A Mistletoe Kiss (27 page)

Max had wondered why the Luftwaffe had bothered to bomb such a remote area, for he doubted very much that they could have known or cared where their bombs landed here. In one case, bombs had closed a pass that he and Michael had intended to take, but when he questioned one of the peasants the answer was a simple one. ‘They jettison any bombs left over rather than risk trying to land with such a dangerous cargo. We asked a Republican pilot whose aeroplane was shot down by the cursed Nationalists. He escaped to France by crossing the mountains, as you are doing yourselves.'

Now, Max regarded the cave thoughtfully. It would give them shelter for the night ahead, but he had hoped to reach the village in the valley where he and Michael had stayed several times when in the area. But it was already dusk and he knew that if they did not take regular periods of rest, the wound in Michael's leg would begin to trouble him. Nevertheless, it must be a shared decision, so he glanced at his brother, his eyebrows rising. ‘Well? Press on or rest here?'

Both men carried bedrolls and they still had the remains of the iron rations with which they had been provided by the women's militia just before leaving
Madrid. Max thought the girls heroines, every one, and knew that without the bedrolls which the militia had also provided, together with a small sum of money, it was doubtful if he and Michael would have made it even to the foothills of the Pyrenees. When the girl in charge of the militia had first offered the food and bedding he had tried to refuse, saying that her organisation's need was greater than his and Michael's, but the girl had pointed out that possessing anything connected with the army, now that the Republicans had surrendered, would be dangerous.

‘From this moment, we will revert to being simple citizens of Madrid,'she had told him. ‘I shall claim to have worked behind the counter in one of the big shops which the Nationalists have destroyed. I shall wave a red and yellow flag and smile at the soldiers, the ones I aimed my rifle at yesterday. Then, when it is safe to do so, I'll go back to my village outside Barcelona, and await my opportunity for revenge. I will work on the land as my family has done for generations, for a pittance which will scarcely feed me, let alone provide clothing. So take the food and the bedrolls, friend, and never forget us, as we shall never forget you of the International Brigade.'

Michael was still gazing dubiously at the cave. He took a few steps towards it and grimaced. Max guessed that his wound had made itself felt, and knew he was right when Michael turned to him. ‘I reckon we'd do best to get a night's sleep,'he said. ‘After all, when we reach the village we'll be able to relax for a day or two before setting out again. Let's have a look inside first,
though, to make sure it's dry and will hold both us and our gear.'

The cave was dry and as comfortable as it was possible for such a place to be. The men settled down in their bedrolls, for despite the fact that summer was well advanced it was cold at this height and would get colder when darkness came. Max surveyed their food and was glad they had charged their water bottles at the last stream they had crossed and did not have to go searching for water. They ate one of the hard ship's biscuits, and dissolved a couple of milk tablets in Michael's water bottle which they shared between them, saving the contents of Max's water bottle for the morning. Very soon Max was relieved to hear his brother's breathing grow even and knew that he slept.

Max, however, could not sleep. His mind raced ahead to the village before them, which both he and Michael had once known so well. It was the nearest thing to civilisation that they would come to whilst still in the mountains, and Max thought wistfully of the little inn with its tiny, cramped bedrooms, and the straw pallets and rough brown blankets that had once seemed so harsh and inadequate, though now he guessed they would feel like the height of luxury after weeks of sleeping on thin bedrolls, laid out on the hard earth.

The village was surrounded by tall trees, so the main room at the inn was always warm and welcoming, with a huge log fire burning on the hearth and very likely a haunch of mutton roasting on a spit above it.

There would be beer – wonderful, cool beer – and a long loaf, baked by the innkeeper's wife and spread thickly with butter provided by the big herd of goats. And there would be good company and much laughter, for the village was far enough from civilisation to have been little affected by the war. Bartering was the easiest way to obtain goods which could not be made or grown in the village. Goat's cheese and butter were exchanged for fruit and vegetables from either France or the Spanish plain, though the villagers had a vineyard, close to a nearby river so that during the months of summer drought the vines could be watered without too much effort. Max and Michael had always stopped at this particular village when, as boys, they had come to the area on climbing trips. Now Max was looking forward not only to the creature comforts the village would provide, but to meeting and greeting old friends, to hearing their stories and relating his own.

We'll set off early in the morning, as soon as we've had a hot drink and the last of the biscuits, he told himself. As they journeyed, they had picked up twigs and pieces of dry wood with which they could make a fire, because Max was a great believer in starting the day with a hot drink. Tomorrow, he planned drowsily, we'll use the last dried milk tablets and the last scrap of cocoa. Such a drink would be a real treat, he thought, just before sleep claimed him.

Next morning they set out as the sun rose, flushing the sky with delicate pink and gold. The cave was high up, and from its eminence they could just see the tips of the trees which grew, they knew, in the valley.

They were both in high good humour, for today would be the beginning of easier times for them both. When they left the village, they would be using a clearly defined path, which led downhill all the way into France. And once they were in France, Max could allow himself to think of the girl Agatha, that strange, Spanish beauty who had turned out to be neither strange nor Spanish, despite her looks. All the time he had been with the International Brigade he had thought of her often, talking to her inside his head, writing letters and keeping a diary to show her when he reached England once more. But once he and Michael had started what he thought of as their retreat, he had done his best to put her out of his mind. He dared not have any sort of distraction; he must be alert, thinking in Spanish as well as speaking it, for the Nationalists were hunting down anyone who might have fought against them. But once we reach France, the first thing I shall do will be to write her a letter, he told himself, as he and Michael began their descent into the valley.

They were walking companionably side by side when Max shot out his hand and grabbed Michael's arm, drawing his brother to a halt. ‘Something's wrong,'he murmured. ‘Something's missing, though I'm not sure what. And there's an odd smell … I think we'd better leave the path and go down through the trees, though I'm damned if I know why I'm so uneasy.'

Michael cocked his head on one side, then spoke
succinctly. ‘No dogs,'he whispered. ‘Have you ever got this near to a village – any village – without the dogs warning of your approach?'

Max frowned thoughtfully. His brother was right. It was not only the innkeeper who kept dogs to round up his goats. Every peasant with a few acres of land had a dog. He turned to his brother. ‘What'll we do?'he murmured. ‘Do we go on?'

‘We must,'Michael said, equally softly. ‘We've got to find out what's happening.'

Slipping quietly through the trees, the two men continued to descend.

An hour later, they stood outside the inn and Max was not ashamed of the tears which ran down his cheeks. The village had been laid waste, the inn burned to the ground, bodies thrown in a heap and inadequately covered with leaf mould. Not a soul remained, not a dog or a hen. And it had happened recently, probably no more than three or four days earlier. Presumably, the Nationalists had come this way in search of anyone who might be fleeing from their regime and had chanced upon the village. Perhaps the dogs had barked a warning and the innkeeper, or one of the peasants, still not having much news of the outside world, had let his allegiance show. It would have been enough to condemn him, but why, in God's name, had they destroyed everything?

As they approached vultures rose, then looked at Michael and Max and settled once more to their
disgusting feast. Michael tried to scare the big birds away, but Max stopped him. ‘They're nature's way of cleaning up,'he told his brother. ‘If we could bury the bodies ourselves I'd help you chase them off, but we've no tools and it would take the pair of us weeks. I know it horrifies you, but we must let ill alone.'

Now, he and Michael climbed down to the vineyard and found it desecrated also, the vines and the tiny grapes uprooted and trampled. They returned to the village, but could not bear to remain within the square, with its stink of death and destruction, so sat down on a great fallen log in the surrounding trees and looked sombrely at each other. ‘There's nothing we can do here,'Max said at last.

Michael nodded and got to his feet. ‘Right. Then we'd best get on our way,'he said, giving his brother the travesty of a smile. ‘We'd rather relied on provisioning ourselves here for the last leg of the journey. Now, all we can do is fill our water bottles and tighten our belts.'

‘We ought to have taken some of the grapes, even though they're not ripe,'Max observed. ‘But it's not as bad as all that; I've still got a chunk of that cheese which we were given at the last village, and a few biscuits. I always keep something back, just in case, you know.'

‘Good old Max, always covering us for any eventuality …' Michael was beginning, when the sound of someone, or something, approaching them from the direction of the river made both men slip behind the trunk of the nearest tree. ‘What the devil …? I could
have sworn … oh, Max, look who's here. All right, old chap, we won't hurt you.'

The ‘old chap' was a leggy mongrel pup, with flyaway ears and round, terrified eyes. His ribs stuck out, and when he saw the two men he fell on his belly and crawled towards them, but showed no inclination either to bite or flee when Michael dropped to his knees and began to stroke the silky brown fur.

Max laughed and held out his hand, which the pup promptly licked. ‘Poor fellow; the one survivor,'he said ruefully. ‘He was probably off on an illicit rabbit hunt when the Nationalists came. I said the attack must have happened in the last three or four days, and this chap proves it. He'll hang around for a bit, but then he'll make for the nearest village. He's a bit young to hunt for himself, but he'll soon learn to eat anything: grubs, a squirrel's hoard of nuts, even under-ripe grapes, like the ones down by the river. Peasants don't feed their dogs; the bitch teaches her litter to fend for themselves.'He looked quizzically at his brother. ‘Do you want to take him on? We're going to have a job to feed ourselves …'

‘We can't possibly leave him here; it would be worse than killing him outright,'Michael said indignantly. ‘He won't be any trouble; as you said, peasants don't feed their dogs, they fend for themselves. And once we reach France …'

Max laughed and put down a hand to caress the pup's pricked ears. ‘I wasn't suggesting for one moment that we should abandon the mutt,'he said mildly. ‘Besides, he'll follow us whatever we say.
And now let's get started on the rest of our journey. We'll have to see if we can train Chappie here to hunt for us as well as himself; now that really would be useful!'

When Agatha Preece awoke one bright morning in early August it was already beginning to be hot, which was a nice change, she told herself, for the previous week had been miserable. She got out of bed, washed and dressed, and, as she did every morning, wondered. Where was he now, the professor? Was his brother still with him? She was sure he must have crossed the Pyrenees by this time. Perhaps he was actually in France!

She approached her mother's bedroom, only to find that that lady was already up and presumably downstairs, since the room was empty. Agatha smiled to herself. Most people, as they aged, grew less capable, but her mother was proving the exception. Admittedly she came down to the kitchen wearing a smart navy blue dressing gown over her nightie, and did not usually dress until Mrs Simpson was on hand to help with such garments as corsets and back-fastening dresses, but at one time she would simply have lain in bed until her helper arrived. Now she preferred to get up, help her daughter make the breakfast and discuss the day's doings.

During the holidays, whenever Hetty was able to do so she called at the house on Everton Terrace and, after chatting with Mrs Preece for a while, suggested that she
might either do the older woman's messages or accompany her round the shops. Agatha was truly grateful to her young friend, since such little expeditions gave her mother something to think about beside her arthritis and the frightening things that were happening on the continent.

Everyone was expecting war – conscription had started in May – and this had made Mrs Preece remember the war to end all wars, in which her husband had been killed. He had been an officer in one of the Pals' Batallions and, along with many of his friends and relatives from the East Lancashire Regiment, had died on 1 July, 1916, at the battle of the Somme. Agatha had been eleven at the time and could still remember her mother's grief and her brave efforts to hide her sorrow from her only child.

Now however, entering the kitchen, Agatha pushed such thoughts out of her mind. Mrs Preece was at the cooker, just pouring water from the kettle into the big brown teapot. She looked up and smiled as her daughter came into the room. ‘Morning, Agatha. It's nice to see the sun for a change. You'll not want porridge on such a sunny day, so I've set out the cornflakes and I'm just starting to make some toast.'She turned to give Agatha a wicked, twinkling look. ‘There's a letter from your boyfriend; you'll want to read that before you'll even look at your breakfast, I dare say.'