by Karen Swan
As if sensing her gaze, he lifted his eyes without moving his head. She arched an eyebrow that asked what he thought he was doing? His arch in reply said ‘why not?’ They had always understood each other. It was why it had always been so easy to be with him. Everything about them worked – backgrounds, social circles . . . Their mothers had been right – they just looked well together; like a Ralph Lauren ad, their Cambridge mates had always said. No one seemed to think it was important that he drove her nuts – with his carelessness, his laziness, his spoilt arrogance – and they certainly would never have understood that she didn’t fancy him. Yes, he was gorgeous but she had never responded to him on an animalistic, chemical level. The great secret they had successfully kept from everyone – and she knew he had felt it too – was that they were more like brother and sister than lovers.
He winked at her and she gave him the barest smile in return, turning away quickly before her mother-in- law could see who had snaffled his attention.
Stephen was standing in a small group with her mother and her mother’s friends. Charlotte wandered over, sliding her arm into the crook of his elbow. ‘Mind if I steal him away for a sec?’ she smiled, doing just that.
Arms linked, they went and stood by a window overlooking the river. The tide was out, barges resting on mudbanks, giant tyres dangling from chains as make-do fenders on the jetties, the Thames a blonde rope in the evening sunshine, wending its way out to sea.
‘I missed you,’ she said, looking up at him, one hand resting on his chest, fiddling lightly with his tie.
He didn’t reply immediately and she could see the hurt in his eyes, the frustration. ‘I missed you too,’ he said finally.
‘I’m so sorry about this week. I know I’ve behaved badly, made the wrong decisions. I should have been here, put you first. I promise I’ll make it up to you.’ This was not the time to tell him she was due back there again tomorrow. Not the time at all.
He watched her fidget like she was a specimen under his microscope. ‘I thought perhaps it was . . . symptomatic of something else.’
‘Like what?’ she frowned.
He regarded her closely. ‘Change of heart.’
‘What?’ She gave a shocked laugh. ‘Why would you think that?’
‘Come on Charlotte, you’ve hardly been enthusiastic. I never thought I’d be the one choosing napkin colours.’
Another time, it might have been a wry comment, but she saw the questions in his eyes. He had his doubts about her commitment. ‘Stephen, I love you, I do. And I can’t wait to be your wife. I know we’re going to be so happy together.’ She pressed her hands to his chest and gazed up at him.
But he was unmoved. ‘You sound just like your mother when you say that.’
She bit her lip, feeling the anxiety ratchet up again. ‘Okay look, full disclosure: perhaps I have been overcompensating for what happened with Jules. First time round, I robbed Mama of the opportunity to plan my wedding, it was something I just hadn’t thought about from her point of view and she was so devastated. I thought this time, doing it properly, handing the organization over to her would be a way to make up for that.’ She shrugged. ‘But perhaps I stepped too far back and that’s why I’ve struggled to feel . . . involved.’
‘You’re the bride.’
‘I know.’
‘Everyone told me to expect bridezilla, but instead . . .’ His voice trailed off.
‘Stephen, I’ve felt a lot of shame for running off with Jules the way I did. It hurt a lot of people and it . . .’ Nathan flickered in her mind again, as bright and alive as if he were in front of her, not Stephen. ‘Well, it was devastating in so many ways.’
It was the clatter of baked bean cans tied to the bumper and rattling on the road behind them, that woke everyone up. Lights began switching on, curtains were pulled back. A few voices called across the quad at the sight of the old gull-wing parked at an angle on the grass.
‘Fairfax! What the fuck?’
Jules opened the car door and fell out, his palms on the ground to push him back up as he staggered around to open hers. Always the gentleman. It was raining, the water pooling on the cream leather back seats, but they didn’t care. They hadn’t wanted the top up. They had liked the feeling of the wind on their faces as they drove back from the airport; she had liked her face being wet as she screamed and laughed and cried all at once, her hair whipping about, her arms above her head, the magnum of Moet wedged between her legs.
She felt distant, disembodied, the growing fuss around them increasingly perplexing as she too tried – several times – to get out of the car. She finally managed it, holding up the bottle like it was some sort of trophy. A cheer went up, some of the bystanders swigging it in their pyjamas, their underwear.
‘We got fucking married, man!’ Jules was laughing, staggering about and almost falling over as his friends high-fived him. The place erupted. No one was sleeping now. Students were hanging out of the window, listening in, joining in.
Jules came over and slung his arm around her shoulders, almost sending her legs out from beneath her and kissing her messily on the mouth. She’d never been this out of it before. She couldn’t even remember exactly what she’d taken, what she’d done. She just knew that she couldn’t feel much and that that had been precisely the point.
Some of her friends were squealing, clasping hands as they jumped up and down in the rain, excited by the night’s development, and they all began to move as one towards the college. A gang. A pack.
Through the narrow doors, they fell back into smaller groups, couples and single file, banging on doors as they passed, raising the house. Jules was still hanging off her, lurching wildly, sending them both into the walls and then off again. He kept laughing but she . . . she couldn’t stop crying. Why was she crying? Her mascara streaking down her cheeks, her hair tangled and wind-whipped.
Up the stairs they went, falling up them, past a door that was already open. Nathan was standing in it wearing just his pyjama bottoms, oblivious to everything but the sight of her. Wrecked.
Their eyes locked and she felt time slow as she passed by, seeing the look in his eyes. Neither one uttered a sound but they both felt it – the shattering of something good, something right, something pristine.
And then he was out of sight, behind her, already part of her past. Another regret.
Her greatest regret.
‘I’ve been just trying to do things differently this time. I don’t want to make the same mistakes.’
He looked back at her for a minute as though assessing her for risk. A born soldier. ‘Okay, fine,’ he said eventually. ‘Let’s just get through the next week without any further mishaps. Things will settle down again once this wedding business is all done and dusted.’
She gave a thin smile. ‘Exactly.’
‘Hey! The happy couple.’
They turned to find Jules sauntering over, arms wide, legs bending at the knee playfully.
‘Jules,’ she sighed, letting him reach over and kiss her cheek.
‘Talk of the devil,’ Stephen said wryly, pumping his hand with extra grip. ‘We were just talking about you.’
Jules held his hands up in surrender. ‘Whatever it was, I sincerely apologize, I wasn’t in my right mind. I lost that years ago.’
Stephen allowed a bemused tiny smile. He had always somehow understood her ex-husband was no threat, as though he’d got the measure of him. ‘Hmm. Well, I’d better mingle. Don’t spend too long reminiscing.’
He walked off, joining a couple of his father’s friends.
‘Christ, does he always have to walk like he’s chewing a toffee in his arse?’ Jules murmured, looking back at her wickedly.
‘Oh? Have you got a suite of walks then? One for every occasion?’
He laughed, shooting her a dazzling smile. Her sarcasm had always thrilled him; she was one of the only females on the planet not to fall at his feet and agree with everything he said. ‘God, I miss you.’
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br /> ‘No you don’t.’
‘No, I don’t, you’re right. You were always far too clever for me. I could never quite get ahead of you. You usually made me feel about this small.’ He pinched his index finger and thumb together.
‘Careful. People will wonder what we’re talking about,’ she said waspishly, having another sip of her drink, although frankly she was grateful for the light relief. The conversation with Stephen had left her feeling rattled again, every declaration of love somehow resurrecting memories of Nathan and the terrible thing she’d done.
‘You’re looking absolutely stunning, by the way. That dress.’ He nodded appreciatively, looking her up and down.
She tipped her head to the side and stared at him. ‘What is it, Jules? I always know when you’re trying to butter me up.’
His eyes glittered as he took a step closer. ‘Well, there is this thing I thought you should know.’
‘Don’t worry, I already know about your “thing”,’ she murmured, looking around the room again. She knew she was going to have to mingle, she couldn’t put it off any longer.
He looked surprised. ‘You do?’
‘Well, of course. Everyone here does.’ She pinned him with another hard stare. ‘You know, you really are an utter shit sometimes, Jules.’
He looked blankly at her before realization dawned. ‘Oh, you mean Violet?’ He pulled an apologetic face. ‘Yes, not my finest hour.’
‘I should say not.’
‘Pretty tricky.’ He nodded self-pityingly.
‘Sticky wicket if ever I saw one,’ she sighed, losing interest. She was glad his problems weren’t hers any more.
‘Yeah,’ he agreed, before suddenly shaking his head again. ‘But no – it wasn’t that I wanted to talk to you about.’
She looked back at him and was alarmed to see he actually looked nervous. ‘What is it? What have you done?’
‘Well, funnily enough, for once it’s more a case of what I haven’t done.’
She shook her head briskly, feeling her muscles tense. An apprehensive Jules was a very frightening prospect. ‘I don’t follow.’
‘We have a bit of a problem.’
‘Bit?’
‘Big. We have a big problem.’
Chapter Nineteen
Madrid, November 1936
They stood in formation, the mops pressed against their shoulders as Ivan patrolled past, checking their placement, bearing and discipline. He kicked at the shin of one woman half a step forward of everyone else but she didn’t even flinch, shuffling back in line; discipline was being instilled, slowly but surely.
He was a hard taskmaster, difficult to please, rarely smiling or finding a good word. Sometimes they drilled for three hours straight, their arms trembling from the sustained weight of holding the guns and the motionless poses. But it hadn’t been for naught, all the marching, weapons training, target practice . . . She could strip, reassemble and load a rifle in three minutes flat now and she had grown strong and streetwise, her innocence of even three months ago now long since discarded.
Her future survival depended upon the shedding of that youthful skin. The fascists were now at the city gates, their notorious Columns of Death having advanced under Franco from Badajoz in the south, and under Mola from Burgos in the north. Their unstoppable drive on Madrid had only been disrupted by Franco’s insistence on relieving Nationalist troops in Toledo as well, giving the Republicans enough time to rally a robust defence of the capital. But if Madrid still stood free, the roads to her were not, the rebels digging in on the city’s outskirts and changing tactics from a coup to a siege; they were sitting in for a long, drawn-out war and although their troops had not breached Madrid’s front line, they had another advantage in their arsenal – their much-feared Fifth Column, made up of a sizeable population of isolated and undercover Nationalist sympathizers already in the city, were now at work: reporting back on Republican tactics, disrupting supplies, leaking misinformation, and stray snipers were even taking aim from rooftops at churchgoers and cinema visitors. Innocents.
Defeat was not an option. The atrocities committed by the Army of Africa were spreading word-of- mouth up through the country in a metaphorical shudder of revulsion, as refugees fleeing the countryside for the safety of the cities brought their tales of horror with them. It was already clear this was no ordinary war. The usual codes of conduct did not apply: there were no casualties left behind, no prisoners taken. Utter annihilation of the Republic was the aim, sending out one very clear and simple message: this was a purge; every red would die.
As a regular in the People’s Army, she had not yet killed, but she knew the moment was coming – it was all that anyone ever talked about in the shops, the cafes and on the wireless: the atrocities, the horror, the capture and fall of villages, towns, whole provinces . . . In the early weeks of arriving in Madrid, her role had been primarily educational, helping Luciana and Marta to distribute the leaflets and recruit numbers to their cause; but as the weeks wore on and the fascists’ forces marched onwards and inwards, towards Madrid, the tone had changed, the sense of urgency. Propaganda wasn’t enough. Action was needed. Defence.
Paloma, as their figurehead and speaker, drew widespread admiration as well as crowds with her bold rhetoric and charisma – all she needed was someone’s attention for two minutes and they were sold. Marina knew now that she too had been one of her converts, their accidental bumping into one another in the crowd, nothing of the sort. But Marina counted herself lucky to have been swept up. Her comrade and leader was gaining a spreading fame through the city, for the Republic’s supporters were splintered and fractured, the socialist, anarchist and communist factions all competing against each other for similar goals. Even in their own home, there were divisions. Paloma and Marta identified with the anarchists’ cause, Sindo with the communists, and Ivan and Luciana with the socialists. But Paloma was increasingly seen as a consolidating figure, bringing the Left causes together under her umbrella, and there was strength in unity, surely?
Marina wasn’t entirely sure which political position she took. The nihilism of the anarchists or the comradeship of the communists? Both or neither? She adopted their ideas, believing in some elements of each, but her real spur was not political faith but vengeance. The fire that burned within her raged at both Left and Right, at her family and Santi’s, for they had destroyed one another, each side taking from the other something irreplaceable, and she – caught in the middle – had suffered twice over.
She wished she had the certainty of Paloma’s convictions. Luciana had told her one afternoon, as they’d been printing the latest batch of propaganda material, that Paloma – smuggled recently over the French border in an apple truck on a covert mission to get weapons – had come back into Spain by jumping out of a plane over Catalonia with the machine guns strapped to her body. For Marina, it had taken everything in her merely to leave, to pick a side, and she knew she could never match the passion of the political zealot. Ideology was pure and uncomplicated. Life was not.
‘At ease.’
The squadron deflated at his words, a mass of mops hitting the ground with soft-headed thunks. Intimidating they were not. Drills and discipline were one thing, but without weapons they were like children playing at being soldiers . . . Reports of armaments caches being moved to the capital had been circulating for the past few weeks but there had been precious little sign of it so far. An initial delivery of sixteen thousand weapons had proved a white elephant when it transpired only five thousand of them worked, and every attempt since had been foiled by ambushes and slaughter, for the Moors were expert in guerrilla attacks and played dirty with dummy surrenders that led their enemies straight towards them.
It was a grossly uneven and distorted battleground: the Republican loyalists may have had the sanction of the government but they were trying to resist the forces of a sophisticated, militarized enemy, and in its efforts to look peaceable to the foreign allies whose support it needed
, definitive action from the Republican government was unforthcoming. With both the Civil Guard and the army supporting the rebel Nationalist cause, the militia had become merely a People’s Army: ordinary men and women with no prior combat experience, training to go to war with neither an organized tactical campaign to direct them, nor any weapons with which to fight. Ivan did his best to train their squadron, to explain the basics of warfare and weaponry, to teach mapwork to displaced country labourers who could not read – but even with a squad of sixty, they were no army.
‘This was better,’ he said solemnly. ‘But there can be no room for mistakes. Lack of discipline could cost you your life or, worse, that of your comrade. Keep the line and you will stay strong.’ His stare carried over them all and Marina prayed he wasn’t going to make them follow up with some target practice. Instead, for once, he nodded. ‘Troop dismissed.’
Marina let the air slide out of her as she held on to her mop for support. They had been marching for hours this afternoon and her feet ached, the small hole worn in her sole now considerably larger.
‘Come, we must get back,’ Marta said, hurrying over and slapping her on the shoulder. ‘Sindo has an important speaker coming tonight and we are already late.’
Sindo, a cobbler before the war, had grown in the power vacuum created by the hostilities, masterminding the activities of the communist underground from behind the scenes. His face wasn’t known to strangers like Paloma’s, his name alien to their ears, but that was how he liked it. A tactician rather than showman, he preferred the shadows, slipping unknown and unseen, often in the dead of night. Marina knew his tread on the floors, for she didn’t sleep well. She also knew he didn’t quite trust her, that something lingered between them that had never been articulated, a sense, instinct, of suspicion.