ The doorbell rang. ‘Excuse me. Must go and welcome Sebastian and Jenny.’

He went out. Barbara was silent a moment, then smiled uncertainly.

‘It’s good to see you again.’

‘And you. You’ve a fine house here.’

‘Yes. I’ve landed on my feet, I suppose.’ She paused, then asked quickly, ‘Do you think Franco will come into the war?’

‘Nobody knows. There are all sorts of rumours. If it happens it’ll be sudden.’

They fell silent as Sandy reappeared, accompanied by a well-dressed couple. The man was in his thirties, small and slim, handsome in a dark, southern Spanish way. He wore the Falange uniform, dark military dress with a blue shirt. The woman was younger, attractive, too, with blonde hair and smooth round features. Her expression was haughty.

‘Harry,’ Sandy said in Spanish. ‘Let me introduce Sebastian de Salas, a colleague of mine. Sebastian, this is Harry Brett.’

The Spaniard pressed Harry’s hand. ‘I am delighted,
señor
. There are so few Englishmen in Madrid.’ He turned to his companion. ‘Jenny sees so few of her compatriots.’

‘Hello there!’ The woman’s voice was cut-glass, her eyes hard and appraising. She turned to give Barbara a cold, formal smile. ‘Hello there, Babs, what a nice dress.’

‘Would you like some wine?’ Barbara’s tone was equally cool.

‘I’d rather have a G and T. Been out at the golf club all afternoon.’

‘Come on everyone,’ Sandy said cheerfully. ‘Take the weight off your feet.’

They sat down in the comfortable armchairs. ‘What do you do then, Harry?’ Jenny asked brusquely.

‘I’m a translator at the embassy.’

‘Met anyone interesting?’

‘Just a junior minister.’

‘Jenny’s an Hon, Harry,’ Sandy said. ‘Sebastian’s an aristocrat too.’

The Spaniard laughed self-deprecatingly. ‘A small one. We have a little castle in Extremadura, but it is falling down.’

‘Don’t knock it, Sebastian,’ Jenny said. ‘I’m a cousin of Lord Redesdale. Know him?’

‘No.’ Harry wanted to laugh, she was ridiculous. Jenny took the glass Barbara handed to her.

‘I say, thanks. Mmm, lovely.’ She leaned back against de Salas.

‘How long have you been in Madrid, Señor Brett?’ de Salas asked.

‘A little over a week.’

‘And how do you find Spain?’

‘The Civil War seems to have caused a lot of – dislocation.’

‘Yes.’ De Salas nodded sadly. ‘The war did much damage and now we have the bad harvests. People are suffering. But we are working to improve things. It is a hard road, but we have made a start.’

‘Sebastian’s in the Falange, as you can see.’ Sandy’s tone was neutral but his look at Harry was keen, mischievous. De Salas smiled and Harry smiled neutrally back. Sandy put his hand on Barbara’s arm.

‘Babs, see how Pilar’s getting on, would you?’

She nodded and went out. The obedient housewife, Harry thought. The idea pained him for some reason.

‘Señor Brett,’ de Salas said when she had left. ‘May I ask something? Only, I fear many Englishman do not understand the Falange.’

‘It’s often hard to understand foreign countries’ politics,’ Harry replied carefully. He remembered the screaming horde around the car, the boy who had wet himself.

‘In England you have democracy, yes? That is what you are fighting for, your system.’

‘Yes.’ God, Harry thought, he’s gone straight to the point.

De Salas smiled. ‘Please understand I mean no offence.’

‘No, of course.’

‘Democracy has worked well in England and America, but it does not work everywhere. In Spain under the Republic, democracy brought chaos and bloodshed.’ He smiled sadly. ‘Not all countries are suited to its freedoms, they tear themselves apart. Sometimes in the end the authoritarian way is the only one.’

Harry nodded, remembering he should avoid politics if he could. ‘I can see that. Only I suppose one might ask, who holds the rulers to account?’

De Salas laughed and spread his hands. ‘Oh,
señor
, the whole
nation
holds them to account. The whole nation represented by one party. That is the beauty of our system. Listen, do you know why the Falange wear blue shirts?’

‘Don’t say it’s because all the other colours were taken,’ Sandy interjected with a laugh.

‘Because blue is the colour of workmen’s overalls. We represent everyone in Spain. The Falange is a middle way between socialism and capitalism. It has worked in Italy. We know how hard life is in Spain now, but we will do justice to everyone. Just give us time.’ He smiled earnestly.

‘I hope so,’ Harry said. He studied de Salas. His expression was open, sincere. He means it, Harry thought.