Tolhurst eased out onto a long deserted road flanked by dusty poplars, the leaves yellowing at the tips like giant torches.

‘How long have you been in Spain?’ Harry asked.

‘Four months. Came when they expanded the embassy, sent Sir Sam over. Did a spell in Cuba before. Lot more relaxed. Fun.’ He shook his head. ‘This is one awful country, I’m afraid. You’ve been before, haven’t you?’

‘Before the Civil War, then briefly during it. To Madrid both times.’

Tolhurst shook his head again. ‘It’s a pretty grim place now.’

As they drove over the stony, potholed road they talked about the Blitz, agreeing Hitler had abandoned his invasion plans for now. Tolhurst asked Harry where he had gone to school.

‘Rookwood, eh? Good place, I believe. Those were the days, eh?’ he added wistfully.

Harry smiled sadly. ‘Yes.’

He looked out at the countryside. There was a new emptiness to the landscape. Only the occasional peasant driving a donkey and cart passed them, and once an army truck going north, a group of tiredlooking young soldiers staring vacantly from the back. The villages were empty too. It was siesta time, but in the old days there would have been a few people about. Now even the once ubiquitous skinny dogs had gone and only a few chickens were left foraging round closed doorways. One village square had huge posters of Franco all over the cracked, unpainted walls, his arms folded confidently as his jowly face smiled into the distance. ¡HASTA EL FUTURO! Towards the future. Harry took a deep breath. The posters, Harry saw, covered older ones whose tattered edges were visible beneath. He recognized the bottom half of the old slogan, ¡NO PASARAN! They shall not pass. But they had.

Then they were in the rich northern suburbs. From the look of the elegant houses the Civil War might never have happened. ‘Does the ambassador live out here?’ Harry asked.

‘No, Sir Sam lives in the Castellana.’ Tolhurst laughed. ‘It’s a bit embarrassing, actually. He’s next door to the German ambassador.’

Harry turned, open-mouthed. ‘But we’re at war!’

‘Spain’s “non-belligerent”. But it’s crawling with Germans, the scum are all over the place. The German embassy here’s the largest in the world. We don’t speak to them, of course.’

‘How did the ambassador end up next door to the Germans?’

‘Only big house available. He makes a joke of glaring at von Stohrer over the garden wall.’

They drove on into the town centre. Most of the buildings were unpainted and even more dilapidated than Harry remembered, though once many must have been grand. There were posters everywhere, Franco and the yoke-and-arrows symbol of the Falange. Most people were shabbily dressed, even more than he remembered, many looking thin and tired. Men in overalls with scrawny weather-beaten faces walked by, and women in black shawls, patched and mended. Even the barefoot skinny children playing in the dusty gutters had pinched watchful faces. Harry had half expected to see military parades and Falangist rallies like in the newsreels, but the city was quieter than he had known it, as well as dingier. He saw priests and nuns among the passers-by; they were back, too, like the civiles. The few wealthier-looking men wore jackets and hats despite the heat.

Harry turned to Tolhurst. ‘When I was here in ’37 wearing a jacket and hat on a hot day was illegal. Bourgeois affectation.’

‘You’re not allowed to go out without a jacket now, not if you’re wearing a shirt. Point to remember.’

The trams were running but there were few cars and they weaved their way among donkey carts and bicycles. Harry jerked round in amazement as a familiar shape caught his eye, a hooked black cross.

‘Did you see that? The bloody swastika’s flying beside the Spanish flag on that building!’

Tolhurst nodded. ‘Have to get used to that. It’s not just swastikas – the Germans run the police and the press. Franco makes no secret he wants the Nazis to win. Now, look over there.’

They had stopped at an intersection. Harry noticed a trio of colourfully dressed girls wearing thick make-up. They caught his glance and smiled, turning their heads provocatively.

‘There are tarts everywhere. You have to be very careful, most of them have the clap and some are government spies. Embassy staff aren’t allowed near them.’

A pith-helmeted traffic policeman waved them on. ‘Do you think Franco will come into the war?’ Harry asked.

Tolhurst ran a hand through his yellow hair, making it stick up. ‘God knows. It’s a terrible atmosphere; the newspapers and radio are wildly pro-German. Himmler’s coming on a state visit next week. But you just have to carry on as normal, as much as you can.’ He blew out his cheeks and smiled ruefully. ‘But most people keep a suitcase packed, in case we have to get out in a hurry. Oh, I say, there’s a gasogene!’

He pointed to where a big old Renault was puttering along, slower than the donkey carts. Fixed to the back was what looked like a large squat boiler, clouds of smoke pouring from a little chimney. Pipes led under the car from the thing. The driver, a middle-aged bourgeois, ignored stares from the pavement as people stopped to look. A tram clattered by hooting and he swerved wildly to avoid it, the unwieldy vehicle almost teetering over.

‘What the hell was that?’ Harry asked.

‘Spain’s revolutionary answer to the petrol shortage. Uses coal or wood instead of petrol. OK unless you want to go uphill. The French have them too, I hear. Not much chance of the Germans being after that design.’

Harry studied the crowd. A few people were smiling at the bizarre vehicle, but it struck Harry that none were laughing or calling out, as Madrileños would have done before at such a thing. Again he thought how silent they were, the background buzz of conversation he remembered gone.

They drove into Opera district, catching glimpses of the Royal Palace in the distance. It stood out brightly amid the general shabbiness, the sun reflected from its white walls.

‘Does Franco live there?’ Harry asked.

‘He receives people there but he’s established himself in the Pardo Palace, outside Madrid. He’s terrified of assassination. Drives everywhere in a bullet-proof Mercedes Hitler sent him.’

‘There’s still opposition then?’

‘The civiles have security sewn up in the towns. But you never know. After all, Madrid was only taken eighteen months ago. In a way, it’s an occupied city as much as Paris. There’s still resistance in the north, from what we hear, and Republican bands hiding out in the countryside. The vagabundos, they call them.’

‘God,’ Harry said. ‘What this country’s been through.’

‘It might not be over yet,’ Tolhurst observed grimly.

They drove into a street of large nineteenth-century houses, outside one of which a Union Jack hung from a flagpole, blessedly familiar. Harry remembered coming to the embassy in 1937, to ask for Bernie after he was reported missing. The officials had been unhelpful, disapproving of the International Brigades.

A couple of civiles were posted at the door. Cars were drawn up outside the entrance so Tolhurst stopped a little way up the road.

‘Let’s get your bag,’ he said.

Harry looked warily at the civiles as he climbed out. Then he felt his leg tugged from behind. He looked round to see a thin boy of ten, dressed in the rags of an army tunic, sitting on a kind of wheeled wooden sled.

‘Señor, por favor, diez pesetas.’

Harry saw the child had no legs. The boy clung to his turn-ups. ‘Por el amor de Dios,’ he pleaded, thrusting out his other hand. One of the civiles marched sharply down the street, clapping his hands. ‘¡Vete! ¡Vete!’ At his shout the little boy slapped his hands on the cobbles, rolling his cart backwards into a side street. Tolhurst took Harry’s elbow.