Winter in Madrid (34 page)

‘Do you want to talk about it?’ he asked, with gentle curiosity.

She decided to tell him. Cordelia was right, it was no use just bottling it all up. ‘When I was working in Madrid there was this man – an Englishman in the International Brigades, actually. We were together over last winter. Then he went to the Jarama. Missing believed killed.’

Sandy nodded. ‘I’m very sorry.’

‘It’s only been nine months, it’s hard to get over.’ She sighed. ‘It’s a common enough story in Spain these days, I know.’

He offered her a cigarette, lit it for her. ‘One of the volunteers?’

‘Yes, Bernie was a Communist. Though he wasn’t working class, not really; he’d got a scholarship to a public school, he spoke like you. I found out later the party thought he might be ideologically
suspect because of his complicated class origins. Not enough of a man of steel.’

She looked at Sandy and was surprised to see that he had leaned back in his seat and was looking at her with an intent, frowning stare.

‘Which public school did he go to?’ he asked quietly.

‘A place called Rookwood, in Sussex.’

‘His last name wasn’t Piper, by any chance?’

‘Yes.’ It was her turn to be shocked. ‘Yes, that’s right. Did you—’

‘I was at Rookwood for a while. I knew Piper. Not very well, but I knew him. I don’t suppose he ever mentioned me?’ Sandy laughed, a strange forced bark. ‘The bad hat of the form.’

‘No. He didn’t talk about his school much. Only that he wasn’t happy there.’

‘No. We had that in common, I remember.’

‘Were you friends?’ Barbara’s heart had leapt, it was as though a part of Bernie himself had returned.

Sandy hesitated. ‘Not really. Like I said, I didn’t know him well.’ He shook his head. ‘God, this is a coincidence.’

She smiled. ‘It’s like fate. Meeting someone who knew him.’

T
HE FACT
S
ANDY
had known Bernie, even if they hadn’t been friends, drew Barbara to him. They took to meeting every Thursday in the bar for drinks. She found herself looking forward to those nights. Cordelia had gone back to the front and these were her only nights out now. She had left one morning, giving Barbara a quick hug and refusing an offer to help carry her bags to the station. Barbara had thanked her for helping her begin to recover a little, but Cordelia had smiled and said that she would have done the same for anyone, her faith and love of God required it of her. The impersonal reply had hurt Barbara, left her feeling very alone again.

She learned that Sandy had known Harry, too, been his friend if not Bernie’s. He puzzled her in some ways. He was enigmatic, saying next to nothing about himself. He had no tours on at the moment but he stayed on in Burgos, trying to set up some business, he said. He would never tell her what. He was always immaculately dressed. Barbara wondered if he had a girlfriend somewhere but he never
mentioned anyone. It crossed her mind that he might be a pansy but he didn’t seem to be. He was lonely too, though, you could see that.

One Thursday in December Barbara hurried to the cafe through cold relentless rain that hammered down from the darkened sky. When she arrived Sandy was already there, sitting at their usual table with a man in Falange uniform. Their heads were bent together, and although she couldn’t hear what they were saying, Barbara could tell they were arguing. She hesitated, rain dripping from her coat to the floor. Sandy, seeing her, waved her over.

‘Sorry, Barbara, I was just finishing some business.’

The Falangist stood up. He glanced at her. He was a middle-aged man with a stern face. He looked down at Sandy.

‘Business that should be for Spaniards,
señor
,’ he said. ‘Spanish business, Spanish profits.’ He bowed curtly to Barbara and walked away, heels clacking on the floorboards. Sandy looked after him, his face set and angry. She sat down, embarrassed. Sandy pulled himself together, gave a brittle laugh.

‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘Plan I had for some work, it’s fallen through. They don’t seem too keen on enterprise here.’ He sighed. ‘Never mind. Back to the tours, I suppose.’

He got Barbara a drink and came back to the table.

‘Perhaps you should think about going home,’ she said. ‘I’ve been wondering about what I’ll do when the war ends. I don’t think I want to go back to Geneva.’

He shook his head. ‘I don’t want to go back,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ve nobody there. England’s stifling.’

‘I know what you mean.’ She raised her glass. ‘To rootlessness.’

He smiled. ‘To rootlessness. You know, that first night we met, I thought, there’s a girl who stands apart, watching. Like me.’

‘Did you?’

‘Yes.’

She sighed. ‘I don’t like myself very much,’ she said. ‘That’s why I stand apart.’

‘Because you’re angry with Bernie?’

‘With Bernie? No. It’s not that. He made me like myself a little. For a while.’

Sandy looked at her seriously. ‘You shouldn’t leave it to other people to make you like yourself. I know, I was the same once.’

‘You?’ She was surprised. He always seemed so confident, so sure of himself.

‘Only before I was old enough to think for myself.’

She took a deep breath. ‘I had a bad time at school. I was bullied.’ She paused but he only nodded encouragingly. She told him the story. ‘I hear their voices in my head sometimes, you know. No, not hear them, that would mean I’m mad, but I remember them. When I’m tired and make mistakes at work. Telling me I’m ugly, speccy four-eyes, no good. More since Bernie died.’ She bowed her head. ‘I don’t talk about it. Only Bernie knew.’

‘Then I am privileged you’ve told me.’

She didn’t look up. ‘I feel I can tell you things. I don’t know why.’

‘Look up,’ he said quietly. ‘Look up at me, don’t be afraid.’

She raised her head, smiling bravely, blinking back tears.

‘Tell them to get lost,’ he said. ‘When you hear them, tell them they’re wrong and you’ll show them all. Not out loud but in your head. That’s what I did. With my parents, masters, telling me I was destined to go to the devil.’

‘Did it work? Yes, it must have – you believe in yourself, don’t you?’

‘You have to. You have to decide what you want to be and then
go
there. Don’t listen to other people’s opinion of you. Everyone’s looking for someone to put down. It makes them feel safe.’

‘Not everyone. I’m not.’

‘All right. Most people. Can I tell you something?’

‘If you like.’

‘You won’t be offended?’

‘No.’

‘You don’t make the best of yourself. It’s as though you don’t
want
to be respected. Just put a little effort into your clothes, your hair, you could be a very attractive woman.’

She lowered her head again.

‘That was the other thing I thought, the night we met.’ She felt the tips of his fingers touch hers. There was a moment’s silence. She
had a vivid memory of the church, Bernie kissing her. She pulled her hand away, looked up.

‘I’m not – I’m not ready for this. After Bernie, I don’t think I can ever—’

‘Oh, come on, Barbara,’ he said gently. ‘Don’t tell me you believe that romantic stuff about there only being one person for everyone.’

‘I think I do, actually.’ She wanted to go, the turmoil of feelings inside her made her feel sick. He raised a hand.

‘All right. Forget it.’

‘I just want to be friends, Sandy.’

‘You need someone to look after you, Barbara.’ He smiled. ‘I’ve always wanted someone to look after.’

‘No, Sandy. No. Just friends.’

He nodded. ‘All right. All right. Let me look after you a bit, anyway.’

She leaned her head on her hand, hiding her face. They sat there in silence. The rain hissed down outside.

A
UTUMN TURNED
to winter. There were rumours of a new Nationalist offensive that would end the war. For a while Burgos was full of Italian soldiers, then they disappeared again.

Sandy kept his word; he made no more romantic overtures. She didn’t feel the same towards him as she had towards Bernie, that was impossible. Yet almost despite herself, she felt thrilled and excited that another man had found her attractive. She realized that part, a small part, of her grief had been for herself, that her only chance of love had come and gone. As though his declaration had unlocked something, she began to think of him as a man, a large strong man.

In mid-December the news came that the Republicans had preempted Franco’s offensive with one of their own at Teruel, far to the east. The weather was cold, there was snow on the ground in Burgos, and in the office they heard of soldiers having frostbitten feet amputated on the battlefield. The Red Cross office was busy again.

‘You should give it up,’ Sandy said to her when they met that Thursday evening. ‘It’s wearing you out.’ He looked at her with concern but also with that hint of impatience she had seen recently.
Last week, for the first time, he had tried to take her hand as they left the bar. They had had more than usual to drink, he had kept ordering more wine. She had pulled it away.

She sighed. ‘It’s what I do. I’ve cancelled my Christmas leave to help.’

‘I thought you were going home. To Birmingham?’

‘I was. But I didn’t really want to, I’m glad of the excuse.’ She looked at him. ‘What about you? You never talk about your family, Sandy, all I know is you have a father and a brother.’

‘And a mother, somewhere, if she’s still alive. I told you, I’ve broken with them. They belong in the past.’ He looked at her. ‘I am going away for a couple of weeks, though.’

‘Oh?’ She felt her heart sink; she had relied on him being with her over Christmas.

‘Business opportunity. Importing cars from England. They don’t like outsiders getting involved in their deals, I’ve learned that, but they’ll need someone with English for this job. I’m going up to San Sebastián to look into it.’

She remembered the Falangist he had had the argument with. ‘I see. It sounds a good opportunity. But it’s a bad time of year to travel, and the roads will be full of soldiers, with this battle—’

‘Not the roads north. I’ll try and get back for Christmas Day.’

‘Yes. It would be nice to celebrate it together.’

‘I’ll try.’

H
E WASN
’
T THERE
, though. The call to the office she had hoped for never came. It affected her more than she would have expected. On Christmas Day she went for a walk alone through the snowy streets, looking enviously into the houses with their Nativity scenes in the gardens, the families going in and out of services in Burgos’s innumerable churches. She felt a sudden angry impatience with herself. Why didn’t she take what Sandy had offered her? What was she waiting for? Old age? She thought of Bernie and sorrow clutched at her heart again, but Bernie was gone.

H
E PHONED HER
at the office two days after Christmas. ‘Sorry I took so long,’ he said.

She smiled at the sound of his voice. ‘How did it go?’

‘Very well. You’re talking to a man with an import licence signed by the trade minister himself. Listen, want to go to the bar tonight? I know it’s not Thursday.’

She laughed. ‘Yes, that would be nice. Usual time?’

‘See you at eight. We’ll have some champagne, celebrate the deal.’

She wore her new coat, the green one Sandy had picked for her that he said went well with her hair. He was there before her as usual, a large brightly coloured parcel on the table. He smiled.

‘A belated Christmas present. To say sorry for being away so long.’

She opened it. Inside was a brooch in the shape of a flower. It was made of gold, little green stones glinting in the petals.

‘Oh, Sandy,’ she said. ‘It’s wonderful. Are those—’

He smiled. ‘Emeralds. Just little ones.’

‘You shouldn’t, it must have cost the earth.’

‘Not if you know where to look.’

‘Thank you.’ Her lip trembled. ‘I’m not worth it.’

‘I say you are.’ He reached out and took her hand. This time she didn’t withdraw.

He looked into her eyes. ‘Take off your glasses,’ he said. ‘I want to see your face without your glasses.’

O
N THE
W
EDNESDAY
after her walk with Harry, Barbara went to meet Luis for the third time. It was a warm, sunny autumn day. As she walked down the Castellana dry leaves crunched underfoot and there was a faint tang of smoke from leaves burning somewhere. Barbara walked more and more lately; it helped her to think and she increasingly disliked being in the house.

Her money had not come from England and she was beginning to despair of it ever arriving. If Luis provided her with the proof she had asked for that Bernie was in the camp, she would have to chase it up somehow.

He was at the cafe already. He was smoking a good brand of cigarettes and she wondered if some of the money she had given him for the journey to Cuenca had gone on them; she didn’t know how much the fare was. She only had his word, of course, that he had actually been anywhere.

He got up and shook her hand, formally polite as ever, then went and fetched her a cup of coffee. The cafe was quiet, the one-legged veteran with the sewn-up trouser-leg alone at the bar.

She lit a cigarette, glancing deliberately at his own packet. ‘Did you get to Cuenca?’ she asked.

‘I did,
señora
.’ He smiled. ‘I met Agustín in the town again.’ He leaned forward. Agustín managed to get a look at Bernard Piper’s file, though it was not easy. He told me many details.’

She nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘He was born in a place called the Island of Dogs, in London. He came to fight for the Republic in 1936 and suffered a small arm wound in the battles in the Casa de Campo.’

Barbara’s heart quickened. There was no way Luis, or Markby,
could have known about that wound other than by looking at an official record.

‘When he recovered he was sent to the Jarama, wounded and taken prisoner.’

‘Wounded?’ she asked sharply. ‘How badly?’

‘Not serious. A flesh wound in the thigh.’ Luis smiled. ‘He bore a charmed life, it seemed.’