Winter in Madrid (22 page)

‘That would be nice.’

The hall was filling up. The orchestra was practising, shafts of music piercing the air. People glanced up at the empty royal box.

‘The Generalísimo’s not here yet,’ Sandy whispered.

There was a flurry of activity as two soldiers led a couple in evening dress to their seats in a neighbouring box. Both were very tall, the woman statuesque with long blonde hair, the man with a bald head and an eagle-like nose. There was a swastika armband on his evening jacket. Barbara recognized his face from the newspapers. Von Stohrer, the German ambassador.

Sandy nudged her arm. ‘Don’t stare, lovey.’

‘I hate seeing that – emblem.’

‘Spain’s neutral, lovey. Just ignore them. He took her arm and indicated a tall middle-aged woman in black sitting nearby, talking quietly to a female companion. ‘There’s the
marquesa
. Let’s go and introduce ourselves.’ He steered her down the aisle. ‘Don’t mention her husband, by the way,’ he whispered. ‘The peasants on one of his estates fed him to his pigs in ’36. Very nasty.’ Barbara shuddered slightly. He often spoke lightly of the horrors people had suffered in the Civil War.

Sandy bowed to the
marquesa
. Barbara wasn’t sure how to greet her so she curtsied, receiving a little smile in return. The
marquesa
was about fifty, with a kindly face that must once have been pretty but was now seamed into wrinkled sadness.

‘Your grace,’ Sandy began. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. Alexander Forsyth. This is my wife, Señora Barbara. Forgive this intrusion, but Señor Cana told me you are seeking volunteers for your orphanage.’

‘Yes, he spoke to me. I understand you are a nurse,
señora
.’

‘I haven’t done any nursing for years, I’m afraid.’

The
marquesa
smiled gravely. ‘Those skills are never forgotten. Many of the children in our orphanage are ill, or were injured in the war. So many orphans in Madrid.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘No parents or homes or schooling, some of them begging in the streets.’

‘Where is the orphanage, your grace?’

‘Near Atocha, in a building the church gave us. The nuns help with the teaching, but we need more medical help. The nursing orders have so many calls upon them still.’

‘Of course.’

‘Do you think you could help us,
señora
?’

Barbara thought of the barefoot wild-faced urchins she saw roaming the streets. ‘Yes. I’d like to.’

The
marquesa
put a finger to her chin. ‘Forgive me asking,
señora
, but you are English. Are you a Catholic?’

‘No. No, I’m afraid not. I was baptized an Anglican.’ Barbara laughed awkwardly. Her parents had never gone to church. And what would the
marquesa
think if she knew she and Sandy weren’t even married?

‘The church authorities may need persuading. But we need nurses, Señora Forsyth. I can speak to the bishop, perhaps telephone you?’

Sandy spread his hands. ‘We quite understand.’

‘I will see what can be done. It would be so good if you could help us.’ She inclined her head, indicating the interview was over. Barbara curtsied again and followed Sandy down the aisle.

‘She’ll do it,’ Sandy said. ‘The
marquesa
has got a lot of clout.’

‘I don’t see why my religion should be a problem. The Church of England’s nothing to be ashamed of.’

He rounded on her, suddenly angry. ‘You weren’t bloody brought up in the heart of it,’ he snapped. ‘You didn’t have to live with those hypocrites day in day out. At least with the Catholics, you know where you are.’

She had forgotten the Church was such a raw nerve. Like mention of his family, it could make Sandy turn suddenly.

‘All right, all right. I’m sorry.’

Sandy had turned away; he was looking at a tall balding man in a general’s uniform standing nearby. The soldier was staring back disapprovingly. He raised his eyebrows slightly and walked away. Sandy turned to Barbara, a trapped, angry look on his face.

‘Now see what you’ve done,’ he muttered. ‘Made me look a fool in front of Maestre. He heard.’

‘What do you mean? Who’s Maestre?’

‘An opponent of the Min of Mines project. It doesn’t matter.
Sorry. Look, lovey, you know not to get me started on the Church, eh? Come on, they want us to sit down.’

Flunkeys in eighteenth-century dress were moving through the crowd urging people to their seats. The hall was full now. Sandy led them to their row, near the middle, next to a man in Falange uniform. Barbara recognized him: Otero, one of Sandy’s business associates. He was some sort of mining engineer. He had a round clerkly face, but the olive eyes above the starched blue shirt were keen and hard. She didn’t like him.

‘Alberto.’ Sandy laid his hand on the man’s shoulder.

‘
Hola, amigo
. Señora.’

There was a susurrating murmur from the crowd. At the far end of the hall a door opened and a bevy of flunkeys bowed in a middle-aged couple. Barbara had heard that Franco was a small man but was surprised how tiny, even delicate, he looked. He wore a general’s uniform with a broad red sash round his paunchy middle. He held his arms stiffly at his sides, moving them back and forth as though leading a parade. His balding head gleamed under the lights. Doña Carmen, walking behind, was slightly taller than her husband, a tiara in her jet back hair. Her long haughty face was made for the regal expression it wore. There seemed something posed, though, about the stoniness of the Generalísimo’s face, the little mouth set hard under the wispy moustache, and the surprisingly large eyes staring ahead as he marched past the stage

The Falangists in the audience sprang to their feet, stretching out their arms in the Fascist salute.
‘¡Jefe!’
they called out. The rest of the audience and the orchestra followed. Sandy nudged Barbara. She stared at him, she hadn’t expected to have to do this but he nodded urgently. She rose reluctantly and stood with arm extended although she could not bring herself to join the shouting. Making the gesture felt awful, shameful.

‘¡Je-fe! ¡Je-fe! ¡Fran-co! ¡Fran-co!’
The Generalísimo did not acknowledge the salutes, marching on like an automaton until he reached a door at the other end. The flunkeys opened it and the pair disappeared through. The shouts went on, people turning their heads and outstretched arms to the royal box as Franco and Doña Carmen reappeared above them. The couple stood a moment, looking down.
Doña Carmen was smiling now but Franco’s face stayed coldly expressionless. He raised a hand briefly and at once the noise ceased. The crowd sat down. The conductor stood, bowing to the royal box.

Barbara liked classical music. When she had lived at home, she had preferred it to the jazz her sister liked and would sometimes sit listening to concerts with her parents. She had never heard anything like this concerto but she liked it. The guitar began the allegro on a liquid flowing note and then the strings joined in, the tempo slowly rising. It was cheerful and gentle and around her Barbara saw people relax, smiling and nodding.

The allegro moved to a climax and the adagio began. The music was slower now, the guitar alternating with wind instruments, and the sound was pure flowing sadness. All over the hall people began to weep, first one or two, then more and more, women and a few men too. She could hear half-suppressed sobs everywhere. Most of the people here would have lost someone in the Civil War. Barbara glanced at Sandy; he gave her a tense, embarrassed smile.

She looked up at the royal box. Carmen Franco’s face was composed and still. The Generalísimo’s wore a slight frown. Then she noticed a quivering movement of the muscles round his mouth. She thought he was going to weep too but then his features settled again and she realized he had been stifling a yawn. She turned away, with a sudden, violent revulsion.

The horn playing made Barbara think of a bare empty plain. She knew the man Luis was most likely a liar, but there was still a possibility Bernie was out there somewhere, imprisoned while she sat here. She clenched a fist tightly round her stole, fingers digging into the soft fur.

The guitar notes quickened and then the violins took over, bringing the music to a wrenching climax. Barbara felt something break and well up inside her and then she was crying too, tears flowing down her cheeks. Sandy looked at her curiously, then took her hand and squeezed it diffidently.

When the music ended there was a long moment of silence before the audience broke into thunderous applause. It went on as the blind composer Rodrigo was led to the front of the stage. Tear tracks glistened on his face too as he shook the conductor’s hand and spoke
with the soloist, the clapping going on and on. Sandy turned to Barbara. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes. Sorry.’

He sighed. ‘I shouldn’t have snapped earlier. But you should know how some things get me.’ She caught an undertone of irritation behind his reassurance.

‘It’s not that. It’s just – oh, everyone’s lost so much. Everyone.’

‘I know. Come on, dry your eyes. It’s the interval. D’you want to stay here? I’ll get you a brandy at the bar if you like.’

‘No, I’m all right. I’ll come.’ She glanced round and saw Otero looking at her curiously. He caught her eye and smiled, quickly and insincerely.

‘Good girl,’ Sandy said. ‘Come on, then.’

In the bar Sandy got her a gin and tonic. It was strong, she needed it. She felt her face flush as she drank. Otero joined them with his wife, who was surprisingly young and pretty.

‘Wasn’t it sad?’ she asked Barbara.

‘Yes. But very beautiful.’

Otero straightened his tie. ‘A great composer. He must be very proud, his
concierto
played for the first time before the Generalísimo.’

‘Yes, did you see him?’ Otero’s wife asked Barbara eagerly. ‘I’ve always wanted to. Every inch the soldier.’

Barbara smiled stiffly. ‘Yes.’ She caught a whisper from Otero to Sandy.

‘Any word on the latest Jews?’

‘Yes. They’ll do anything to escape being sent back to Vichy.’

‘Good. We need something more to show. I can make it look good.’ Otero noticed Barbara listening and gave her another of his sharp looks.

‘Well, Señora Forsyth,’ he said. ‘I wonder if Don Rodrigo will get to meet the Generalísimo?

‘I’m sure he will have loved the music,’ she replied neutrally.

A man pushed through the crowd towards them. It was the general whose gaze had upset Sandy earlier. Otero’s mouth tightened and his sharp eyes flickered around but Sandy bowed and gave the soldier a friendly smile.

‘General Maestre.’

The general stared coldly into his eyes. ‘Señor Forsyth. And my old friend Captain Otero – that is your Falange rank, I think.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Maestre nodded. ‘I hear your project is proceeding well. Building materials requisitioned here, chemicals there.’

‘We only ask for what we need, sir.’ There was a note of defiance in Otero’s voice. ‘The Generalísimo himself has—’

‘Approved. Yes, I know. A project to help Spain in its path back to prosperity. And make money for you, of course.’

‘I’m a businessman, sir,’ Sandy said with a smile.

‘Yes. You help us and become rich at the same time.’

‘I hope so.’

Maestre nodded twice, slowly. He studied Barbara a moment with narrowed eyes, then bowed abruptly and walked away. As he turned, Barbara heard him mutter the word
‘sinvergüenza’
. It meant shameless, without morals.

Otero looked at Sandy; Barbara could see the Falangist was scared. ‘It’s all right,’ Sandy said. ‘Everything’s under control. Look, we’ll talk tomorrow.’

Otero hesitated a moment.
‘Algo va mal,’
he muttered. ‘Come on,’ he said sharply to his wife. They joined the trickle of people heading for the exit. Sandy leaned against the bar, twirling the stem of his empty glass, his expression thoughtful.

‘What was that all about?’ Barbara asked. ‘What did he mean, all is not well?’

Sandy stroked his moustache. ‘He’s an old woman, for all the Falange regalia.’

‘What have you done to annoy that general? You don’t annoy generals here.’

His eyes were pensive, half-closed. ‘Maestre’s on the supply committee for our Min of Mines project. He’s a Monarchist.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s just politics. Jockeying for position.’

‘The general doesn’t like your project because it’s got Falange support?’

‘Exactly. But at the end of the day Maestre won’t count, because we’ve got Franco’s blessing.’ He got up, adjusting his lapels.

‘What was Otero saying about the Jews?’

Sandy shrugged again. ‘That’s confidential too. We have to keep the committee’s work quiet, Barbara. If the Germans found out there’d be a fuss.’

‘I hate seeing the Nazis being feted.’

‘They’re enjoying their bit of flattery. But that’s all it is. Diplomatic games.’ His voice was impatient now. He placed a hand in the small of her back. ‘Come on, it’s Beethoven next. Try to forget the war. It’s far away.’

T
HE DAY THE
G
ERMAN PLANE
crashed into the house in Vigo, Barbara and Bernie took a tram back to Barbara’s neat little flat off the Calle Mayor, sitting with their arms round each other, covered in dust. When they got home they sat side by side on her bed, holding hands.

‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ Bernie asked. ‘You’re white as a sheet.’

‘It’s just a cut. The dust makes it look worse than it is. I should have a bath.’

‘Go and get one. I’ll make us something to eat.’ He gave her hand a squeeze.

By the time she had bathed he had prepared a meal. They ate chorizo and chickpeas at the little table. They were silent, both still shocked. Halfway through he reached across the table and took her hand.

‘I love you,’ he said. ‘I do love you. I meant it.’

‘I love you too.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I – I couldn’t believe you. When I was young – it’s so hard to explain …’

‘The bullying?’

‘It sounds a silly thing, but when it just goes on for years, that endless putting you down – why do children pick on people, why do they need someone to hate? They used to spit at me sometimes. For no reason, just because I was me.’