He wondered suddenly if they knew, at Rookwood, what had happened to Bernie. If they did, they probably weren’t surprised, or sorry. And Sandy’s fate, or whatever it was that drove him, had washed him up here. Where, tomorrow, he would be spying on him, after all. Harry remembered Jebb telling him it was Mr Taylor who had given them his name, and smiled grimly at the irony. The way the wheels came round, perhaps there was something in those notions of fate after all.

THE SAME AFTERNOON Barbara went for a long walk. She felt restless and worried, as she had since her meeting with Luis. The weather was fine after the rain but still cool and for the first time since the spring she wore her coat.

She went to the Retiro park; it had been refurbished since the end of the Civil War, new trees planted to replace those cut down for fuel during the Siege. Once again it was a meeting place for the respectable women of Madrid.

Now it was getting colder only the hardier or lonelier women gathered on the benches to gossip. Barbara recognized the wife of one of Sandy’s friends and nodded to her, but walked on to the zoo at the rear of the park; she wanted to be on her own.

The zoo was almost deserted. She took a seat by the sealions’ pit, lit a cigarette and sat watching them. She had heard the animals had suffered terribly during the Siege; many had died of starvation, but there was a new elephant now, donated by the Generalísimo himself. Sandy was a bullfight aficionado but no matter how many times he argued with her about the skill and courage involved, Barbara couldn’t stomach it, the big strong animal tormented and killed, horses gored and dying, kicking in the sand. She had been to the corrida twice then refused to go again. Sandy had laughed and told her not to mention it in front of his Spanish friends; they would think her the worst sort of English sentimentalist.

She twisted the handle of her crocodile-skin handbag. Critical thoughts about Sandy kept coming into her head these days. It wasn’t fair; he was the one being placed in danger by her deceit, it could destroy his career if what she was doing came out. She oscillated between guilt over that and anger at the stifled life she led now, the way Sandy always wanted to run everything.

The day after meeting Luis she had gone to the Express office in the Puerta del Sol and asked for Markby. They told her he was away in the north, reporting on the German troops coming over the frontier from France and buying everything up.

She might have to tackle Luis herself. Why had he said he had been in Cuenca through two winters? Was he just deceiving her, and Markby, for money? He had seemed nervous and uneasy throughout their interview, but had been very firm about the money he wanted.

A woman in a fur coat appeared, a little boy of eight marching at her side. He wore the uniform of a little flecha, the youngest section of the Falange Youth. Seeing the sealions he left his mother’s side and ran over to the pen, aiming his wooden rifle at them. ‘Bang! Bang!’ he shouted. ‘Die, Reds, die!’ Barbara shuddered. Sandy said the Falange Youth were just Spanish boy scouts, but sometimes she wondered.

Seeing her, the little boy ran over and stretched out his arm in the Fascist salute. ‘Good morning, señora! ¡Viva Franco! Can I help you at all today?’

Barbara gave a tired smile. ‘No, I’m fine, thank you.’

The child’s mother came over, taking his hand. ‘Come, Manolito, the elephant is this way.’ She shook her head at Barbara. ‘Children are tiring, no?’

Barbara smiled hesitantly.

‘But they are our gift from God.’

‘Come on, Mama, the elephants, the elephants!’

Barbara watched them go. Sandy didn’t want children; she was thirty now and she would probably never have any. Once she had longed to have Bernie’s child. Her mind went back to those other autumn days, with him in Red Madrid. Only four years ago, but it was like another age.

THAT FIRST NIGHT in the bar, Bernie had seemed an extraordinary, exotic creature to her. It wasn’t just his beauty: the incongruity between his public-school accent and his grubby private’s uniform added to her sense of unreality.

‘How did you hurt your arm?’ she asked.

‘Got winged by a sniper in the Casa de Campo. It’s healing well, just nicked the bone. I’m on sick leave, staying with friends in Carabanchel.’

‘Isn’t that the suburb the Nationalists are shelling? I heard there was fighting there.’

‘Yes. In the part furthest from the city. But the people living further in won’t go.’ He smiled. ‘They’re magnificent, so strong. I met the family when I came over on a visit five years ago. The eldest son’s with the militia in the Casa de Campo. His mother takes hot food out there every day.’

‘You don’t want to go home?’

A hardness came into his face. ‘I’m here till this is finished. Till we’ve made Madrid the grave of fascism.’

‘There seems to be more Russian equipment coming now.’

‘Yes. We’re going to throw Franco back. What about you, what are you doing here?’

‘I’m with the Red Cross. Helping find missing people, arranging exchanges. Children mostly.’

‘They got some Red Cross medical equipment when I was in hospital. God knows they needed it.’ He fixed her with those big olive eyes. ‘But you supply the Fascists too, don’t you?’

‘We have to. We have to be neutral.’

‘Don’t forget which side it was that rose up to destroy an elected government.’

She changed the subject. ‘Where on the arm were you hit?’

‘Above the elbow. They say it’ll soon be good as new. Then I’m going back to the front.’

‘A bit higher and you could’ve got it in the shoulder. That can be nasty.’

‘Are you a medic?’

‘A nurse. Though I haven’t done nursing for years. I’m a bureaucrat now.’ She gave a self-deprecating laugh.

‘Don’t knock it, the world needs organization.’

She laughed again. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone say that. It doesn’t matter how useful the work you do is, the word bureaucracy always stinks.’

‘How long have you been with the Red Cross?’

‘Four years. I don’t go back to England much now.’

‘Family there?’

‘Yes, but I haven’t seen them for a couple of years. We don’t have much in common. What do you do? Back home?’

‘Well, before I left I was a sculptor’s model.’

She almost spilled her wine. ‘A what?’

‘I modelled for some sculptors in London. Don’t worry, nothing improper. It’s a job.’

She struggled for something to say. ‘That must get awfully cold.’

‘Yes. There’re statues with goose pimples all over London.’

The doors banged open and a large group of boiler-suited militia came in, girls from the Women’s Battalion among them. They crowded round the bar, shouting and jostling. Bernie looked serious.

‘New recruits, off to the front tomorrow. D’you want to go somewhere else? We could go to the Café Gijón. Might see Hemingway.’

‘Isn’t that near the telephone exchange the Nationalists keep trying to shell?’

‘The Gijón’s safe enough, it’s some way away.’

A militiawoman, no more than eighteen, came up and put her arm round Bernie.

‘¡Compadre! ¡Salud!’ She tightened her grip and shouted something at her comrades in Spanish, making them laugh and cheer. Barbara didn’t understand but Bernie reddened.

‘My friend and I have to go,’ he said apologetically. The militiawoman pouted. Bernie took Barbara’s arm with his good hand and steered her through the crowd.

OUTSIDE IN the Puerta del Sol he kept hold of her arm. Barbara’s heart beat faster. The setting autumn sun cast a red glow over the posters of Lenin and Stalin. Trams clanked through the square.

‘Did you understand what they were saying?’ Bernie asked.

‘No. My Spanish isn’t up to much.’