Winter in Madrid (40 page)

There was a commotion outside. Barbara heard high thin screams and the door was flung open. Sister Teresa dragged in a scrawny dark-haired
girl of about eleven, struggling frantically. The nun was red-faced and her coif had been knocked askew, giving her a drunken look.

‘
Madre de Dios
, she struggles worse than a pig.’ Sister Teresa gripped the child’s arms hard, forcing her to stand still. ‘Stop that or you’ll get the cane! The devil is in this one. She was living in an empty house in Carabanchel – the
civiles
had to chase her round the streets.’

Barbara bent down in front of the girl. She was breathing heavily, lips drawn back over bad teeth, eyes wide with terror. She wore a filthy blue dress and clutched a little woolly donkey, so dirty and torn it was hardly recognizable.

‘What’s your name?’ Barbara asked gently.

The girl swallowed. ‘Are you a nun?’

‘No, I’m a nurse. I just want to examine you, see whether you need a doctor.’

The girl looked at her beseechingly. ‘Please let me go. I don’t want to be made into soup.’

‘What?’

‘The nuns make children into soup, feed it to Franco’s soldiers. Please, please, make them let me go.’

Sister Teresa laughed. ‘You can see who’s brought this one up.’

Señora Blanco frowned at the girl. ‘Those are wicked lies the Reds told. You’re a bad child to say such things. Now get undressed for the nurse. And give me that!’ She reached for the woolly donkey but the girl clutched it tighter. Señora Blanco’s face flushed with anger.

‘Give that to me. Don’t defy me, you little Red!’ She grabbed the toy and pulled sharply. It tore in two, white stuffing flying out. The
beata
was caught off balance and the girl jumped away, screaming. She ran under a bed and crouched there, holding the donkey’s head, all that was left, to her face and howling. Señora Blanco threw the rest to the floor. ‘Little bitch—’

‘Be quiet!’ Barbara snapped. The
beata
looked affronted. Sister Teresa folded her arms and looked on with interest as Barbara bent down to the girl.

‘I’m sorry,’ Barbara said gently. ‘It was an accident. Perhaps I could mend your
burro
.’

The girl rubbed the head against her cheek. ‘Fernandito, Fernandito – she killed him.’

‘Give him to me. I’ll sew him back together. I promise. What’s your name?’

The girl studied her suspiciously, unused to a kind tone. ‘Carmela,’ she whispered. ‘Carmela Mera Varela.’

Barbara felt a jolt in her stomach. Mera. The name of Bernie’s friends. And they had lived in Carabanchel. She remembered her visits three years ago – the big amiable father, the overworked mother, the boy with TB. There had been a little girl too, about eight then.

‘Do – do you have a family?’

The girl shook her head, biting her lip. ‘There was a big shell,’ she said. ‘Afterwards I found an empty cellar for me and Fernandito.’ She began to cry, quiet anguished sobs.

Barbara reached in but the girl wriggled away, still crying desperately. Barbara stood up.

‘Dear God, she must have been living wild for years.’ She knew she mustn’t say she knew her, knew her family. A Red family.

‘Might we perhaps get her out of there?’ Señora Blanco asked coldly.

Barbara knelt again. ‘Carmela, I promise the nuns won’t hurt you. They’ll feed you, give you warm clothes. You’ll be all right if you do what they say but they’ll be angry if you don’t come out. If you do, I promise I’ll mend your
burro
, sew him together. But you must come out.’

This time the child let Barbara pull her gently from under the bed. ‘Good, Carmela. Now, stand still, take your dress off so I can look at you. Yes, that’s right, give me Fernandito, I’ll take care of him.’

The child’s arms and legs were covered with eczema; Barbara wondered how she had survived. ‘She’s very undernourished. How did you get food to eat, Carmelcita?’

‘I beg.’ A look of defiance came into her eyes. ‘I take things.’

‘Come on,’ Sister Teresa said brusquely. ‘Get dressed and let’s get you registered. And no more fun and games. You’ll get some food if you behave. Otherwise it’ll be the cane.’

The child put on her dress. Sister Teresa laid a plump red hand firmly on her shoulder. As she was led firmly away, Carmela turned and gave Barbara an anguished look. ‘I’ll bring Fernandito in a day or two,’ Barbara called. ‘I promise.’ The door closed behind her.

Señora Blanco snorted. ‘All this rubbish.’ She bent down, picking up lumps of Fernandito’s stuffing. Squeezing them into a tight ball, she threw it into a wastebasket together with the other half of the donkey’s woolly skin. Barbara marched over and pulled it all out again, putting it in her pocket.

‘I promised I’d mend it.’

The
beata
snorted. ‘Filthy thing. They won’t let her keep it, you know.’ She stepped closer, her eyes narrowed. ‘Señora Forsyth, in all charity I wonder if you are suited to the work here. We cannot afford sentimentality in Spain now. Perhaps you should discuss it with Sister Inmaculada.’ With a toss of her tight curls, she walked out of the infirmary.

A
T HOME
that afternoon Barbara tried to sew the donkey back together. It was dirty and greasy and she had to be careful putting the stuffing back or it would end up looking shapeless. She used her strongest thread but she wasn’t sure it would withstand constant handling by a child. She couldn’t stop thinking about Carmela. Had she come from that family, Bernie’s friends? Were the others all dead?

Pilar came in to stoke the fire. She looked at Barbara oddly. Barbara supposed she must look strange, sitting there in her old clothes in the
salón
, sewing up a child’s toy with frantic concentration.

When she had finished she stood the donkey on the hearth. She hadn’t made a bad job. She poured herself a gin and tonic, lit a cigarette and sat looking at it. It had the meek enduring expression of a real
burro
.

At seven Sandy came in. He warmed his hands at the fire, smiling down at her. Barbara hadn’t bothered to put the overhead light on and, apart from a pool of light from the reading lamp in which cigarette smoke swirled, the room was dark.

Sandy looked sleek and comfortable. ‘It’s cold out,’ he said. He looked in surprise at the donkey. ‘What on earth’s that?’

‘That’s Fernandito.’

He frowned. ‘Who?’

‘It belongs to a child at the orphanage. It got torn when she was brought in.’

Sandy grunted. ‘You don’t want to get too involved with those children.’

‘I thought it was useful to you, me working there. The
marquesa
connection.’ She reached to the gin bottle on her sewing table and poured herself another. Sandy looked at her.

‘How many of those have you had?’

‘Only one. Want one?’

Sandy took a glass and sat opposite her. ‘I’m seeing Harry Brett again the day after tomorrow. I think I’m going to be able to bring him in on something.’

Barbara sighed. ‘Don’t involve him in anything shady, for God’s sake. He’d hate that. And he works for the embassy, they have to be careful.’

‘It’s just a business opportunity.’ He frowned at her.

‘If you say so.’ She never usually talked to him like this, but she was depressed and exhausted.

‘You don’t seem awfully interested in Harry,’ Sandy said. ‘I thought he was so wonderful to you when Piper went west.’

She stared at him without replying. There was a nasty look in his eyes for a moment, something angry and cruel. With his heavy features lit by the firelight he looked middle-aged and dissipated. He shifted in his chair, then smiled.

‘I told him you’d join us for coffee afterwards. Just the three of us.’

‘All right.’

He smiled again. ‘Funny chap, Harry,’ he went on reflectively. ‘Sometimes you don’t know what he’s thinking – he gets this quiet frowning look and you know he’s turning something over.’

‘I always found him very straightforward. D’you want the light on?’

His dark eyes fixed on her. ‘What’s the matter with you these days, Barbara? I thought doing some nursing might cheer you up but you’re gloomier than ever.’

She studied him. He didn’t look suspicious, just irritated. ‘If you saw the things I see at the orphanage, you’d be gloomy.’ She sighed. ‘Or would you? Maybe not.’

‘You’ll have to snap out of it. I’ve a lot on at the moment.’

‘I’m just tired, Sandy.’

‘You’re letting yourself go, look at that tatty old jumper.’

‘I wear it for the orphanage.’

‘Well, you’re not at the orphanage now, are you?’ He was annoyed, she could see. ‘It reminds me of when I first met you. And you need your hair waved again. I can see why those girls used to call you frizzy-hair. And you keep wearing those glasses.’

The strength of the pain and anger that rose inside her surprised Barbara. Very occasionally, if she crossed him, Sandy would strike out like this. He knew how to wound. It was hard to keep a tremor from her voice. She got up. ‘I’ll go up and change,’ she said.

Sandy gave his broad smile. ‘That’s more like it. I’ve got some papers to read – tell Pilar we’ll have dinner at eight.’

She left the
salón
. On the way upstairs she thought, when I’ve got Bernie out I’ll go back to England. Away from this terrible place, away from him.

L
UIS WASN
’
T
at the cafe when she arrived the next day. She looked in through the window and there were only a few workmen sitting at the bar. It was a cold grey afternoon.

She went to the counter and ordered a coffee. The fat old woman looked at her speculatively. ‘Another assignment,
señora
?’ she asked, then gave a wink. Barbara flushed and said nothing.

‘Your
amigo
is quite handsome,
señora, sí
? Your coffee.’

An old couple were sitting at one of the tables, hunched over empty cups. They had been here last time, Barbara thought, as she took the usual table and lit a cigarette. She studied them. They didn’t look like spies, just an old poor couple spending time in the cafe because it was warm. She sipped her coffee; it tasted like hot dirty water. She had been there ten minutes, getting more and more anxious, before Luis arrived. He was breathless and apologetic. He fetched a coffee and hurried over to her.

‘
Señora
, I am sorry,
discúlpeme
. I have been moving to new lodgings.’

‘Never mind. Have you any news?’

He nodded and leaned forward, his face eager. ‘Yes. We have made progress. Agustín has already got himself on the quarry rota as a guard. At the right time, he will arrange with your friend that he will ask to go to the toilet, say he has’ – he coughed, embarrassed – ‘diarrhoea. Then he will hit Agustín on the head, steal the key to his shackles, and run off.’

‘They wear shackles?’ It was one of the horrors she had imagined.

‘He would be shackled to go to the toilet, yes.’

Barbara thought a few moments, then nodded. ‘All right.’ She lit another cigarette and passed him the packet. ‘When? The longer we wait the riskier it is. Not just the political situation. I can’t stand much more of this, my – husband – has noticed I’m not myself.’

Luis shifted in his seat. ‘That is a problem, I am afraid. Agustín is due three weeks’ leave, starting next week. He will not be back until early December. It will have to wait until then.’

‘But that’s a month away! Can’t he change his leave?’

‘
Señora
, please speak quietly. Think how suspicious it would be if Agustín suddenly cancelled the leave he booked months ago, and then he was on duty when there was an escape.’

‘This is bad. What if Spain comes into the war, what if I have to leave?’

‘They have been saying we will come in since June and nothing has happened, even after the Caudillo’s meeting with Hitler. It will be done,
señora
, I promise, as soon as possible after Agustín gets back. And it will be easier when the days are shorter – the darkness will help your friend get away.’

‘His name’s Bernie – Bernie. Why can’t you use his name?’

‘Of course, Bernie, yes.’

She thought carefully. ‘How will he get from the camp to Cuenca? He’ll be in prison clothes.’

‘It is all rough country till the gorge at Cuenca, plenty of cover. And there is a place in Cuenca where you can meet him. Agustín will arrange it all.’

‘How far is the camp from Cuenca?’

‘About eight kilometres.
Señora
, your Bernie is as strong as anyone in the camp. They are used to hard work and long walks in the winter. He will make it.’

‘What does Bernie know? Does – does he know I’m trying to help him?’

‘Nothing yet. It is safer that way. Agustín has told him only that there may be better times ahead for him. He keeps an eye on him.’

‘He won’t be able to keep an eye on him in Sevilla.’

‘That is unavoidable. I am sorry, but we can do nothing.’

‘All right.’ She sighed and ran her hand over her face. How could she get through the next weeks?

‘It is arranged now,
señora
.’ Luis looked at her meaningfully. ‘We agreed I would have half when it was arranged.’

Barbara shook her head. ‘Not quite, Luis. I said I’d pay you half when we had a plan in place. That means, when I know how and
when
it will happen.’

She saw a glint of anger in his eyes. ‘My brother will have to be struck hard on the head by your friend for them to believe his story. Then he will have to stay out in the Tierra Muerta, perhaps for hours, to give him a chance to escape. There is already snow on the tops of the sierras.’

Barbara stared him down. ‘When I have a date, Luis. A date.’

‘But—’

He broke off. Two
civiles
had entered the cafe, their bicorn hats and short capes glistening like insect carapaces. Guns were visible in the yellow holsters at their belts. They walked over to the bar.

‘¡Mierda!’
Luis muttered. He began to get up, but Barbara put a hand on his arm.

‘Sit down. What will they think if we run off as soon as they appear?’