One evening they went to a bar in La Latina called El Toro where flamenco dancing was advertised. Bernie had seen it in El Socialista, the socialist newspaper, full of optimism and hope, which he got Harry to translate for him. When they got there the bulls’ heads round the walls startled them. The other customers were working men and eyed Harry and Bernie curiously, giving one another amused nudges. The boys ordered a greasy cocido and sat at a bench under a banner advertising a strike meeting, next to a burly brown-faced man with a drooping moustache. The buzz of conversation died as two men in narrow jackets and round black hats walked into the centre of the room, carrying guitars. They were followed by a woman in wide red and black skirts and a low bodice, a black mantilla covering her head. All had narrow faces and skin so dark they reminded Harry of Singh, Rookwood’s Indian boy. The men began to play and the woman sang, with a fierce intensity that kept his attention even though he couldn’t follow the words. They performed three songs, each one greeted with applause, then one of the men came round with a hat. ‘Muy bien,’ Harry said, ‘muchas gracias.’ He put a peseta in the cap.

The big man next to them said something to them in Spanish. ‘What was that?’ Bernie whispered to Harry.

‘He says they’re singing about oppression by the landlords.’

The workman was studying them with amused interest. ‘That is good,’ Bernie said in halting Spanish.

The big man nodded approvingly. He extended a hand to Bernie and Harry. It was hard and callused.

‘Pedro Mera García,’ the man said. ‘Where are you from?’

‘Inglaterra.’ Bernie pulled his party card from his pocket. ‘Partido Laborista Inglés.’ Pedro smiled broadly. ‘Bienvenidos, compadres.’

SO BERNIE’S FRIENDSHIP with the Mera family began. They regarded him as a comrade, and the apolitical Harry as his slightly retarded cousin. There was an evening in early September, shortly before they were due to return to England, that Harry particularly remembered. It was cooler in the evenings now and Bernie sat on the balcony with Pedro, his wife Inés and their elder son Antonio, who was Harry and Bernie’s age and like his father a union activist in the brickworks. Inside the salón Harry had been teaching three-year-old Carmela some English words. Her ten-year-old brother, Francisco, thin and tubercular, sat watching with large, tired eyes as Carmela sat on the arm of Harry’s chair, repeating the strange words with fascinated solemnity.

At last she got bored and went to play with her dolls. Harry went onto the tiny balcony and looked out across the square, where a welcome breeze stirred up the dust. The sound of voices came up from below. A beer seller called his trade in a high sharp voice. Doves circled in the darkening sky, flashes of white against the red-tiled roofs.

‘Help me, Harry,’ Bernie said. ‘I want to ask Pedro if the government will win the vote of confidence tomorrow.’

Harry asked and Pedro nodded. ‘He should. But the President’s looking for any excuse to get Azaña out. He agrees with the Monarchists that even the miserable reforms the government’s trying to put through are an attack on their rights.’

Antonio laughed bitterly. ‘What will they do if we ever really challenge them?’ He shook his head. ‘This proposal for an agrarian reform act has no funds to back it because Azaña won’t raise taxes. People feel let down and angry.’

‘Now that you’ve got the Republic,’ Bernie said, ‘Spain must never go back.’

Pedro nodded. ‘I think the Socialists should leave the government, have an election, win a proper majority. Then we’ll see.’

‘But would the ruling classes let you govern? Won’t they bring out the army?’

Pedro passed Bernie a cigarette. Bernie had started smoking since he came to Spain. ‘Let them try that,’ Pedro said. ‘Let them try and see what we will give them.’

Next day Harry and Bernie went to see the vote of confidence in the Cortes. There were crowds round the parliament building but they had managed to get passes through Pedro. An attendant led them up echoing marble stairs to a gallery above the chamber. The blue benches were packed with deputies in suits and frock coats. The left-liberal leader Azaña was speaking in a strong, impassioned voice, one short arm beating at the air. Depending on their politics the newspapers portrayed him either as a frog-faced monster or as the father of the Republic, but Harry thought how ordinary he looked. He spoke fiercely, passionately. He made a point and turned to the deputies behind him, who clapped and shouted their approval. Azaña ran a hand through his wispy white hair and went on, listing the Republic’s achievements. Harry scanned the faces below, recognizing the socialist politicians whose faces he had seen in newspapers: round fat Prieto; Largo Caballero, surprisingly bourgeois-looking with his square face and white moustache. For once Harry felt caught up in the excitement.

‘Lively lot, aren’t they?’ he whispered to Bernie. But Bernie’s face when he turned was angry, contemptuous.

‘It’s a bloody theatre,’ Bernie said angrily. ‘Look at them. Millions of Spaniards want a decent life and they get this – circus. He surveyed the rustling sea of heads below him. ‘Something stronger than this is needed if we’re to have socialism. Come on, let’s get out of here.’

That night they went to a bar in the Centro. Bernie was in an angry, cynical mood.

‘Democracy,’ he said angrily. ‘It just swallows people up into a corrupt bourgeois system. It’s the same in England.’

‘But it’ll take years to make Spain a modern country,’ Harry said. ‘And what’s the alternative? Revolution and bloodshed, like in Russia?’

‘The workers have to take things into their own hands.’ He looked at Harry, then sighed. ‘Oh come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s go back to the hostal. It’s late.’

They stumbled up the road in silence, both a little drunk. Their room was stuffy and Bernie pulled off his shirt and went onto the balcony. The two whores sat drinking opposite, wearing colourful dressing gowns. They called across.

‘¡Ay, inglés! ¿Por que no juegues con nosotros?’

‘I can’t come and play!’ Bernie called back cheerfully. ‘I’ve no money!’

‘We don’t want money! We keep saying, if only the handsome blond would come and play!’ The women laughed. Bernie laughed too and turned to Harry. Harry felt uneasy, a little shocked.

‘Fancy it?’ Bernie asked. They had joked about going with a Spanish prostitute for weeks but it had been bravado, they had done nothing about it.

‘No. God, Bernie, you could catch something.’

Bernie grinned at him. ‘Scared?’ He ran a hand through his thick blond hair, his big bicep flexing.

Harry blushed. ‘I don’t want to do it with a couple of drunk whores. Besides, it’s you they want, not me.’ Jealousy flickered inside him as it sometimes did. Bernie had something he lacked: an energy, a daring, a lust for life. It wasn’t just his looks.

‘They’d’ve asked you too if you’d been at the balcony.’

‘Don’t go,’ Harry said. ‘You could catch something.’

Bernie’s eyes were alive with excitement. ‘I’m going. Come on. Last chance.’ Bernie chuckled, then smiled at him. ‘You’ve got to learn to live, Harry, boy. Learn to live.’

TWO DAYS LATER they left Madrid. Antonio Mera helped them carry their bags to the station.

They changed trams at the Puerta de Toledo. It was mid-afternoon, siesta time, the sunny streets empty. A lorry rolled slowly by, its canvas cover gaily painted, the words ‘La Barraca’ on its side.

‘Lorca’s new theatre for the people,’ Antonio said. He was a tall dark youth, broad like his father. His lip curled slightly. ‘Off to bring Calderón to the peasants.’

‘That’s a good thing, isn’t it?’ Harry said. ‘I thought education was one thing the Republic had reformed.’