by Walter Ellis
His voice was hoarse and he coughed to clear his throat. It sounded like his lungs were full of soot. “That self-same empire, you’re now tellin’ me, should be supported just so’s the Brits can stop the Nazis doin’ to them what they cheerfully watched them do to the Spanish. That it? Have I got it?”
Bramall looked down at his shoes. “That’s about the size of it.”
“Thought as much. They were wrong then, they’re right now, so forgive and forget.”
“Exactly.”
“And all those thousands who died at the Ebro – men and women, boys and girls a lot of them – whose lives could have been saved if Britain had just honoured its obligations …”
Bramall looked away. “Yesterday’s news, Eddy. What happened three years ago was a tragedy, maybe even a crime. We both know that. But that doesn’t make what’s happening now any less important. It only heightens the urgency. For all its faults, England right now is all there is. France is gone, the Russians are taking every advantage they can from the situation and America looks like it’s going to sit this one out. Ireland and its concerns don’t come into it. DeValera’s decided to stay neutral and play both sides against the middle. Well, good luck to him, the fucker. But we don’t have that option, do we Eddy? I know where I stand. What about you? Seems to me you either back Britain or you back out of the war.”
A despairing look crossed Romero’s gaunt features. “Okay, fair play to you – as far as it goes. But if it’s my help you’re after, Charlie, I have to tell you I’m not exactly overjoyed by the prospect. The only thing Britain wants in this case is to hang on to Gibraltar. But why the fuck would that interest me? What the fuck are they doin’ there anyway?”
Bramall’s response was emphatic. “Don’t ask me to justify English history. The Empire’s a dead duck. It’s on borrowed time and the clock’s ticking. But that doesn’t help us, and it doesn’t help Europe either. Hitler has declared war on everything you hold dear – and he’s winning. The Wehrmacht are less than 20 miles from Dover, with the Gestapo and the SS right behind them. Rhetoric doesn’t cut it any more. You have to ask yourself, when England’s gone, who’s left? Time to pick sides, Eddy. It’s time to pick sides.”
Romero’s rolled his glass between his fingers. “Well, we know which side your family picked when it came to the IRA. Much good it did you. You were out, bag and baggage, inside of a year, scuttlin’ back to Blighty.”
Beneath the table, Bramall made fists of his hands. Romero’s version of events was a predictable travesty of the truth. Dreenagh was never especially big or grand – not by British or continental standards. There were six bedrooms, if you didn’t count the servants’ quarters, and the surrounding 500 acres were mostly given over to beef production, with a decent shoot, a trout stream and a couple of small lakes on the side. It provided jobs for ten of the local people, and homes for their families, Catholic as well as Protestant. His grandfather had been elected a Member of Parliament; his uncle John was the resident magistrate for nearly 20 years. The Bramalls had settled in Monaghan in 1692, just after the Williamite wars. His mother’s people, the FitzGeralds, were in Kildare even longer, going back on one side to the 12th century. It wasn’t as if the family had just turned up, built the Big House and turfed everyone else off their land. But that had cut no ice with the new enforcers of gaelic supremacy. Within two years of the treaty, the Anglo-Irish had been all-but erased from history. A month after their own home, Dreenagh, was burned to the ground, the Bramalls took the mail boat from Kingstown to Liverpool, then the train to Northamptonshire, where the General bought a small farm using his Army pension and the proceeds of the sale of their Dublin town house. No compensation was ever offered by the new Irish Government and no arrests were made. The lawyers said it would be a long drawn-out affair; the insurance company declared it an act of war and washed its hands of it. After centuries in Ireland, the Bramalls were bundled out, never to return. The events of that terrible summer rankled with the son as well as the father.
Bramall closed his eyes for a moment, remembering the crack of the windows blowing out and the sight of Billy McKenna, their keeper, dying in his mother’s arms. “Don’t start,” he said quietly. “That’s not a road I want to go down. What’s important is the here and now. It’s a simple question, Eddy. Do you want to fight Fascism or don’t you?”
Romero joined his hands together and bent his fingers back until the knuckles cracked. “I’ve been out of the game more than a year now. All I know these days is how to run a bar and maybe get a few things on the black market for children without fathers, wives without husbands – that sort of thing.”
“It’s not enough, though, is it?”
The two men stared at each other. It was Romero who blinked first. “They say that next to our enemies, some of the worst people we ever have to deal with are the ones we call our friends.”
“The human comedy, Eddy.”
“Right. Except, I’m not laughin’. He closed his eyes, trying to resolve the bitter debate still raging inside of him. “Okay, Charlie” he said at last. “A truce, then, God help us. For the greater good. So what do you want me to do?”
Bramall almost sighed with relief. “You’re forgetting,” he said, “up until this afternoon, I didn’t even know you were still alive. I thought it was me versus the entire apparatus of the Fascist state. Now I find I’m not the only lunatic in town. You were asking about my ace in the hole. Well, I don’t know, but maybe it’s you, Eddy.”
Romero grinned and raised his glass. “I’ll drink to that.”
Chapter 5
Madrid: British embassy, June 29
The Duke of Windsor paced up and down the length of Sir Samuel Hoare’s already threadbare Axminster rug. Suddenly, he spun round. “Is it going to work, do you think? I mean, there are bound to be those, in present circumstances, who will think it’s no more than keeping up appearances.”
“Only those,” said Hoare, using his most soothing diplomatic tones, “who would think the worst of us no matter what we did. I assure you, Sir, that everything is set for a splendid party and I am confident that we shall all derive nothing but good from the experience.”
The Duke stopped pacing. “Whatever you say, Hoare. You’re in charge. But if you’ve any doubts or suggestions … anything … let me know.”
“Of course. Before you go, Sir, have you had any further thoughts about Downing Street’s offer to bring you home? There’s an aircraft waiting for you, you know. Two, in fact. They’ve been sitting off Lisbon for the past four days.”
“So I believe. Well you can tell them to take off and start hunting a few U-Boats, or whatever it is they do for a living when they’re not following me about the place. You know that my brother, the Duke of Kent, is in Lisbon at the moment…”
“I presumed that you would wish to spend time with His Royal Highness while you had the opportunity.”
The Duke shook his head. “No, no. It doesn’t work that way, I’m afraid. Can’t have two members of the Royal Family in the same place at the same time – not unless they’re married, of course. Bad form.”
“I see.”
“But my brother will be returning to London tomorrow – no doubt on one of your damned flying boats – and that gives me the chance to spend a bit of time in Lisbon, catching up on friends, that sort of thing.”
Hoare rubbed his hands together. “Excellent, Sir. The Ambassador in Lisbon, Sir Walford Selby, will be most gratified.”
The second the Duke left the room, the Ambassador heaved a sigh of relief. Perhaps he had sailed a bit close to the wind. But who could blame him? He sat back in his chair. It was time to check with the kitchens and with security. The sooner this damned party was out of the way, the sooner the Duke would be gone from Madrid and someone else’s responsibility. He had already spoken with Number 10 over his con
cerns about the Duke’s wayward nature and been told the matter would be looked into as a matter of urgency. In the meantime, he did not envy Selby, who had already, on three occasions, endured the company of the Duke while stationed in Vienna. The first time he’d been Prince of Wales; King the time after that. On the third occasion, in the immediate aftermath of his abdication, he and the Duchess had stayed for an unbelievable three months. But Selby’s loss was his gain. Once more he picked up the telephone receiver. “I wish to speak with our Ambassador in Lisbon.”
Portbou: Franco-Spanish frontier, June 29
The arrival at the Spanish frontier at the wheel of her lime green, open-top MG sports car of Dominique de Fourneau caused something of a stir among officials on both sides of the border. She seemed to the Spanish in particular a creature from another world – a type not seen in Catalonia since before the Civil War. The French allowed her to pass upon inspection of her laisser-passer, signed by Pierre Laval himself. They did not bother to search the capacious trunk strapped to the exterior of her vehicle’s boot; nor did they ask her to step outside the car. Instead, they were content simply to gather round and ogle her while passing her papers from one to the other.
The Spanish, however, could not resist the opportunity to run their hands through her carefully packed dresses and underwear. Her trunk was lifted from the car and opened for all to see, while the captain of the border unit invited its owner to accompany him into his modest wood and concrete office.
“Would you care for a drink, Condesa? Perhaps a little wine?”
“No thank you, Captain. But I wonder, while your men are going through my things, if I might make just the quickest of calls to Madrid?”
“Madrid?” said the captain, a sly smile playing on his features. “So you are headed to the capital, is that it?”
“Indeed, Captain. You are most shrewd. But while I’m here, there is someone I really have to talk to. Perhaps then we could have that drink.”
“Very well. Do you have the number? I will speak to the operator myself.”
“Of course. It’s right here.”
One minute later, seconds after Dominique revealed her identity to his secretary, Juan Beigbeder’s booming baritone voice came on the line. “My dear Condesa … Dominique. Is it really you? After all this time.”
“Yes, Juan. I’m on my way to my house in Madrid. But I seem to have got stuck at the border. The captain here wants me to have a drink with him and his men are going through my luggage, taking everything out and inspecting it piece by piece. You can imagine! I fear I could be here for some time.”
The Foreign Minister grasped the situation at once. “In a moment,” he said, “you will put me across to the man responsible for this outrage.”
“Thank you Juan.”
“But how long has it been? Three years?”
“Nearer four.”
“Casablanca was an infinitely duller place after your return to France. I missed you so much.”
“That can still be remedied. You know that my husband is no longer alive.”
Beigbeder gasped. “Alexei? No. I had no idea.”
“He was shot in Bern.”
“But that is terrible. Oh, my poor Dominique. We must have dinner together and you can tell me all about it.”
“That would be wonderful, Juan. I will call you as soon as I arrive. But first, if you could perhaps just talk to the captain of the guard at your border.”
“Not a problem, my dear. Put him on.”
Dominique fluttered her eyes at the Spanish officer, who was leaning against the wall opposite, staring down at her and tweaking his moustache. “My friend would like a word with you,” she said.
The captain shrugged and took the telephone. “Vázquez here. Who is that?” he asked, blowing a kiss to the exquisite Frenchwoman whose presence had so unexpectedly made his day.
Dominique could not hear what Beigbeder was saying. But it sounded like an angry wasp had got stuck in the earpiece. The captain swallowed hard, straightened the jacket of his uniform and stood rigidly to attention. “Yes, Minister … Of course, Minister … My apologies, Minister … No, Sir, that will not be necessary, I like it here just fine … Yes, Sir. I shall see to it myself. The Condesa will be on her way within minutes … Yes, we will repack everything most carefully. You have my personal assurance. Once again, my apologies. Good afternoon, Minister.”
He replaced the receiver.
Dominique smiled sweetly. “Did Minister Beigbeder explain everything?” she asked.
The Spaniard was shaking with fright and almost grovelled in front of her. “Yes, Condesa. A thousand apologies. Now, if you will excuse me.” He bowed, turned around and made his way out of the hut towards the car, where one of his men was holding up an expensive Paris creation against his chest.
“What do you think you are doing, you fool?”
The man looked puzzled. “I just thought that my wife …”
“Well, don’t think! Pack everything back exactly the way you found it. If you have damaged anything, your next posting will be to Guinea.”
“Yes, captain.”
Five minutes later, Dominique moved swiftly through the gears of the MG as she pulled away from Portbou and headed inland towards Zaragoza and Madrid. She was laughing.
Madrid: the British Embassy, June 29
It was the party that all who attended it would talk about for years. Everybody who was anybody was there, from the foreign and trade ministers to ambassadors, bishops, bankers, industrialists, ideologues, party hacks, newspaper correspondents actors, poets and aristocrats. Sir Samuel Hoare, in spite of himself, was enjoying the occasion hugely, not least because if gave him the opportunity to show the assembled company the quality of his dancing. At one point, when the hastily assembled orchestra struck up a tango, it was His Majesty’s Ambassador who partnered the Duchess of Windsor, drawing comments from all who saw them as they advanced almost brazenly across the floor.
“I must say, Your Royal Highness,” said Juan Beigbeder, appreciatively, “I never knew the Duchess was such a dancer.”
“Oh yes,” replied the Duke. “She is a woman of many accomplishments.”
Among the very few at the reception who did not appear to be enjoying herself was Isabella Ortega. Left to herself she would have shunned such a display of indulgence in the midst of war. But her father had insisted, as had her mother, who, after Spain’s years of struggle, had chosen to regard the British party as a kind of ersatz debutantes ball.
“Why is the Minister himself not here?” she asked abruptly. The absence of Serrano Suñer from the proceedings was something that several guests had commented upon. “Is he too busy signing death warrants?”
A mixture of indignation and alarm crossed Colonel Ortega’s face. “Don Ramón takes no pleasure in the loss of any human life ,” he lied. “He is driven by duty and has little time for parties. His concerns are for the people of Spain.”
This encomium clearly cut no ice with Isabella. “But I thought you said it was important that we should be here. How can it be frivolous for Don Ramón, but important for us? What does that say about us?”
Ortega could feel himself being steered into dangerous waters – which was frequently the case where his daughter was concerned. “That is enough, Isabella,” he said testily. “Affairs of state are not your concern.” He looked around. “Why don’t you speak to Señor Bramall? I saw you with him on the terrace the other evening. Perhaps he can talk some sense into you?”
“If you say so, Father.”
She walked across what was by now a crowded room to where Bramall appeared locked in conversation with a Spanish airforce colonel.
“Buenas tardes, Señor Bramall … Colonel.”
Both men turned gratefully towards the beautiful young se
ñorita, who was offering them a dazzling smile. The airforce officer looked especially pleased,
“Señorita Ortega, is it not?” he said.
“That is correct.”
“I know your father well, of course, but I had not realised his daughter was quite so … extraordinary.”
“You flatter me, Sir.”
“The colonel is right, Señorita,” said Bramall. “Your presence here enlivens what some might find a rather predictable occasion.”
A flicker of a smile crossed Isabella’s features. “Is it really that bad? I should have thought you would be pleased by such a turnout.”
“One is gratified, naturally, but …”
“ – anxious for a diversion!” interposed Isabella.
The colonel looked embarrassed.
“I’m sure Señor Bramall didn’t mean to imply … “ he began.
Isabella’s eyes lit up and she flicked the airforce man on the lapel with the lace fan she carried. “But I am teasing you, Colonel. Can you not tell?”
“Oh, I see.” The Spaniard laughed nervously.
Bramall decided to seize the moment. “I think the band is about to strike up again. Would you care to dance?”
“If it wouldn’t bore you intolerably.”
“There is little danger of that.” He turned to the bewildered military man, still trying to work out if he was privy to a joke or its object. “Will you excuse us, colonel?”