Winter in Madrid (31 page)

‘That’s clever of you. I was in the army until a few months ago.’

‘Papa was in Morocco when I was young. It was a terrible place. I was so glad to come home. But then the Civil War came.’ She smiled, making an effort to be cheerful. ‘And you,
señor
, were you in the army for long?’

‘No. I only joined up when the war started.’

‘They say the bombing of London is terrible.’

‘Yes. It’s a difficult time.’ He remembered the bombs falling.

‘It is so sad. And London is so beautiful, I hear. Many museums and art galleries.’

‘Yes. They’ve taken the pictures away for the war.’

‘In Madrid we have the Prado. They are putting the pictures back there now. I have never seen them, I should like to go.’ She smiled at Harry, encouragingly but a little embarrassed, and he thought, she wants me to take her. He was flattered but she was so young, scarcely more than a child.

‘Well, I’d like to go too, though just now I’m very busy …’

‘That would be so nice. We have a telephone, you could ring my mother to arrange it—’

Catalina and Dolores reappeared with a group of cadets crowding round them. Milagros frowned.

‘Milagros, you must meet Carlos. He has a medal already, he has been fighting the Red bandits in the north—’

‘Excuse me,’ Harry said. ‘I’d better find Simon.’ He made his escape, puffing out his cheeks with relief. She was a nice child. But just a child. He collected another glass from a passing waiter. He’d better watch how much he had. He thought of Sofia, as he had several times since the day before. She had seemed full of life, energy. He had said nothing to Hillgarth about the spy. He would keep his promise.

Tolhurst was standing in the middle of the room, talking to Goach, who was looking at him with slight distaste through his monocle. Poor old Tolly, Harry thought suddenly. With his big frame Tolhurst should have looked impressive but there was always something slouched and drooping about him.

Goach cheered up as Harry joined them. ‘Evening, Brett. I say, you’d better watch out. The general and his wife are looking for a good catch for Milagros. The general’s brother told me. Monsignor Maestre.’ He nodded to where the priest was talking to a couple of older women. Harry could see a resemblance to Maestre in the thin face, the authoritative manner.

‘You know him, sir?’

‘Yes, he’s quite a scholar. Expert on Spanish church liturgy during the Reconquista period.’ Goach smiled and bowed as the monsignor, hearing his name, came over.

‘Ah, George,’ the monsignor said in Spanish. ‘I have been getting some more subscriptions.’ His eyes flicked over Harry and Tolhurst, quick and sharp as his brother’s.

‘Splendid, splendid.’ Goach made introductions. ‘The monsignor’s head of an appeal for rebuilding all the burned-out churches in Madrid. The Vatican’s been a great help but it’s a huge task, needs a lot of money.’

Monsignor Maestre shook his head sorrowfully. ‘Indeed it does. But we are getting there. Though nothing can replace our martyrs, our murdered priests and nuns.’ He turned to Harry and Tolhurst. ‘I remember, during the darkest time of our war, some English churches sent us their church plate to make up for what we had lost. It was a great comfort, made us feel we were not forgotten.’

‘I’m glad,’ Harry said. ‘It must have been a hard time.’

‘You do not know,
señor
, the things they did to us. It is as well you do not. We want to rebuild the churches in La Latina and Carabanchel.’ The priest looked at Harry seriously. ‘The people there need a beacon, something to cleave to.’

‘There’s a burned-out church near where I live, at the top of La Latina,’ Harry said.

The monsignor’s face hardened. ‘Yes, and the people who did it need to be shown they could not destroy the authority of Christ’s church. That we have returned stronger than before.’

Goach nodded. ‘Quite.’

A burst of harsh laughter made Monsignor Maestre frown. ‘It is a pity my brother invited Millán Astray. He is so
inculto
. And a Falangist. They are all so irreligious.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘We
needed them during our war, but now – well, thank God the Generalísimo is a true Christian.’

‘Some of the Falangists would make him their God,’ Goach said quietly.

‘Indeed they would.’

Harry looked between them. They were both being very outspoken. But they were all Monarchists here, except for Millán Astray. The crippled general was holding forth to a group of cadets now; they seemed to be hanging on his every word.

The monsignor took Goach’s arm. ‘George, come with me, I’d like you to meet the bishop’s secretary.’ With a nod at Harry and Tolhurst, he led Goach away, red skirts billowing around his feet. Tolhurst took a swig of wine.

‘I thought he’d never stop. How did you get on with the
señorita
?’

‘She wanted me to take her to the Prado.’ Harry looked over to where Milagros was talking to her friends again. She caught his eye and smiled uncertainly. He felt guilty, his sudden departure must have seemed rude.

‘Lot of little cats.’ Tolhurst wiped his glasses on his sleeve. ‘I suppose I was a bit stupid, making fun of their names. I don’t know, I can’t seem to get on with girls, not socially.’ He swayed slightly, more than a little drunk. ‘You see, I was in Cuba so long, I got used to tarts.’ He laughed. ‘I like tarts, but you forget how to talk to respectable girls.’ He looked at Harry. ‘Señorita Maestre not your type, then?’

‘No.’

‘No Vera Lynn, is she?’

‘She’s young. Poor girl, she’s scared for the future.’

‘Aren’t we all? Listen, there’s a chap in the press office, knows this little brothel near Opera—’

Harry nudged him to be quiet. Maestre was approaching again, smiling broadly.

‘Señor Brett, I hope Milagros has not abandoned you.’

‘No, no. She does you credit, general.’

Maestre looked across to where the girls were deep in conversation with some more cadets. He shook his head indulgently. ‘I am afraid they cannot resist a young officer. The young all live for the day now.
You must forgive them.’ He must have thought Milagros left
me
, Harry thought.

Maestre took a drink, wiped his little moustache and looked at them. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said. ‘You both know Captain Hillgarth, yes? He and I are good friends.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Tolhurst’s face was immediately attentive.

‘He should know there is a lot of annoyance in the government over Negrín. It was not a good idea for England to give asylum to the Republican prime minister. These noises in the British Parliament annoy our friends.’ He shook his head. ‘You English, you let vipers into your bosom sometimes, you know.’

‘It’s difficult, sir,’ Tolhurst said seriously. ‘I don’t know how the Commons got wind Sir Samuel recommended Negrín be asked to leave, but it’s got the Labour members hot under the collar.’

‘Surely you can control your Parliament?’

‘Not really,’ Tolhurst said. ‘It’s democracy,’ he added apologetically.

Maestre spread his hands, smiling in puzzlement. ‘But England is not a decadent republic like France was, you have a monarchy and aristocracy, you understand the principle of authority.’

‘I’ll tell Captain Hillgarth,’ Tolhurst said. ‘By the way, sir,’ he added quietly, ‘the captain was asking how things are going with the new minister.’

Maestre nodded. ‘Tell him there is nothing to worry about there,’ he replied softly.

Señora Maestre appeared. She tapped her husband’s arm with her fan. ‘Santiago, are you talking politics again? This is our daughter’s ball.’ She shook her head. ‘You must forgive him.’

Maestre smiled. ‘You are right, my dear, of course.’

She smiled brightly at Harry and Tolhurst. ‘I hear Juan March is in Madrid. If he has returned to stay, he is bound to be doing some entertaining.’

‘I heard it was just a short visit,’ Maestre replied. Harry looked at him. Juan March again. The name Hillgarth had told him to forget, along with the Knights of St George.

Señora Maestre beamed at her guests. ‘He is Spain’s most successful businessman. He had to leave under the Republic of course. It
would be good if he returned. You cannot imagine how grey life was in the Nationalist zone during the war. It had to be that way, of course. And then when we came back—’ A shadow flitted across her face.

‘This house was half ruined,’ Maestre said. ‘Good furniture used for firewood. Everything broken or damaged. The families the Republic put in here could not even use the toilet, but the worst was our family things, photographs sold in the Rastro because they were framed in silver. You can see why Negrín being given a home in London angers people.’ Maestre looked across at his daughter, his face full of tenderness for a moment. ‘Milagros is a sensitive child, she found it hard to bear. She is not happy. I fear she is too delicate a plant to flourish in Spain now. I sometimes even think she might be happier abroad.’ He put his arm round his wife’s shoulders. ‘I think we should start the dancing, my dear. I will ask the chamber orchestra to come in.’ He smiled at Harry. ‘Only the best for Milagros. I will tell her she must give you a dance. Excuse us.’ He led his wife away.

‘Hell,’ Tolhurst said. ‘I’m awful at dancing.’

‘This Juan March,’ Harry said in neutral tones. ‘He’s quite an important man, isn’t he?’

‘I’ll say. He’s got millions. Gigantic crook, started as a smuggler. Lives in Switzerland now, took all his money out before the Civil War started. Pro-Monarchist. Probably just come to sort out his affairs.’ Tolhurst spoke lightly, but Harry saw a watchfulness come into his face. He changed the subject. ‘Terrible about the Maestres’ losses, all the upper- and middle-class families suffered dreadfully. One thing about this regime, at least they protect people of – you know, our class.’

‘Yes, I suppose they do. Our class. You know, I was thinking. In a funny way, I think the fact we’re both Rookwood old boys means more to Sandy than to me now. He still has feelings about it, even if it’s only hate.’

‘And you?’

‘I don’t know any more, Tolly.’

Four men in dinner jackets carrying musical instruments appeared with Señora Maestre, followed by a group of the kaftaned servants
pushing a little wooden stage. The guests clapped and cheered. Harry saw Milagros waving her fan at him from the other side of the room. He raised his glass. Beside him, Tolhurst sighed.

‘Oh lor’,’ he said. ‘Here we go.’

B
ARBARA HADN
’
T WANTED
to go and meet Harry. He had been kind to her three years before and it had been good to see a friendly English face, but seeing Bernie’s best friend felt somehow like tempting fate. She had considered telling Harry but he seemed so friendly with Sandy. And he had changed: there was an angry unhappiness about him that had not been there three years ago. She had to keep everything secret. Harry was here now and Sandy had taken a shine to him, so she must brazen it out and deceive Harry too. A second person to deceive, and Bernie’s best friend this time.

On Saturday she had heard on the BBC about a big German raid on Birmingham. Nearly two hundred people had been killed. She had sat by the radio, aghast. She hadn’t told Sandy; he would have comforted her but she felt she couldn’t stand that, she didn’t deserve it. She worried for two days but that morning a telegram had arrived from her father, saying they were all well, the raids had been in the town centre. She had wept with relief.

She was due to meet Luis again in two days. She feared the money from her bank in England might not come in time. Doubtful of Luis’s story though she had been after their first meeting, now she was more inclined to believe him. If he turned up at the cafe with proof, that would settle it. She cautioned herself that it was what she wanted to believe, she mustn’t hope too much. And if it were true? Helping Bernie escape from a prison camp, getting him to the embassy? And what if Sandy found out? What would he do? Lately she had come to realize that among the complex of emotions she felt for Sandy, there was an element of fear, fear of the ruthlessness she knew was part of him.

The previous evening she had done something that only a few weeks ago she would have found inconceivable. Sandy had been out
with some of his cronies and she had gone into his study to try and find out what money he had. She told herself she would never steal from him, but if her savings did not arrive in time perhaps she could get money from him with some lie. If he had enough. Like most men, Sandy didn’t think money was something women should know about.

Her heart beating fast, feeling she was crossing some sort of boundary for good, Barbara had hunted for the key to Sandy’s desk in his study. He kept it in the bedroom, in his sock drawer – she had seen him put it there sometimes when he came to bed after an evening’s work. She found it right at the back, inside a folded sock. She looked at it, hesitated again for a moment, then went to his study.

Some of the drawers were locked, but not all. In one she found two bank books. One was an account with a local branch of a Spanish bank containing a thousand pesetas; the records showed regular payments and withdrawals that she guessed covered their expenses. To her surprise the second was with a bank in Argentina. There were several entries but no withdrawals, and the balance was nearly half a million Argentine pesos, however much that was. Of course, there was no way of getting the money out herself: the accounts were in Sandy’s sole name. She felt oddly relieved.

She left the study, pausing at the door to make sure Pilar was not around. Putting the key back, she felt that something steely was entering into her, something she hadn’t known was there.

S
HE HAD ARRANGED
to meet Harry in a restaurant near the Royal Palace, a quiet little place that served good black-market food. She was late. The daily maid had been in a state because she had been stopped by the
civiles
on the way to work and had forgotten her papers; Barbara had to write a letter confirming she worked for her. Harry was already sitting at one of the little tables reading a newspaper. A few businessmen and well-to-do couples occupied the other tables. Harry rose to greet her.