‘Don’t you mean that I’m prettier than Ozz Lavender or Stavros or Frink?’ She named drivers who were almost permanently on supplies or ambulance duties.
‘There is that, but there’s also that you are less likely to see the one and only car we have as a speedster.’
Eve could tell that Alex wasn’t going to give her a truck to drive. ‘I don’t want to push it too much, but however you might see it, to me it looks like class distinction at work.’
‘How can you possibly say that?’
‘There are people who warrant being carried about in a posh car, while here we are supposedly fighting against that old kind of privilege.’
‘It’s just a car, damn it! A bit of machinery that moves people and fragile items efficiently.’
‘It’s a symbol. To be quite honest, it wouldn’t surprise me if one day I’ll get rolled off the road. Anarchists destroyed churches in Barcelona, a car would be child’s play.’
‘OK. I’ll talk to people about it. I haven’t heard any other complaints.’
Refusing to descend to petty arguments, Eve said, ‘There’s an ambulance with a new engine ready for fitting out. Put me on it, please, Alex. I have a brother fighting out there. I’d be surprised if people who contribute to the aid funds would think their money is put to good use running VIPs around so that they can be photographed with something significant as a back-drop.’
‘For a young woman, you have become very cynical.’
‘Ozz as good as told me that.’
‘Do this run for me.’
‘What run?’
‘I need to do a run to Barcelona. After that we’ll talk about truck-driving. Two Russian officers will be travelling with me,’ she smiled. ‘Quite handsome types. Your time’s your own while we are there. You can still have a bit of leave when we get back.’
‘Alex, you haven’t understood anything about how I feel about that damned car. I don’t want a bit of leave.’
‘Damn it, girl, don’t be such a Calvinist. There’s a war here, but that doesn’t mean we have to give up civilization. Give yourself a treat once in a while. You do yourself no favours by working yourself into the ground.’
Eve was shocked that anyone should see her in that light. She was an idealist but not the self-denying type at all. Alex couldn’t know her or she would see that.
‘If you think back a few weeks, Alex, you’ll remember sending me careering round with Ozz teaching me to drive the blessed Vipp-wagon.’
‘Nobody in Spain wants you to wear a hair-shirt for the Republic. If there’s one thing Spaniards know, it is how to grab a moment and enjoy it.’
‘You think I don’t know how to enjoy life?’
‘You don’t have to always wear driver’s clobber. Nobody’s going to think less of you if you wear something pretty sometimes.’
Since Ozz’s comment when her skirt had ridden up over her knees, she had almost always dressed in knee-length cotton shorts or loose cotton dungarees like women of the Spanish militia. ‘You’re a fine one to talk, Alex. In those dungarees you might have tree trunks instead of legs.’
Alexander looked down at her filthy, greasy overalls. ‘Touché. Even points. Tomorrow I shall be dressed like a lady.’
* * *
Earlier in the year, there had been a great deal of animosity between various Republican factions in Barcelona. Each held some power it saw as its own and, even though it would be rational to sink their differences, no one would let go first. So an atmosphere of tension, aggravation and suspicion developed. The defence of the Republic was in danger of becoming fragmented.
If the Republic was to survive, then it was necessary to crush the antagonism.
To this end, a counter-espionage and political police organization, Servicio de Investigation Militar, known as SIM, had been created by the Republican government. Running on the same lines was an informal international group whose aim was quietly to investigate rumours of infiltration and suspicion of spying for the other side. The Spaniards may well have come up with a better name, but LOLO, Las orejas los ojos (meaning Ears and Eyes), had been created by an American.
Cero, the man who knew everybody and everything, played an unspecified role in the autonomous organization. Helan Alexander had become involved when she had tried every course open to her to get a prisoner-exchange made with her husband. Carl Alexander had been a colleague of Cero long before he and Helan Povey met. Because Carl was trusted, Helan was persuaded to be one of the Ears and Eyes. Now it had gone further; she had been asked to join in an investigation.
Infiltration was often through the volunteers. Lovely young women had always been used, and although Alexander did not seriously doubt Eve Anders’ credibility, she wondered about her beautifully correct lispy pronunciation of certain Spanish words, in spite of her claim not to speak the language. Her records were scanty, yet her sponsorship appeared to be pukka. She had checked and it had been confirmed from London.
Helan Alexander slammed her papers into a pile. Why in hell was she looking for problems where none existed? Anders was a perfectly nice young woman whose only foible was that she did not offer any information about herself, nor give anyone much chance to enquire into her private life. In that respect she was very much like Ozz Lavender; he too was a lot more intelligent than he liked anyone to know.
Ozz and Anders left jokey little notes to one another. Alexander always read them. Yet, she wondered, was their wariness any different from her own need to keep people at arm’s length? Slamming all her desk drawers shut, Alexander quickly locked them and ran out of the office.
I need a break. I really need a break.
* * *
On the morning of their departure, Eve received a letter from Sid Anderson. He was very enthusiastic about her description of the town which had kept changing hands between the Republicans and the rebels. He was sure that she wouldn’t mind, but he had given it to some friends who wanted to publish it. Could she send more pieces?
Louise, my dear, [he still called her that]
Driving about Spain gives you a chance to see how working people are managing, which is what people here want to know. There are a few women reporting on the war, but mostly they are sent out with a specific brief – usually to write for a women’s column or to plough their own political or charitable furrow. Also they are mostly society or college women.
I hope that you will take this on. Certainly (I have already asked) papers and magazines of the Left will welcome such personal accounts. I suggest you keep to that same style, like a focused camera thinking about what it sees.
You should realize that editors will go to work on what you write, but not to alter, only to tidy – so I’m told. You would, of course, be paid a fee.
If you decide to go ahead, then I suggest that, at first, you send any pieces to me and I will get them to the editors best suited. That way you won’t become ‘theirs’, you can keep your independence, and anonymity too if you like. Not knowing what to do about the first piece, it was published under the name of E. V. Anders. Please say if you want to keep to this form.
The idea of being in print filled Eve with enthusiasm and ambition. Here was something that she knew she could do. She had been writing reports in a journal since she was a girl, when old Mr Strawbridge, who had been the first to prise open her dull little mind and allow the dormant seed of curiosity to germinate, had given her a book in which to record what impressed her. She loved writing. It had never occurred to her that there were women reporting on the war, for she had driven many newsmen, but never a woman. The only women she carried, besides the rare woman politician, were administrators such as Alexander, or nursing and Red Cross people from all parts of the world.
The idea of being a focused camera with a mind pleased her no end and gave her the idea of taking pictures to send with her writing. Film was a problem, but in every depot there was always somebody who dealt in goods in short supply. When she was offered a box of six rolls of
film for the trip to Barcelona, there was no guarantee that they were not heat-damaged. The man offering the film took Republican currency and made no attempt to barter, which showed that she was taking a chance. It was worth it.
Eve drove to Valencia and then took the road that hugs the coast. The Russian officers, Captain Mintov and Major Vladim, sat in the back seat and spoke good English in attractive, deep voices and rolling accents. On meeting Eve, each bowed from the waist with a formality she had seen only in the cinema. She found them both charming and courteous, and Vladim impressive and attractive.
The Hostal Paradiso in Barcelona, while still functioning as a hotel, retained nothing of its former glory. Much of its famous mirror-glass had been shattered by bomb and shell-blast. Drapes and hangings were either missing or unkempt but although it was grubby, the carpet was of such quality that a good cleaning would restore it to its original pale plush. Amazingly, some small crystal chandeliers still hung, mostly without light-bulbs, but where large chandeliers must once have lighted the restaurant, there was now only metal hooks.
They arrived at the Paradiso in time for an evening meal. Eve had brought along her one piece of finery, the exotic gown from Lascelles’. Not that she expected to wear it here, yet as always when she packed, she had found space for it. It was so beautiful that even if she never wore it again, she liked to have it with her.
She had worn the gown only once, the time she and David Hatton had danced and danced, conscious of their attraction for one another. It was intended to be worn without undergarments to spoil its fluid drop from the shoulders. The silk was so fine that it had felt as if his warm hands were directly in contact with her skin.
Having shaken out the gown and draped it artistically over a painted screen, she put on a black cotton boat-necked frock that she had borrowed from one of the many admin clerks with whom she shared digs. They had a common pool of bits and pieces of clothing.
The evening meal was not greatly different from the daily fare they got in Albacete: tomatoes, pulses and hot spices. There was very little meat but this was compensated for by fresh herbs, and a great deal of flair in the cooking. The wine was very good, and there was an ice concoction, rather like a sweet vanilla custard, which the four of them praised as the treat that it was.
In her new role of freelance correspondent, Eve was more than usually aware of her own thoughts. She imagined this place as it must have been, and probably would be again. One of the most important hotels in Barcelona, it had once been the watering-hole of English upper-class families as they toured the high spots of the Continent.
Only three times in her life had she been inside a hotel. Once when Ray had taken her along to a union conference; then a brief stay in a hotel in Paris where, chaperoned by her old head-teacher, Eve had been taken by her employer to model a lacy corselette for the owner of Lascelles’ who was likely to give the factory a large order. The third hotel was The Queen’s, which she had seen from afar in her childhood as a luxurious palace, and where she had agreed to meet David on the evening he had taken her to a buffet dance in the Royal Navy officers’ mess. Because of his obvious money and breeding, she was much too proud and insecure to let him know where she lived.
Had her family and friends known that she was secretly seeing a man she had met by chance in a seaside dance-hall and didn’t know from Adam, somebody well above their own station, a man with a fast racing car, taking her to places like The Queen’s and drinking and dancing in the naval officers’ mess, they would have had something to say. A girl who had no mother since she was twelve, and no father ever, needed taking in hand, needed good hard reining in before she got above herself. What would a gentleman like that want with a factory hand? One thing, and then he’d be off. But the truth was that, on the occasion, when her youthful desire was threatening to get out of hand, it had been David who had called a halt.
Nobody except her Aunt May, who had been a surrogate mother, knew how complex Eve’s life had become: ambition way beyond her station in life; head-on conflict with her employer; discomfiture when Bar Barney and Ray, who had always loved her, had begun to love one another more; restlessness when her role at home became ambiguous and excluded when Bar became pregnant. Ray and Bar and baby were a family complete without her.
Had her ‘own kind’ known of the extent of the high life she had tasted, then they might have understood better her sudden decision to leave. And had David Hatton known that the person she presented to him had no more substance than a character in a film, then he might have understood better the mystery she had created around herself. The night she had gone to meet David was when she had started to create a new identity, so to him she had seemed enigmatic.
‘A penny for them, Eve.’ Her first name, the sweet smile, and the inconsequential social tone sounded strange in Alex’s mouth, as strange as the cigarette in a holder and the clean fingernails.
‘Sorry, Alex, I was miles away. I was wondering about the days when this was a place for tourists.’
The talk was the kind of polite conversation of strangers treading on eggshells. Captain Mintov showed them pictures ofhis wife and children of whom he was obviously proud.
‘You must miss them,’ Eve said, determined to keep polite enquiry away from herself.
‘I have seen the little one two times only since when she was born, and she is aged now two years. It is true, I do miss them.’
Eve remembered Ozz having said that the Russians were everywhere. ‘They wear military uniforms, but their job is to keep an eye on their investment in the Republic. They only want to win those battles that will be of use to them.’
‘That’s a cynical thing to say,’ she had accused him.
‘Not cynical, just true. Stalin’s aim is the same as Hitler’s, to gain a foothold here. They ship in armaments and ship out gold.’
Eve did not know what the link was between these two and Alexander. For an English volunteer transport officer to have dealings with two Soviet officers seemed rather curious.
There was an amateur floor-show, of flamenco dancing and guitar-playing. Alex said she thought she recognized the dancer as the girl who had been at the reception desk earlier. A three-piece band of elderly men played dance music. Major Vladim asked Eve if she would dance with him. She accepted eagerly, for it was months since she had been on a dance-floor. He was not used to the kind of ballroom steps she was good at, but there was music and he was a good-looking, attractive young man who held her strongly and was light on his feet and, she guessed, a man who liked to enjoy himself when he was not representing the Soviet army. ‘You do this very well,’ he said. ‘I have not learnt so much western style, but I like very much. You will teach me, Miss Anders?’
She smiled, ‘Perhaps, if there is another chance like this, Major.’
‘Chance?’
‘Opportunity. If we are somewhere where there is music and a dance-floor. Another time.’
‘We have three days here.’
‘Three days? I thought just one.’
He shrugged. ‘Maybe how long it takes. I teach you some Slav dances too, eh? It is good to be with a beautiful woman, very beautiful. My name is Dimitri, and you Eve? Is OK if I say Eve?’
‘Of course it’s OK.’
‘Mrs Alexander and Captain Mintov have arrangements to make. They do not need us. Perhaps we should walk. I should like to see a little of Barcelona. I have to confess, I did not know at all of Spain until the fascist invasion.’
When the major made their excuses, Alexander’s sharp eyes looked directly into Eve’s. A warning? A query? Eve could not interpret it. ‘Is it all right with you, Alex?’
‘Of course. I did say that you weren’t on duty while you were here.’
* * *
As they walked past derelict bomb-sites, Eve caught an occasional whiff of putrefaction. There were corpses, maybe only of cats and dogs but the foetid odour still clung, lying beneath the piles of rubble created in the rioting between communis
ts and anarchists earlier in the year.
As they walked slowly through some neglected public gardens, she commented on how well certain shrubs and plants were thriving without the ministrations of gardeners. She thought of the open commons and contrived displays in the municipal gardens of her home town. Shrubs and flowers that were growing almost wild here could only survive in the municipal hot-houses there. Here there were no great open stretches of grass, no park benches or little kiosks that served tea and ice-cream. Here, although the shrubs and bushes of late autumn were still flowering, it was a wild and romantic place, beginning to return to nature. Some shrubs that had once been chosen for variegation had been almost wholly taken over by their strong green forebears. Pelargoniums that had flourished scarlet had burst from terracotta urns, becoming wayward and enormous.
‘You like sitting… to sit?’ The major indicated the stone surround of an empty formal pool with a stone figurine fountain, and spread an immaculate white handkerchief for her. Who had provided that? She couldn’t imagine the splendid and handsome major with a flat iron, but surely a soldier in the Soviet army would not – as a British army officer would – have a body servant. She would have liked to ask him, but thought better of it.
‘Thank you, it’s a treat to be in a public garden. Do you have places like this in your country?’
‘Of course.’
‘I know hardly anything about Russia.’
‘Cities in Soviet Republic also ver’ beautiful. Not all.’
‘Russia is a huge country.’
‘I am born in Ukrainskaya. Pavlovka.’
‘The Russian language does seem a very difficult one to learn.’
‘Not difficult,’ he laughed. ‘Small children speak Russian ver’ well.’ She laughed too. ‘What region of UK is your home?’
Not Just a Soldier’s War Page 14