Winter in Madrid

by C. J. Sansom

  Tolhurst lit a cigarette and watched the smoke curl up to the ceiling. ‘Not really. My father’s in the army, haven’t seen him for ages.’ He sighed. ‘I’ve always wanted to live in London, enjoy the high life. Never managed to – first it was school and then the diplomatic service.’ He sighed again. ‘It’s probably too late now. With the bombing and the blackout, all that sort of life must be over.’ He shook his head. ‘Have you seen the papers? They’re still saying how well Franco got on with Hitler at Hendaye. And Sam’s in appeasement mode; he’s told Franco Britain would be happy to see Spain take Morocco and Algeria from the French.’

  ‘What? As Spanish colonies?’

  ‘Yes. He’s playing up to Franco’s dreams of empire. Can see his reasoning, I suppose. The French are finished as a power.’

  Tolhurst spoke of what ‘Sam’ was doing as though he was the ambassador’s confidant, as he often did, though Harry knew he was probably just repeating embassy gossip.

  ‘We’ve got the blockade,’ Harry said. ‘We could turn off their food and oil supplies like a tap. Maybe it’s time we did. Warn them off Hitler.’

  ‘It’s not that simple. If we left them with nothing to lose they could join the Germans, march in and take Gibraltar.’

  Harry took another swig of brandy. ‘D’you remember that night at the Ritz? I overheard Hoare saying there mustn’t be any British support for special operations here. I remember a speech Churchill made just before I came out. Britain’s survival kindling sparks of hope in occupied Europe. We could help the people here instead of sucking up to the leaders.’

  ‘Steady on.’ Tolhurst laughed nervously. ‘The brandy’s going to your head. The Reds would come back if Franco fell. They’d be even worse.’

  ‘What does Captain Hillgarth think? He seemed to be agreeing with Sir Sam that night at the Ritz.’

  Tolhurst shifted uncomfortably. ‘Actually, Harry, he’d be a bit annoyed if he knew he’d been overheard.’

  ‘It wasn’t deliberate.’

  ‘Anyway, I don’t know anything,’ he added wearily. ‘I’m just the dogsbody. I arrange things, debrief sources and query their expenses.’

  ‘Tell me,’ Harry asked, ‘have you ever heard the expression, “The Knights of St George”?’

  Tolhurst’s eyes narrowed. ‘Where did you hear that?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘Maestre used the phrase when he was talking to Captain Hillgarth, the first day I went with Hillgarth to do some translating. It means sovereigns, Tolly, doesn’t it?’ Tolhurst didn’t answer, just pursed his lips. Harry went on, not caring any more what protocols he might be breaking. ‘Hillgarth talked about Juan March as well. Are we involved in bribing the Monarchists? Is that the horse we’re backing to keep Spain out of the war? Is that why Hoare doesn’t want anything to do with the opposition?’

  ‘You know, Harry, it doesn’t do to be too curious.’ Tolhurst’s voice was still quiet. ‘It’s not our job to think about – well – policy. And for fuck’s sake, keep your voice down.’

  ‘I’m right, aren’t I? I can see it in your face.’ Harry leaned forward, whispering intently. ‘What if it comes unstuck and Franco finds out? We’d be in the shit then, and so would Maestre and his pals.’

  ‘The captain knows what he’s doing.’

  ‘And what if it works? We’re tied to these bastards for good. They’ll rule Spain for ever.’

  Tolhurst took a deep breath. His face reddened, his expression was angry. ‘Christ, Harry, how long has this been going round in your noddle?’

  ‘I only guessed what the Knights of St George might be the other day.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘Don’t worry, Tolly, I won’t say anything.’

  ‘You’d better not, if you don’t want a charge of treason. This is what comes of recruiting academics,’ he said. ‘You’re too bloody curious.’ He laughed, trying to put matters back on a friendly footing. ‘I can’t tell you anything,’ he continued. ‘You must see that. But the captain and Sam know what they’re doing. I’ll have to tell the captain you’ve twigged this. You’re sure you’ve told nobody else.’

  ‘I swear, Tolly.’

  ‘Then have another, and forget about it.’

  ‘All right,’ Harry said. He wouldn’t forget, but there was no point in sailing into trouble. He wished he hadn’t followed his impulse to ask Tolhurst.

  Tolhurst heaved himself up, wincing as the corner of the table caught his belly. Harry stared into his glass. He felt a moment’s panic, his beliefs about the world and his place in it shifting under him again, like sand.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  THE MONEY ARRIVED on the fifth of November, the day before Barbara was due to meet Luis again. She was despairing of it ever coming and had prepared herself to plead with Luis to wait. As she grew more worried, Barbara knew she was becoming nervy and withdrawn. Sandy was clearly starting to wonder what was wrong with her. That morning she had pretended to be asleep while he dressed, though her eyes were open, staring down at the pillow, remembering it was Guy Fawkes Day. There would be no fireworks in England this year; they had enough real explosions every night. The BBC said there had been no more raids on the Midlands, but London was being bombed most nights. The Madrid papers said much of the city was reduced to rubble but she told herself that was propaganda.

  After Sandy left she went down for the mail. There was one typed envelope on the mat with the King’s head on the stamp instead of Franco and his cold stare. She tore it open. In coldly formal tones, the bank told her they had transferred her savings to the account she had opened in Madrid: over 5000 pesetas. She could sense their disapproval of her taking money abroad in wartime.

  She went back to the bedroom and put the letter in her bureau. There were a couple of guides to Cuenca in there now, which she had bought and studied carefully. She locked it.

  She dressed hurriedly; she was due at the orphanage at nine. It was her second morning there. Yesterday she had worn her usual clothes but Sister Inmaculada had said she should not dirty a good dress. Barbara found it a relief to revert to an old skirt and baggy jumper. She glanced at her watch. It was time she was off.

  BARBARA HAD ARRANGED to come to the orphanage twice a week but already she was unsure if she could continue. She had been a nurse before but never in conditions like this.

  She thought of the scrubbed, clinical corridors of the Birmingham Municipal Hospital with nostalgia as she approached the orphanage. A gasogene passed, the foul-smelling smoke belching from its little chimney making her cough. She knocked at the door and a nun let her in.

  The grey nineteenth-century building was a former monastery, built round a central square with pillared cloisters. The cloister walls were covered with anti-communist posters: a snarling ogre wearing a cap with a red star looming over a young mother and her children; a hammer and sickle in a montage with a skull and the legend, ‘This is Communism’. Yesterday she had asked Sister Inmaculada whether the posters might frighten the children. The tall nun had shaken her head sadly.

  ‘Nearly all these children come from Red families. They have to be reminded they lived in the devil’s shadow. Otherwise how can their little souls be saved?’

  Sister Inmaculada was finishing roll-call in the central cloister as Barbara arrived, her clear high voice ringing round the yard, a cane tucked into the belt of her habit. Fifty boys and girls between six and twelve stood in lines on the concrete. She lowered her clipboard. ‘Dismiss,’ she called, then raised an arm in the Fascist salute. ‘¡Viva Franco!’ The children replied in a ragged chorus, arms waving vaguely up and down. Barbara remembered the concert, Franco suppressing his yawn. She walked to the infirmary; ‘Spain Reconquered for Christ!’ was painted over the door.

  Her first job of the day was to check the health of newly admitted children to see if any needed referring to the doctor. Inside the cold infirmary with its iron beds and steel instruments hanging from the walls her helper, Señora Blanco, was waiting. She was an elderly retired
cook, a beata, a religious woman whose life revolved around the church. She had tight grey curls and wore a brown apron; her plump face was wrinkled and at first sight kindly.

  ‘Buenas tardes, Señora Forsyth. I have hot water ready.’

  ‘Thank you, señora. How many have we got today?’

  ‘Only two. Brought by the civiles. A boy caught burgling a house and a little girl living wild.’ She shook her head piously.

  Barbara washed her hands. The children who came to the orphanage were mostly feral, living by begging and stealing. Their begging was a nuisance and when the police picked them up they handed them over to the nuns.

  Señora Blanco rang a little bell and a nun led in a red-haired boy of about eight wearing a greasy brown coat too big for him. Sister Teresa was young, with a square peasant face. ‘Caught stealing, the little beast,’ she said admonishingly.

  ‘What a bad child,’ Señora Blanco said sorrowfully. ‘Take off your clothes, child, let the nurse see you.’ The boy disrobed sullenly and stood naked: ribs poking out, arms like matchsticks. He lowered his head as Barbara examined him. He smelled of stale sweat and urine; his skin as cold as a plucked chicken.

  ‘He’s very thin,’ she said quietly. ‘Nits, of course.’ The boy had a long cut on his wrist, red and weeping. ‘That’s a nasty cut, niño,’ she said gently. ‘How did you get that?’

  The boy looked up with big frightened eyes. ‘A cat,’ he muttered. ‘It came into my cellar. I tried to pick it up and it scratched me.’

  Barbara smiled. ‘Bad cat. We’ll put some ointment on it. Then we’ll get you something to eat, would you like that?’ He nodded. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Ivan, señora.’

  Señora Blanco compressed her lips. ‘Who gave you that name?’

  ‘My parents.’

  ‘Where are your parents now?’

  ‘The civiles took them.’

  ‘Ivan is a bad name, a Russian name, do you not know that? The nuns will find you a better one.’ The boy hung his head.

  ‘I think that’s all,’ Barbara said. She wrote on a card and handed it to Señora Blanco, who led the boy away. Sister Teresa left by the other door to fetch the next child. The beata returned a few moments later, wiping her hands on her dark apron. ‘Dear Lord, how he smelt.’

  There was a commotion outside. Barbara heard high thin screams and the door was flung open. Sister Teresa dragged in a scrawny dark-haired girl of about eleven, struggling frantically. The nun was red-faced and her coif had been knocked askew, giving her a drunken look.

  ‘Madre de Dios, she struggles worse than a pig.’ Sister Teresa gripped the child’s arms hard, forcing her to stand still. ‘Stop that or you’ll get the cane! The devil is in this one. She was living in an empty house in Carabanchel – the civiles had to chase her round the streets.’

  Barbara bent down in front of the girl. She was breathing heavily, lips drawn back over bad teeth, eyes wide with terror. She wore a filthy blue dress and clutched a little woolly donkey, so dirty and torn it was hardly recognizable.

  ‘What’s your name?’ Barbara asked gently.

  The girl swallowed. ‘Are you a nun?’

  ‘No, I’m a nurse. I just want to examine you, see whether you need a doctor.’

  The girl looked at her beseechingly. ‘Please let me go. I don’t want to be made into soup.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The nuns make children into soup, feed it to Franco’s soldiers. Please, please, make them let me go.’

  Sister Teresa laughed. ‘You can see who’s brought this one up.’

  Señora Blanco frowned at the girl. ‘Those are wicked lies the Reds told. You’re a bad child to say such things. Now get undressed for the nurse. And give me that!’ She reached for the woolly donkey but the girl clutched it tighter. Señora Blanco’s face flushed with anger.

  ‘Give that to me. Don’t defy me, you little Red!’ She grabbed the toy and pulled sharply. It tore in two, white stuffing flying out. The beata was caught off balance and the girl jumped away, screaming. She ran under a bed and crouched there, holding the donkey’s head, all that was left, to her face and howling. Señora Blanco threw the rest to the floor. ‘Little bitch—’

  ‘Be quiet!’ Barbara snapped. The beata looked affronted. Sister Teresa folded her arms and looked on with interest as Barbara bent down to the girl.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Barbara said gently. ‘It was an accident. Perhaps I could mend your burro.’

  The girl rubbed the head against her cheek. ‘Fernandito, Fernandito – she killed him.’

  ‘Give him to me. I’ll sew him back together. I promise. What’s your name?’

  The girl studied her suspiciously, unused to a kind tone. ‘Carmela,’ she whispered. ‘Carmela Mera Varela.’

  Barbara felt a jolt in her stomach. Mera. The name of Bernie’s friends. And they had lived in Carabanchel. She remembered her visits three years ago – the big amiable father, the overworked mother, the boy with TB. There had been a little girl too, about eight then.

  ‘Do – do you have a family?’

  The girl shook her head, biting her lip. ‘There was a big shell,’ she said. ‘Afterwards I found an empty cellar for me and Fernandito.’ She began to cry, quiet anguished sobs.

  Barbara reached in but the girl wriggled away, still crying desperately. Barbara stood up.

  ‘Dear God, she must have been living wild for years.’ She knew she mustn’t say she knew her, knew her family. A Red family.

  ‘Might we perhaps get her out of there?’ Señora Blanco asked coldly.

  Barbara knelt again. ‘Carmela, I promise the nuns won’t hurt you. They’ll feed you, give you warm clothes. You’ll be all right if you do what they say but they’ll be angry if you don’t come out. If you do, I promise I’ll mend your burro, sew him together. But you must come out.’

  This time the child let Barbara pull her gently from under the bed. ‘Good, Carmela. Now, stand still, take your dress off so I can look at you. Yes, that’s right, give me Fernandito, I’ll take care of him.’

  The child’s arms and legs were covered with eczema; Barbara wondered how she had survived. ‘She’s very undernourished. How did you get food to eat, Carmelcita?’

  ‘I beg.’ A look of defiance came into her eyes. ‘I take things.’

  ‘Come on,’ Sister Teresa said brusquely. ‘Get dressed and let’s get you registered. And no more fun and games. You’ll get some food if you behave. Otherwise it’ll be the cane.’

  The child put on her dress. Sister Teresa laid a plump red hand firmly on her shoulder. As she was led firmly away, Carmela turned and gave Barbara an anguished look. ‘I’ll bring Fernandito in a day or two,’ Barbara called. ‘I promise.’ The door closed behind her.

  Señora Blanco snorted. ‘All this rubbish.’ She bent down, picking up lumps of Fernandito’s stuffing. Squeezing them into a tight ball, she threw it into a wastebasket together with the other half of the donkey’s woolly skin. Barbara marched over and pulled it all out again, putting it in her pocket.

  ‘I promised I’d mend it.’

  The beata snorted. ‘Filthy thing. They won’t let her keep it, you know.’ She stepped closer, her eyes narrowed. ‘Señora Forsyth, in all charity I wonder if you are suited to the work here. We cannot afford sentimentality in Spain now. Perhaps you should discuss it with Sister Inmaculada.’ With a toss of her tight curls, she walked out of the infirmary.

  AT HOME that afternoon Barbara tried to sew the donkey back together. It was dirty and greasy and she had to be careful putting the stuffing back or it would end up looking shapeless. She used her strongest thread but she wasn’t sure it would withstand constant handling by a child. She couldn’t stop thinking about Carmela. Had she come from that family, Bernie’s friends? Were the others all dead?

  Pilar came in to stoke the fire. She looked at Barbara oddly. Barbara supposed she must look strange, sitting there in her old clothes in the salón, sewing up a child’s
toy with frantic concentration.

  When she had finished she stood the donkey on the hearth. She hadn’t made a bad job. She poured herself a gin and tonic, lit a cigarette and sat looking at it. It had the meek enduring expression of a real burro.

  At seven Sandy came in. He warmed his hands at the fire, smiling down at her. Barbara hadn’t bothered to put the overhead light on and, apart from a pool of light from the reading lamp in which cigarette smoke swirled, the room was dark.

  Sandy looked sleek and comfortable. ‘It’s cold out,’ he said. He looked in surprise at the donkey. ‘What on earth’s that?’

  ‘That’s Fernandito.’

  He frowned. ‘Who?’

  ‘It belongs to a child at the orphanage. It got torn when she was brought in.’

  Sandy grunted. ‘You don’t want to get too involved with those children.’

  ‘I thought it was useful to you, me working there. The marquesa connection.’ She reached to the gin bottle on her sewing table and poured herself another. Sandy looked at her.

  ‘How many of those have you had?’

  ‘Only one. Want one?’

  Sandy took a glass and sat opposite her. ‘I’m seeing Harry Brett again the day after tomorrow. I think I’m going to be able to bring him in on something.’

  Barbara sighed. ‘Don’t involve him in anything shady, for God’s sake. He’d hate that. And he works for the embassy, they have to be careful.’

  ‘It’s just a business opportunity.’ He frowned at her.

  ‘If you say so.’ She never usually talked to him like this, but she was depressed and exhausted.

  ‘You don’t seem awfully interested in Harry,’ Sandy said. ‘I thought he was so wonderful to you when Piper went west.’

  She stared at him without replying. There was a nasty look in his eyes for a moment, something angry and cruel. With his heavy features lit by the firelight he looked middle-aged and dissipated. He shifted in his chair, then smiled.

  ‘I told him you’d join us for coffee afterwards. Just the three of us.’

  ‘All right.’