‘I’m not going to treat Francisco like a leper. With good food and the right medicine you can cure TB.’

‘I know.’ She felt ashamed of herself.

‘The Spanish working class is the best in the world. They know what it’s like to fight oppression and they’re not afraid to. They practise real solidarity with each other and they’re internationalists, they believe in socialism and they work for it. They’re not greedy materialists like most British trade unionists. They’re the best of Spain.’

‘I’m sorry. I just – oh, I couldn’t understand what they said, and – oh, I’m being bourgeois, aren’t I?’ She looked at him nervously but his anger had evaporated.

‘At least you’re starting to see it. It’s more than most people can.’

Barbara could have understood if Bernie had just wanted her as a friend. But he was always trying to take her hand in his and twice he had tried to kiss her. Why, she asked, why did he want her when he could have had anybody? She could only think it was because she was English, that despite all his internationalism he wanted an Englishwoman. She dreaded that his telling her earlier there was nothing wrong with her appearance had been a ploy to get her into bed. She knew men weren’t fussy; she had been caught that way once and that was the worst memory, one that filled her mind with shame. Her longings and confusion ate her up.

Bernie’s arm was healing, out of plaster though still in a sling. He reported to military headquarters every week. When he was fit, he said, they were going to transfer him to a new training camp for English volunteers in the south. She dreaded the day.

‘I offered to help with new fighters who’ve come across from England,’ he told her. ‘But they say that’s all taken care of.’ He frowned. ‘I think they’re worried my damned public-school accent might put off the working-class boys who are coming over.’

‘Poor Bernie,’ she said. ‘Caught between two classes.’

‘I’ve never been caught,’ he said bitterly. ‘I know where my class loyalties are.’

ONE SATURDAY early in December they went for a walk to the northern suburbs. The district was full of the houses of the rich, big villas set in their own gardens. It was very cold; there had been a light dusting of snow the night before. Most of it had melted, leaving the air chill and damp, but there were still white patches on the broad roofs of the houses.

Many of the suburb’s inhabitants had fled to the Nationalist zone or been imprisoned and some of the houses were shut up. Others had been occupied by squatters, the gardens left to run wild or planted with vegetables; chickens and pigs roamed in some of them. The mess offended Barbara’s sense of tidiness but she was beginning now to see things with Bernie’s eyes: these people needed homes and food.

They paused before the gates of a big house where washing hung from the windows. A girl of fifteen or so was milking a cow tied to a tree in the middle of a lawn speckled with cowpats. When the girl saw Bernie’s military greatcoat, she looked up and gave the clenched-fist salute.

‘They’ll have had their houses shot up by Franco’s artillery, or been bombed out,’ Bernie said.

‘I wonder where the original owners went.’

‘They’ve gone, that’s what matters.’

A sound made them look up at the sky. A big German bomber was ploughing along, accompanied by a couple of small fighters. Three red-nosed Russian planes circled them, the manoeuvres leaving trails of white vapour stretching across the blue sky. Barbara craned her neck to look. The display seemed beautiful until you realized what was happening up there.

A church stood at the end of the street, a heavy nineteenth-century Gothic building. The doors were open and a banner hung outside. Establo de la revolución. Revolution stables.

‘Come on,’ Bernie said. ‘Let’s take a look.’

The interior had been wrecked, most of the pews removed and the stained-glass windows broken. Statues had been pulled from their niches and flung to the floor; bales of straw were stacked in a corner. The back of the church had been railed off and a flock of sheep penned in. They were closely packed together and as Bernie and Barbara approached they shuffled away in fear, bleating and jostling, their eyes with the strange sideways-pointing pupils wide. Bernie made soothing noises, trying to calm them.

Barbara approached the heap of broken statues. A plaster head of the Virgin, eyes full of painted tears, looked up reproachfully from the floor, reminding her of the convent where the children had been billeted. She felt Bernie at her elbow.

‘Tears of the Virgin,’ she said with an awkward laugh.

‘The Church has always supported the oppressors. They call Franco’s rebellion a crusade, bless the fascist soldiers. You can’t blame the people for being angry.’

‘I’ve never understood religion, all that dogma. But it’s sad.’

She felt his good arm circle her body and pull her round. She was so surprised she had no time to react as he leant forward. She felt the warmth of his cheek and then a hot moistness as he kissed her. She pulled away, staggering back.

‘What the hell d’you think you’re doing?’

He stood looking shamefaced, a lick of blond hair falling across his brow.

‘You wanted it,’ he said. ‘I know you did. Barbara, I’ll be at this training camp in a few weeks. I might never see you again.’

‘So what d’you want, a bit of sex with an Englishwoman? Well not with me!’ Her voice rose, ringing around the church. The sheep, frightened, bleated plaintively.

He stepped towards her, shouting back now. ‘You know it’s not like that! You know how I feel, you must, are you blind?’

‘Blind with my stupid glasses, is that it?’

‘Can’t you see I love you!’ he shouted.

‘Liar!’

She ran out of the church and down the path. As she went through the gate she skidded on a patch of wet snow and collapsed sobbing against the stone wall. She heard Bernie come up behind her. He laid a hand on her shoulder.

‘Why should I be a liar? Why? I do love you. You feel the same, I’ve seen it, why won’t you believe me?’

She turned to face him. ‘Because I’m ugly and clumsy and … No!’ She buried her face in her hands, sobbing wildly. A small boy walking by, barefoot and carrying a piglet, stopped and stared at them.

‘Why do you hate yourself so?’ Bernie asked gently.

She wanted to scream. She wiped her eyes, pushed him away, and began walking down the street. Then the little boy shouted, ‘Look! Look!’ Barbara turned; he had put the squealing piglet under one arm and was pointing excitedly upwards with the other. High in the sky one of the German fighters had been hit and was plunging to earth. There was a loud crump from some way off and the boy cheered. After a quick upward glance, Bernie hurried towards her.

‘Barbara, wait.’ He stepped in front of her. ‘Please, listen. Never mind sex, I don’t care about that, but I love you, I do love you.’

She shook her head.

‘Tell me you don’t feel the same and I’ll walk away now.’

Into Barbara’s head had come a picture of a dozen little girls, calling after her in the playground. ‘Speccy four-eyes, frizzy carrot hair!’

‘I’m sorry, it’s no use, I can’t – no.’

‘You don’t understand, you don’t see …’

Barbara turned to face him and her heart lurched at the pain and sadness in his face. Then she jumped, hearing a screaming noise from above. She looked up. The second German fighter had been hit and was falling towards them. Already it was terrifyingly close, flames pouring from its side in a long red-yellow trail. It fell like a stone; she saw the propellers, still turning, shiny as insects’ wings. Bernie was staring upward too. Barbara pushed him away and as he staggered back the air was filled with a giant roar and she saw the high wall of the house they were passing leap outwards at her. Something hit her head with a terrible smashing pain.