What Tomorrow Brings

by Mary Fitzgerald

  ‘Yes,’ Paul nodded. ‘He follows me. Not you, I think.’

  I resisted the desire to look behind me to see if the man was still there when we walked across the road, but as we went in through the doors, I managed to sneak a look over my shoulder and there he was, leaning against a railing opposite the hotel.

  The reception area was full of holidaymakers from all over Europe, attracted by the unusual hotel and the beautiful scenery. Music from a gramophone filled the air, the records changed diligently by the youthful receptionist. We sat down on a banquette by the window, listening to Charles Trenet.

  ‘So,’ I said to Paul, after looking around to see if the man had followed us into the lounge. He hadn’t. ‘Your plan?’

  The young journalist, satisfied that we weren’t being watched, pulled out a folded-up map from his inside pocket. He spread it out on the table in front of us. I could see that it showed the local area, with roads and railway lines and all the small villages on both sides of the border. Some of the roads were tiny, with many hairpin bends and others came to a dead halt and after that there were no roads.

  ‘These are the mountains,’ said Paul, pointing to the blank areas on the map, ‘and the roads finish, but you can walk. There are . . . how do you say . . . chemin ou piste, I do not know the word.’

  ‘Tracks,’ I said, ‘paths.’

  ‘Yes. Paths. So, you walk over the mountain and you are in Spain. They do not guard the whole border. I might try going west of Cerbère, to this place.’ He pointed to a dot, indicating a small town and I leant forward to read the name. ‘Tarascon-sur-Ariège,’ I said out loud.

  ‘Yes. It is a small town. I would not be noticed, perhaps. It is in a valley, but there are trails going up into the mountains. I think I can get from there across into Spain. People have come out that way. I have met them.’

  ‘How will you get there?’

  ‘Ah. My car is here. I will drive to Tarascon and then get as far up the road as it will go. I will park it somewhere and go on by foot.’ He shrugged in a typically Gallic manner. ‘I will collect it some time. It might be a week or a month. If they capture me, it might be never.’

  He said it matter-of-factly, but I couldn’t help the cold shiver that those words brought. It was a frightening prospect, going illegally into a war zone, but, at the same time, I envied him. I wanted to prove myself too as a foreign correspondent. A waiter came to our table and asked if we would like a drink. ‘Let me get these,’ I said, and ordered a couple of brandies. ‘It’s a dangerous plan,’ I said, after the waiter had delivered the drinks and we’d had a sip. ‘But I’d go.’

  We laughed together, sitting in the white concrete hotel, looking out at the tiny distant lights from the fishing boats glittering on the navy blue sea and the beam of the lighthouse sweeping across the bay. I could have been back in Cornwall, with Amyas.

  Another thought occurred to me. ‘Paul,’ I asked, ‘who is it that’s following you?’

  He lit a cigarette and blew smoke rings into the air. I remembered Xanthe doing that when she first learned to smoke. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘I saw him in Perpignan by the newspaper office and then he was here again. Maybe it is nothing.’

  ‘Republican or Nationalist?’ I asked. It would have to be someone connected to the Civil War.

  ‘I do not know. They are each as bad as the other about our telling the truth of what they do.’

  ‘I was followed in Berlin,’ I said.

  ‘That would be the Nazis,’ Paul said with a certainty that could not be doubted.

  I sighed. ‘I know. It is horrible there.’

  ‘We do live in difficult times,’ Paul said. ‘Another war is coming. It will be terrible, far worse than this one in Spain.’

  I thought again of Xanthe, with her Nazi boyfriend and her absolute denial of what was happening. I had to protect her, somehow.

  The next morning the hotel manager came to my table at breakfast. ‘There is a telegram for you,’ he said. It was from our editor. BRADFORD COMING OUT OF SPAIN STOP NEEDS TO CONTACT YOU SOONEST STOP.

  ‘There is a reply?’ asked the manager. He was curious, I could see that.

  ‘No,’ I said and gave him a casual smile. I was cautious. He looked too interested. Finishing my breakfast, I went out and got on to the train to Perpignan, where I telegraphed back to Geoff. AM READY TO HELP STOP TELL ME WHAT HE WANTS STOP TELEGRAPH THIS OFFICE ONLY STOP.

  It took hours for the reply to come, giving me time to have a nervous lunch at a pavement café across the river from the post office. It was another glorious day, perhaps even some sort of local festival, for the red and yellow striped Perpignan flags were flying everywhere and people were laughing and jostling in the street. I was lucky that the telegraph office was open. When I went back at half past two, the reply was waiting for me.

  GET TO SORT IN SPAIN STOP HE’S WAITING STOP TAKE CARE STOP DON’T BE CAUGHT STOP.

  I stared at the piece of paper and bit my lip. The telegraphic instructions were, of necessity, brief, but I knew what I had to do. I went straight from the post office to a bookshop where I bought a map. Where the hell was Sort? I sat on a bench beside the river and studied the map until I found it. It appeared to be a small town about thirty miles across the border into Spain, roughly in the direction that Paul had planned to go, and as I sat on the train back to Cerbère the inkling of an idea started to form.

  He was in the reception area when I walked in and he jerked his head to me to follow him towards the lifts. I had passed his watcher as I’d walked up from the station; he was lingering at a cigarette booth and hadn’t yet reached the hotel.

  ‘What number is your room?’ Paul asked, after the lift doors closed.

  ‘Number eight, sea view.’

  ‘Good. I meet you there. Two minutes.’

  I waited, pacing around my room, my mind whirling. What did Paul want and how was I to get to Sort?

  ‘I go tonight,’ he said, after I’d let him into my room. ‘I came to say goodbye.’

  ‘Paul,’ I hesitated, wondering how I could word my request. ‘Have you got room for a passenger?’

  He looked astonished and then grinned. ‘Who? You?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I have to get into Spain now. Charlie is coming out and needs help. I don’t know why. But he’s at a place called Sort.’

  ‘Yes, Sort. I know that place but . . .’ he shook his head. ‘It is where many people have come through. It will be well guarded. I thought not to go that way but, perhaps, one of the mountain passes before that.’

  ‘Then take me with you as far as you go, please. I will try and get to Sort when we’ve crossed the border.’ He frowned and I knew he was going to refuse. He would say the same as the others, that it was too dangerous, not a job for a woman, nor for someone as inexperienced as me. But to my amazement, all he said was, ‘Yes. If you are sure?’

  ‘I’m sure,’ I said, delighted, and gave him a kiss on his cheek.

  ‘Oh!’ He smiled and rubbed the spot where my lips had been. ‘What would Charlie say about that?’

  ‘Charlie?’ I answered, laughing. ‘He would say nothing. He isn’t my boyfriend.’

  ‘But you do have a boyfriend, yes? A lover?’

  The doors to my balcony were open and I looked out on to the sea. I remembered Amyas and me swimming across a bay not unlike the one before me and making love as the surf bubbled around us. ‘Yes,’ I murmured. ‘I have a lover. But I don’t know where he is.’

  ‘I the same.’ Paul’s voice had dropped and his eyes were sad. ‘I have someone I love but where . . .’ he shrugged.

  We smiled at each other. How odd life was. It had thrown us together and dumped us, like two pieces of flotsam, in this strange hotel.

  Paul got himself together first. ‘Now, I tell you what we do.’

  The plan was to set off after dark. ‘We try to get away from the man who follows me.’

  ‘I saw him,’ I said. ‘Just now when I c
ame up from the railway station. I expect he’s outside the hotel.’ Saying that, I stepped out on to the balcony and looked down. He was there, a thin, blue-chinned man in a dusty beige suit and a brown hat. I particularly noticed his two-toned shoes. Co-respondent shoes my sister used to call them, in a tone that implied ‘common’. He was looking up at the same time and saw me. Quickly I backed inside.

  ‘He’s there,’ I said. ‘It’s going to be difficult to shake him off.’

  ‘Yes, but he is on his own. He must sleep some time. If he thinks I am in bed, he’ll leave.’

  We walked down to the village after the sun had set and sat in the pretty restaurant. I felt too excited to eat, but the waiter placed a platter of seafood in front of us and, enticed by the salt-water aromas of mussels, shrimp and octopus and the wonderful garlic mayonnaise, I found myself digging in with gusto. I even ate the mató cheese and honey dessert.

  ‘I think we do not drink much tonight,’ said Paul, and I nodded. We had to be sensible and aware of the danger ahead.

  When we got back to the hotel, the night manager was on duty. ‘Your key, Monsieur?’ he asked.

  ‘And the key of Mademoiselle Blake, if you please.’

  ‘There is a telegram for Mademoiselle Blake,’ the manager said, and I stepped forward to take it.

  As I walked ahead to the lift I looked back over my shoulder and saw the cheerful manager give Paul a conspiratorial nod of his head. My eyes flicked towards the door where the man in the co-respondent shoes stood watching. He’d noticed the by-play and I knew that as soon as we had got in the lift he’d be asking the night manager about us.

  ‘He’ll tell him we are in your room. In for a long time,’ laughed Paul. ‘I would like that, Seffy. We change our plan, yes.’

  ‘No, idiot.’ I laughed too and opened the telegram. It was from the editor and contained one word, ‘Llavorsí’. I held it out to Paul. ‘What does this mean?’

  ‘It is a town or a village. We look on the map.’

  It was a tiny mountain village, north of Sort and I guessed that was where Charlie was waiting. But I had seen the look that passed between Paul’s follower and the manager.

  How much money would have to be paid before the contents of the telegram were known by the man? Perhaps he already knew. I said nothing to Paul. I didn’t want to put him off taking me, which was selfish perhaps, but, I reasoned, he had latched on to me initially, hadn’t he. Not the other way around.

  Before supper, Paul had brought his holdall to my room and I had stuffed a few clothes into the large canvas bag I’d bought in the village. I’d changed into slacks and a shirt before dinner, so I was ready to go, but Paul said no.

  ‘Wait, Seffy, ‘he cautioned me, so we sat in the room until ten when he stood and turned off the light. ‘If he is still watching, he will think we’ve gone to bed.’

  We sat in the dark room for an hour before he nodded at me and said, ‘Now, we go.’

  I grabbed my bag and a jacket as we left the room, heading for the fire escape. We waited at the bottom for a few tense seconds, hoping, desperately, that no one was watching the road between us and Paul’s car. We were in luck: a train came in at that moment in a cloud of steam and smoke and, using that for cover, we ran to the open-topped Citroën.

  ‘Shall we put the top down?’ I asked.

  ‘No. We go now.’ And we sped away, following the beam of the headlights as they cut through the darkness of the road west.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Spain, 1938

  DESPITE MY EXCITEMENT and the adrenalin and the cold, I somehow managed to sleep as Paul drove through the night. Dawn was creeping over the mountains behind us when he braked the car at the side of the road and I woke up.

  ‘God,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry. Have I been asleep for long?’

  ‘No. An hour, maybe. It is of no matter.’

  I sat up and looked around. We had stopped at the edge of a road which ran through a high valley. To the left of us the dark mountains rose majestically. Their topmost granite ridges soared into the pale morning sky, glinting white with snow and ice. They looked magnificent but formidable.

  When I turned my head to the right of the small road, my eyes took in a softer scene: lush, rolling farmland, which fell gently into cow pastures and wild flower meadows. It was comfortable and beautiful. I sighed and gave a quick nervous glance back to the mountains. Somehow, we’d have to cross them.

  Ahead of us I could see a village, white buildings with red-tiled roofs and the pointed tower of a medieval church.

  ‘Is that Tarascon-sur-Ariège?’ I asked, getting out of the car and stretching my legs.

  Paul shook his head. ‘No. It is a bigger town than that. I have been there before, when my father took me to walk the mountain trails.’ He shrugged. ‘I stopped now to make pee pee.’ He blushed a little and I grinned. ‘I could do with one too.’

  Paul nodded towards the opposite roadside. ‘Go to those trees. I keep watch.’

  When I returned to the car Paul was examining the map. ‘We are here,’ he said, pointing to a dot of a village a few miles east of Tarascon. ‘I think we not stop, but go on to the larger town. It will be easy to hide if the man still follows. Yes, we go there, eat breakfast and decide what must be done.’

  I looked over my shoulder, suddenly concerned that the man in the co-respondent shoes had worked out where we were. It seemed impossible. It was only just after dawn and he would think we were still in bed. The road behind us was reassuringly empty and, apart from the twittering of birds as they awoke to a new day, silent. I turned back to my companion who was now climbing into the driving seat. I tried to remember why he’d said he was being followed, but it seemed that he had never explained it properly. And suddenly a small worm of doubt began to nudge my stomach. Maybe trusting Paul Durban was not such a good idea.

  Tarascon-sur-Ariège was a pretty mountain town set on both banks of a river and was just coming to life as we drove in. A smell of bread and coffee wafted through the air and my stomach, so lately full of apprehension, began to growl.

  ‘We eat breakfast here?’ Paul suggested and stopped the car at a café, which overlooked the river. An avenue of pollarded trees lined the road and flowers bloomed merrily in pots all around us. It was a peaceful scene, but I didn’t feel peaceful. I was nervous again. It took a few mouthfuls of the aromatic coffee, which was served in small white china bowls, and a chunk of warm bread roll, before I felt more settled and I was able to think clearly.

  Paul, on the other hand, was even more twitchy than before. He kept glancing over his shoulder and once stood up to look back along the road in the direction in which we’d come.

  ‘You know who’s following you,’ I said, now certain that he hadn’t been telling me the whole truth.

  ‘Do I?’ he said, his eyes narrowing. ‘How can you be sure?’

  ‘Because you’re frightened. Because you need to get away. Because . . .’ here I stopped and looked down at my plate. ‘Because you have done something bad.’

  For a moment I thought that he would deny it and return to his youthful, amusing self, but, when he finally spoke, it was to the air. He didn’t look directly at me, as one colleague explaining something to another, but instead gave the impression of a child admitting a crime to a priest or a parent. ‘Yes, Seffy,’ he said softly. ‘I have done something bad. I have killed a man.’

  My stomach lurched. ‘What?’ I said, appalled. ‘Who? Who have you killed?’

  Across the road from the café, the blue and white river tumbled noisily by and old women, in black cotton blouses and skirts, walked past us to the bread shop. It was such an ordinary scene, so quiet and peaceful, but I knew I was about to hear something terrible, and when Paul spoke it sounded almost as if his voice was coming from far away. A narrator, on a wireless that wasn’t properly tuned.

  ‘It was in Perpignan, three weeks ago,’ Paul started. ‘He was a man who deserved to be killed and I have no regret. Exc
ept, I come from a Catholic family. I cannot tell them. They would not understand. I haven’t told anyone, yet. Now, I tell you, Seffy. I want to. But first, there is a story to say.’

  I swallowed nervously. I didn’t think I wanted to hear his story and I looked around the café, wondering if I should just get up and leave. But he was already speaking.

  ‘The last time I was in Spain, I was reporting from the battle front. I was with the Republicans when they overran a small town.’ He stopped and looked across the road to the houses and shops and the men and women opening shutters and hanging out lines of washing. ‘An ordinary town, like this one. The people there supported the Nationalists and the fighting was very fierce. When they had no more ammunition and many of their fighters had been killed, they surrendered, hanging out sheets as white flags from their windows and throwing the few weapons they had left into the main square. The Republican commander, Guisando, would not accept this surrender. He wanted to fight on, to destroy all the remaining buildings and kill all the people. But he was persuaded by some of his men, who were exhausted, to stop. So instead, he rounded up a group of people who, he said, had supported Generalissimo Franco. They were to be executed, as an example to other towns and villages.’

  His eyes were full of tears when he turned his head and looked at me. ‘Oh, Seffy, they were terrified. Old men, pissing in their pants and young women huddled together, demented with fear. They had been grabbed from their homes and pushed into the square for no reason other than to make up the numbers. The commander told his soldiers to take aim and we reporters were to simply stand and watch.’

  Silent tears were dropping on to the table now and his face contorted as he struggled to continue his story. ‘I couldn’t believe what was happening. I shouted, “No! This wrong! This is murder!” and I would have run forward to stop the slaughter, but friends, other reporters, held me back. We are neutral, they said. We report. We do not interfere.’ A bleak look washed over his face. ‘And the people were shot. All of them, even the baby that one of the young women was holding. I will hear that girl’s screams until the day I die.’