Back to Battle (6 page)

The artillery fire sounded closer now and he heard there had been a last infantry attack, which had left a mountain of corpses on the rocky slopes outside the city. Going downstairs again, he questioned a group of Basques.

There was something about the Basques that appealed to him. They were a religious, deep drinking lot who all seemed to be good sailors and detested regimentation. To the Spanish they were ‘brutos’ and ‘bestias’, but to them the Spanish were intriguers and political parasites who lived off other people’s industry, and their whole history had been one of trying to obtain autonomy for themselves. By this time, they’d lost every foot of their country and were simply hoping now to reach the wild Asturias to fight a hopeless rearguard action.

They were all well-armed with rifles, while revolvers, those most dramatic and useless of weapons, dangled from all ranks, to say nothing of grenades which swung in bunches from their waists like the bananas that Josephine Baker had used in her nude shows. They were exhausted but far from dispirited.

‘Hay una vida mas barata,’ one of them said to Kelly, ‘que no vale La pena de vivir. There’s a cheaper life but it’s not worth living.’

It seemed a better attitude than that of the British government as it crawled at the feet of the dictators.

During the night the bombing seemed to stop. Expecting Teresa’s professor at any moment, Kelly decided to leave the bed for him and merely lay on top of it, a glass of brandy by his elbow. He had just dropped off when the door rattled and he was off the bed in an instant. As he unlocked it, it flew open in his face and Teresa flung herself at him. All the mischief, all the taunting had gone from her face and her cheeks were covered with tears.

‘What’s happened? Where is he?’

‘Neila took him,’ she sobbed. ‘Neila took him last night. They took him to the Cabo Mayor wireless station near the Miramar Palace. They shot him and threw his body into the sea.’

Her fingers clutched his, tense and hard, and she began to cry in soft muted whimperings. Holding her tight, trying to comfort her, harrowed by her tears, all he was able to do was say ‘Please don’t cry’ and stroke her hair. Then, with her crouched against him, his lips in her hair, they slipped down against the pillows, clutching each other. Lifting her head, he laid his lips on hers and suddenly he found they were exchanging racking kisses that left their mouths numb. At last she seemed to relax and he saw she was staring at him with a strange, wondering look. For a second, they remained like that, their faces only an inch apart, then his hand slipped under her shirt above the trousers she wore, and he felt the warm skin in the hollow of her back and the sudden quivering tension of her body.

She shuddered in a spasm of pain and there were new tears on his cheek, then she was moaning softly against him, her face hidden in the curve of his neck, her fingers digging into his muscles, and he reached up and pulled the sheet over them.

When they woke the following morning, Kelly could hear the thudding of shells in the distance and somewhere not far away the tap-tapping of a machine gun. It sounded slow and old, as though it were a relic from the Great War. Then he became aware of Teresa’s head against his shoulder. He felt faintly guilty, feverish and absurd, but, as he turned to look at her, he saw her eyes were open, large and wondering and blue. As his lips touched hers, her arms went swiftly round his neck.

‘Marry me, Teresa,’ he said.

‘We are already married, George Kelly,’ she said. ‘As married as we’ll ever be. More married than my professor will ever be now.’

He tried to extract a promise but she remained wary and noncommittal as if she had no confidence in the future.

‘I wonder if it’s all been worthwhile,’ she said, as though she doubted even her own beliefs. ‘I wonder how much difference it will make when the war’s over who won. Who’ll be any better off in all the poverty and debt? People don’t meet these days as they should, and falling in love is like being on a bicycle back-pedalling. You put in a lot of hard work and get nowhere. Love includes having a future, too.’

‘There is a future,’ he insisted. ‘Come with me when I leave. We can be married in St Jean de Luz.’

She smiled in a way that seemed to imply willingness but she still made no promises.

They left the hotel together. It was clear the end was near because the guns now seemed to be only at the end of the street. Teresa looked tired but she seemed to have recovered her spirits.

‘I’m glad what happened between us did happen,’ she admitted. ‘With all the world dying about us, it makes it all the more sensible that the rest of us should go on living.’

They spent the day in the old Citroën trying to contact people and send them to the British Club. They were all ready with what they could carry, all save Mrs. Fotheringay, who had disappeared from the address where Kelly had found her the previous day, and they decided she’d gone alone to join Miss Jenner-Neate.

When they reached the club in the evening it was drizzling a little and the streets were empty. ‘Looks a bit like Liverpool on a wet day,’ Kelly said. ‘With the shops shut, the Irish away at Blackpool and the Protestants staying at home and keeping the King’s Peace.’

The smashed rooms contained thirteen depressed-looking people and Miss Jenner-Neate was in a fury.

‘Mrs. Fotheringay’s dog’s disappeared,’ she said, ‘and she insists on looking for it.’

They led those who’d arrived down to the jetty and aboard Jimmy. The Greek captain was almost in tears at the delay, and unless the missing people turned up in the next hour or two, it was clear they were going to be delayed until the following evening because, with the Italian guns now able to cover the harbour and the German bombers constantly overhead, it would be impossible to move except under cover of darkness.

‘Perhaps there are others we can persuade to leave,’ Teresa said.

Kelly was unwilling but she was insistent. ‘We have twenty-four hours,’ she pointed out. ‘And Neila is still arresting anybody who’s ever indulged in defeatist talk or done anything to harm the cause.’

It was impossible to argue with her. She seemed lost in a morass of her own thoughts, and he saw there were tears in her eyes as she drove off in the old Citroën.

The city seemed fuller and the people more terror-stricken than ever. The Italians had occupied Torrelavega, cutting off the retreat of the Basques to Asturias, and there was wild firing in the streets. Two battalions came stumbling through, exhausted and defeated.

‘Estamos copados!’ they were shouting. ‘We were surprised!’

A battery of 75s followed to protect the city centre but the gunners clearly had no wish to stay long because they were without ammunition. A squadron of Doniers came over, invisible in the darkness, and the 75s fired their last shells. A few men knocked out windows and made holes in walls for a last stand, and as night fell it was possible from the Jauregui Hotel to see flames and smell the smoke.

There was no sign of Teresa returning and once again Kelly grew worried. A lorry went past, crammed with typewriters, files and desks, a guard sitting on the back, his heavy boots dangling. A rash of new posters had appeared on the walls, carrying a crude political appeal to every Republican to denounce defeatist or rightist talk, but they were ugly, lacking in style and totally devoid of skill.

Worried, as soon as it was light Kelly went to the British Club, hoping that Teresa had gone there. But there had been no sign of her. There was a message from Smart in Badger, however, warning him that the bombing had forced him to take the ship to the safety zone for neutral ships at the other side of the bay.

It was beginning to look difficult now, and, guessing Teresa would turn up later, Kelly headed for the quay to make sure the Greek captain held to his promise. It was dawn and the water was lapping against the steps. Even the gulls had not yet roused themselves, and in the early morning freshness there was a curious kind of foreboding. When he reached the waterfront, he found that Jimmy had disappeared. The Greek had finally thrown in the sponge and bolted without waiting for the last of his passengers, and, livid with fury, Kelly returned to the British Club to count noses. There were still nine British nationals left, together with the Albanian and Miss Jenner-Neate. There were also one or two Spanish sent by Teresa, and Mrs. Fotheringay had turned up, in high spirits at having recovered her dog. He told her icily that she’d risked everybody’s life for her bloody dog, and she promptly burst into tears.

There seemed nothing to do but find a launch and get them out to Badger, but the harbour was full of confusion. The minesweepers which had kept the bay clear of mines were just heading away from the quay for Santoña, packed with people. The terms for the capitulation had just been received and there was little doubt now that they’d be accepted.

The August sun polished the closed and level waters of the harbour until they shone like silver. By this time the first of Franco’s troops were pushing into the city and the balconies were already full of hangings in the colours of the monarchy, and even fascist songs were being heard. Every boat in the place with an engine and a great many without were following the minesweepers packed until the gunwales were only just above the water with suitcases, bedding and people. Even as he watched, he saw a rowing boat capsize and the people fished out of the water by a following launch, wailing about their lost belongings.

In the end, he found a whaler and with the greatest of difficulty an ill matching set of oars, and, with the Albanian, carried them to the boat. Then, leaving the Albanian guarding their prize, he went to fetch everybody from the British Club.

When he arrived there was still no sign of Teresa and Miss Jenner-Neate handed him a letter. He recognised the writing on the envelope at once and as he opened it he saw it was on notepaper headed ‘Office of Chief of Police.’

‘I am being allowed to write this note to you, George Kelly,’ he read. ‘Because I have helped people out of compassion, I am accused of treachery and informed that I must pay for it. I am not afraid. I am a good Catholic, despite my Republicanism, and the step into the darkness is really only a step into another life beyond. Perhaps we shall meet again. I send you my love and my life. Your Teresa.’

For a moment he stared at it disbelievingly, then slowly, his hand crushed the paper into a ball and he swung round on Miss Jenner-Neate.

‘Get everybody together,’ he said. ‘I’m going to the Chief of Police’s office. When I return we’ll be leaving.’

The Presidencia was calmer than the town. Basque guards wearing berets watched by its garden wall but inside they were preparing to hand over to the advancing Franco troops. The man Kelly spoke to was nothing but a clerk and he seemed already to be afraid of death. ‘Colonel Neila flew to France this morning,’ he said.

‘What about prisoners?’

‘There are no prisoners, señor. The last were released when the Colonel left.’

Kelly placed the letter he’d received on the desk and smoothed its crumpled surface.

‘This woman,’ he said. ‘Where is she then?’

The clerk took the letter and studied it. Then he slowly lifted frightened eyes to Kelly’s face and pushed a sheet of paper across. It bore the previous day’s date and was scored across by a stroke of red ink.

‘They were shot last night, señor.’

The paper contained seven names and the last one was ‘Condesa de Fayon.’

That night, with the town sporting fascist colours and emblems and the Falangists firing from the balconies, Kelly led the group from the British Club to the harbour. His face was taut and bitter and he was filled with loathing for his charges. They had risked the necks of sailors, and finally taken Teresa’s life. She was now only a cherished image to be hugged to himself like a secret. He’d been full of an irrational and indefensible belief that he’d only had to speak to her to claim her, but war, politics and the ambitions of ruthless men had snatched her away into the darkness, and he felt he couldn’t even bear to think of her.

Between the blocks of flats and thick rows of sandbags were motor lorries, the pavements packed with men and women holding children or lying down with them to sleep on the ground. On the quays, men were throwing arms into heaps – rifles, revolvers, machine guns, cartridge belts – and more men were marching into the port to disarm and disperse. There was a mist like milk on the water as they climbed into the whaler where the Albanian was sitting shivering.

Tersely, Kelly explained to people who’d never handled a large sweep before what they must do and they pushed off in the dusk, the oars crashing against each other. Gradually they got the hang of it, and in the mist picked their way down the harbour to the open sea. There were empty and capsized boats everywhere, floating oars and what seemed to be dozens of bodies, but by the grace of God they made it to the neutral zone and finally bumped alongside Badger. The other British aboard greeted them rapturously and in his cabin, staring at himself in the mirror, Kelly heard a tap on the door.

It was Smart. ‘It’s the evacuees, sir,’ he said. ‘They’d like to have you in the wardroom. They’d like to propose a toast.’

Kelly lifted his head. ‘Tell them,’ he said slowly and coldly, ‘to go to hell.’

He was still lying wide awake in his bunk when they struck the mine. The crash flung him to the deck and he picked himself up, shedding the books, papers and other articles that had fallen from the shelves on top of him. As he hurried on deck, still dazed and stunned, the ship lay dead in the water, steam roaring into the darkness. Men were running in all directions, but there was order in the confusion. Crash mats and hoses were being dragged forward, and he was pleased to see that orders were being given calmly. A centuries-old discipline had taken control and Badger’s crew were getting on with their jobs quietly.

‘Them fucking Spanish!’ someone said, but it wasn’t a cry of panic or even of fury, just one of disgust.

The ship was taking in water forward and amidships. ‘A’ gun was useless, the boiler room was flooding and the wardroom a shambles. By the grace of God, the party for the refugees had just finished and they’d been led to one of the mess flats where they’d been given hammocks. They clustered on deck now near the torpedo tubes, frightened, tired and bewildered, and Kelly saw the indefatigable Miss Jenner-Neate bullying them into some sort of order.