by Betty Burton
‘Ah, we had some good times. Do you miss it?’ He noticed the dark rings round her eyes and her lips, although still young and full, were as dry and cracked as his own. Her mouth was set in a serious line. When she held a flame to their cigarettes, her hand trembled. He knew how it was: you held yourself together with your mouth, if you let it tremble you were done for.
‘That’s like saying do you miss your childhood, it’s just something you look back on. Oh, but your feet, we must get somebody to look at them.’
‘They’ve waited this long, they’ll wait a bit longer.’ Petronella brought two mugs of black tea and again he submitted to a hair ruffling. He didn’t mind, it was a long time since anyone had done such a thing. Probably not since his sister had done it just to annoy him when he was ready to go out. They had never been close, not in the way that she and Ray had been close. What they had said about dancing wasn’t how it had been, they had rarely gone to the same dance-halls.
But now? Now he felt very close to her.
As he looked at her from the other side of the trestle-table he thought how splendid she was, how fantastic to have a sister who was so full of life. She had a way with her, that was obvious. People responded to her, without her trying to impress them.
Wanting to be nearer to him, she moved to his side of the table. Theirs had not been a family which expressed their feelings for one another openly. Without the awkwardness she would have once felt, she took his hand and held it to her cheek. ‘We got away, Ken.’
‘Ah, we did, and look where it got us.’ Briefly he kissed her fingers. Only the two of them knew what an extraordinary gesture that was. They weren’t people like that.
‘But you’re not sorry.’
‘You’re joking! If I were to die tomorrow, I’ve lived more in these few years than the rest of the lads in Lampeter Street put together. God knows how it happened, but I’m a captain, I’ve got command ofblokes, they respect me, look to me to know what’s what.’
‘And you do know. I can tell you do. Capability is written all over you. I’m so proud of you, Kenny.’
Raising one eyebrow, he said, ‘You reckon? If I’m honest there’s times when I don’t seem to know my arse from my elbow.’
Eve laughed. ‘Oh, Kenny, modesty doesn’t suit you. Sometimes when I look back on those days, I think I see that you always knew where you were going.’
‘Not where, only that I was.’
‘Yet we were all dumbfounded when you went off.’
‘It was seeing Dad after they fished him out of the harbour that really started me thinking serious. He might have been a bloody bad father – he was a bloody bad father – but he had been all over the world. I wanted to do that, but not leaving a wife and kids to fend for themselves like he did. And I could see all that looming up.’
‘Marriage?’ Kenny had always had a girl in tow, one after the other. It was the way most of his classmates had gone: the girl got knocked up, the families insisted on the wedding.
‘It was called “settling down”, wasn’t it? God, how the thought of that depressed me.’
They sat for a few moments silently caressing one another’s fingers until Eve turned their hands back and forth touching broken nails, hard pads, torn quicks and chapped skin, then she grinned at him. ‘We could have stayed in Lampeter Street and got hands like these.’
He leaned away and looked at her for what seemed ages. ‘I sometimes can’t help thinking what a narrow escape I had, do you?’
She shook her head. ‘I always intended leaving. Now, come on, I must get your feet seen to.’
‘Stop fussing, Lu. I’ve been looking after my feet for ages all on my own.’
She flushed and buried her face in the steaming tea. As soon as he’d called her Lu, he remembered the long letter of explanation about why she wanted to change her name.
‘It’s Eve, Kenny.’
‘I know, kid, I know. I’m sorry.’
‘Thanks. Is that why you’re calling me kid?’
‘I reckon I’ll be less self-conscious about it. Eve’s another person altogether, I have to get used to her. Don’t worry, I will. I want to, it’s just that she’s bowled me over. Eve Anders is amazing.’
‘You don’t think it’s, well, immature or something, pretending to be somebody you’re not?’
‘Are you pretending?’
‘I don’t know any more. In the beginning it was vital that I had to concentrate on making Eve live. I don’t think I could have borne it if somebody had come up and said, “Hello, aren’t you Lu Wilmott?” I knew who I wanted to be, how I wanted to look, dress and talk. Have you ever thought how much people of our age have picked up from the films? I never really had any qualms about which knife to use, or how to enter a room, book in at an hotel or hail a taxi, and I’ll bet you didn’t either. We were getting lessons in it twice nightly and matinees on Saturdays.’
‘You could always put it over, I’ll say that.’
‘It isn’t hard, just playing the part I’ve written for myself.’ She looked at her brother who had always been overshadowed by Ray, the responsible one, the mature and serious one who had taken care of everything. She said, ‘Nothing much wrong in making the best of what you’ve got.’
He smiled, his strong teeth shining in contrast with his grime and beard. ‘Which is why I’m sitting here with nits in my hair and my toes going black.’
‘Oh, come on, drink up your tea and bring that sandwich with you. I’m quite friendly with one of the doctors here.’
She had grown so beautiful, he could hardly believe it. He grinned at her over the rim of his mug. ‘Bloody hell, who’d have thought our little old lanky-legs would have doctors for friends.’
Would it occur to him that she had had lovers? She took it for granted that Kenny would have. But what would he think of her affair with a Russian political commissar? And Ozz? How would Kenny view that eccentric relationship? She was convinced that once Ozz could get away from the codes of chapel (‘My little mam would just love it if I brought you home to Sunday tea’), they would become lovers. She longed to see Ozz again. If there was time, she would tell Ken about Ozz, but not about Dimitri. She wasn’t sure how Ken would handle a sexually active younger sister.
It was some months now since Eve and François Le Bon had come across one another again. He had remembered her at once, and even called her by name. She had said that she was surprised that he would remember her. ‘You shamed me. I discovered that there was a streak of prejudice in me that I would have denied. When you picked me up at Barcelona station, I had expected a man to be driving. I was sure that we’d all end up rolling down a ravine.’
She had said, ‘I don’t believe you. You were really nice, you read the map for me.’
‘Of course. I never expected that a brain capable of dealing with a lorry and a route map could be behind a lovely face.’
He hadn’t been wholly serious, but each had been pleased to be remembered by the other. He was the senior English-speaking doctor in this hospital.
‘François, this is my brother, he’s got frost-bite. Would you mind taking a look?’
‘Glad to know you, Captain Anders.’
‘Wilmott,’ Eve corrected. ‘Ken, Wilmott.’
‘Sorry. Right, let’s take a look.’ As he supervised the careful removal of boots and socks, he said to Eve, ‘Remember the nice lady who put us up for the night? Hey,’ he smiled up at his patient, ‘that isn’t how it sounds.’
‘You mean the teacher, Mrs Portillo?’
‘Asked us to keep her husband and son in mind in case we ever came across them.’
‘Eduardo and Paulo.’
‘You remembered. (Feel anything there, Captain?) So did I, father and son. I removed shell fragments from Paulo’s leg and he went back to Aragon. The father is a prisoner, either that or he’s been executed. He was a POUM official. I sometimes wonder who hates POUM most, the fascists or the other comrades. (That hurt? Good, not too much damage
.) Before I enlisted, it all seemed so simple: if you were against fascism, then you were with the Republic.’ Her brother’s toes looked bad to her, but she could learn nothing from François Le Bon’s impassive, professional mask as he examined the damage. ‘I think we should have you in for a few days.’
‘No, I have to get back. I’m only here because we were bringing in a chap for surgery and there was no ambulance.’
‘Bit of luck for you then, Captain. If you had returned to the front line, then I’ll guarantee you’d have lost the foot with gangrene – even part of the leg. As it is, I think we might be able to salvage a full set of toes.’
‘So my dancing days might not be over, then?’
‘Probably not, if you’ll let us treat you. I’ve seen worse than this respond to treatment.’
Ken Wilmott looked up at his sister and sucked his teeth. ‘Have to keep the old toes in A1 trim for the fox-trot.’
He wanted her approval.
‘You were always light on your feet, Kenny.’
When he first entered Spain, Ken had felt that he had found his spiritual home. He would settle down here, in the south. Somewhere where the sun was warm. But seeing Lu – Eve – had awakened a stab of homesickness. He had a niece now, and that had hardly registered until they talked about the family.
He would write to them all. With nothing to do for a few days while they pumped him full of stuff, he would write.
* * *
David Hatton sat in the back of a slithering lorry, his bags containing the portable filming equipment held in place by his knees. It had been a dodgy landing, and there had been a moment on touch-down when he wondered whether scrounging a lift on a plane with a Mexican pilot had been such a good idea. For all he knew of Mexican pilots, they might all be mad stunters. He was trying to read again the information Archie Archer had sent on. On the flight he had been seated next to a talkative, friendly passenger, so he hadn’t really been able to take in the full meaning of the pages, but even so he had found them incredible, although their source was good. The lorry rocked and the light was bad. Even so, he was desperate to read and re-read the stark details of the woman who had flitted in and out of his life, but had become fixed in his heart and his head.
It was in the usual format, the details requested, but nothing more, no colour or speculation.
Eve Vera Anders nee Louise Vera Wilmott: b. Portsmouth, June 1917.
Anders travelled to Barcelona in the company of a CP-sponsored medical team, continued to Albacete Auto-Parc, British Ambulances, Section Organizer Mrs H. Alexander (LOLO).
Birth registered as Louise Vera Wilmott. Birth Certificate dated July 1917, shows Father, Arthur Wilmott, Able Seaman RN; Mother, Vera Wilmott. Address: no Lampeter Street, Lampeter, Portsmouth.
Education: Lampeter Church of England, Lampeter, Portsmouth. Portsmouth Grammar School – unfinished course.
Profession/career: Factory worker/machinist. Ezzards ‘Queenform’ factory to 1937. Dismissed for Trades Union activities.
Political Activity: None (except the brief affair with the T&GWu).
Joined CP 1937 prior to enlisting as Aid to Spain ambulance driver.
Sponsor: S. Anderson (active).
Subject sometime chauffeur to visiting officials to the Republic, MPs, Senators and var. VIPs. Good reports. Personable, intelligent and well-spoken. Transferred to Madrid area supplies transport, at own request.
Subject recently on LOLO lists as ‘Prospect Active’.
Subject’s brother – Wilmott, K. Captain 15th Battalion Int. Brigade.
Subject was questioned in Wineapple enquiry (see sep. sheet). Cleared of any involvement.
Archie had scrawled across the bottom: ‘Interesting, eh? Hope she doesn’t go off in your hand when you pull the pin. Have second thoughts about suggesting we take up some of her reports. A female war correspondent could be good for Herald. Keep in touch.’
David Hatton folded the report, replaced it in the envelope and put it inside his camera case. As soon as he had read it the first time, some things fell into place. She had supposed that he had thought she was a pick-up that time in Bournemouth, and being the respectable working-class girl that she was, she had left him high and dry. That made some sense. He thought through their next meeting. Again that had been total coincidence. He had just happened to be whiling away an evening in a strange town, when for a second time he discovered her in a dance-hall. She had been more confident this time, and had let him walk with her to the railway station and accepted an invitation to an RN social affair. How absolutely stunning she had looked. She worked in a factory. He had thought of everything imaginable as her reason for being so mysterious, except that. Nothing she did or said had led him in that direction. He thought he knew an act when he saw one. Not this extraordinary girl, she was a natural. That gown would surely have cost a year’s earnings.
Just before taking the flight back to Spain, he had gone to Portsmouth to satisfy himself about some of the details. He had seen the back-street school and the great prison of a factory. At lunchtime he had waited for the workers to come out. Had she really come out like the others, wrapped in an apron, scarf round her head, jostling and laughing, rushing to the house in that back-street? He had walked there, and been the object of curiosity; had tried to visualize the young Louise in the children he saw running up and down the street, playing hop-scotch, rushing into their homes for their lunch and coming out with hunks of bread. Had she come through that sagging door wearing the green silk gown? That seemed impossible to believe. There must be something else.
Was there a man? A man who had bought the gown? Did she have a place where she transformed herself from a girl in an apron to a woman not at all ill-at-ease with the high life? The more he went over those meetings with her, the more puzzled he became.
Where did the trades union activities fit into the picture? Why join the CP and enlist as an ambulance-driver? Rich had joshed him about her magic and mystery. Now that he had all this information about her, she was more magical and mysterious than ever.
It would be easy enough to find her now, but how should he handle it? If Helan Alexander had already approached her for LOLO, then Helan would have told her that her background would be checked. How would a woman like Louise react to that? He guessed that she would be as mad as all hell, as she had every right to be. It was a tricky one. Was he bound to pass on the information to Helan? No, why would it be necessary, just as long as Helan knew that Louise was genuine and not an informant for the other side, a plant. If he said simply, I’ve checked and she is OK, then Helan would accept his word.
OK. So what was his strategy when she discovered that he knew her true identity, and he came face to face with Louise. Straight away it became problematical. A potential explosion, as Archie had suggested.
The brother! He had quite forgotten that he knew him. The captain seemed to be the answer to his dilemma.
What the hell! All this work with undercover organizations had made him devious. He could find her and say simply, Hello, remember me?
Twelve
The new year came in with more blizzards, interspersed with days of sun. Eve Anders was now a seasoned and experienced supplies runner, covering the area between the hospital in the El Escorial area of Madrid, Valencia and the Albacete Auto-Parc as well as many little villages close to the Madrid front. She took to wearing a soldier’s peaked cap and sunglasses; even so the sun off the snow could be blinding and the hours of driving with squinting eyes caused tension and headaches.
On the last day of 1937 she had been on one of her runs to distribute food and bundles of clothing to several small villages. How much longer would there be supplies to keep them going? She had heard that funds were beginning to dry up because of internal disagreements within the aid organizations. It seemed impossible that aid-workers who had, until recently, been so involved and dedicated to the kind of people she saw every day, could be so taken up with internal disagreements that it
was a struggle to keep collecting aid.
It made her mad, but that was no good unless it produced the kind of articles that prompted people to send donations irrespective of the internal politics of officials. Berating readers would have the opposite effect. So, while still overlooking the panorama, she made a first draft of an account that she hoped might accompany her photographs. She had never tried to take pictures seriously until recently, and she was still too aware of not knowing where the next reel of film might come from to be too experimental. But she did want to learn. She knew from years of sitting in cinemas that pictures and words together produced something very powerful.
When I awoke early on New Year’s Day I was so entranced by the sight of pigeons fluttering around in the courtyard of the hospital where I had put up for the night, that I used up one shot of my precious last reel of film, because a fall of snow during the night had transformed and made beautiful the area which is regularly filled with wounded men with bloodied dressings waiting to be admitted.
In my off-duty time, I climbed to the top of an old fortress (see picture). The panoramic view was spectacular, bare hills and hundreds of acres in small parcels, pleated by the plough under the covering of snow. It was a beautiful sight, even though I knew the truth of what closer inspection would reveal. I go almost daily to those small communities.
There is always some child who sees my track from way off, so that by the time I reach the little community its poverty-stricken people have gathered. There is always a mixture of anxiety and excitement in the air. I always experience that moment of distress and helplessness when I climb down and see the pale faces of the ill-fed, inadequately-clothed children.
There is always too a mixture of anger and satisfaction on their behalf when I pass the villa owned by a member of the Spanish royal family who also owned these people. Yes, owned as slaves were owned. I have seen this palace, a most beautiful villa standing in twelve square miles of grounds within which runs a stream engineered to cascade spectacularly down rocky falls.