‘Seems to be. His hand was shaking a little. But he’s the same old Harry. Formal, very serious. He doesn’t know what to make of Spain.’ He smiled and shook his head indulgently. Barbara looked at him. Harry. Bernie’s friend. She forced her face into a smile.

‘You were good friends at school, weren’t you?’

‘Yes. He’s a good chap.’

‘You know, he’s the only person from England you ever speak of with affection.’

Sandy shrugged. ‘I’ve invited him round for Tuesday night. Sebastian’s bringing that awful Jenny with him, I’m afraid. Are you all right?’

She had come out in a scarlet flush. ‘Yes, it was just a surprise.’ She swallowed.

‘I can put him off if you’d rather. If it brings things back. ’

‘No. No, it would be marvellous to see him.’

‘Well, I must go up and change.’ He left the room. Barbara closed her eyes, remembering those terrible days after Bernie went missing. Harry had helped her then, but it had been Sandy who had saved her. She felt ashamed again.

THE HALL WAS nearly full, a buzz of excited chatter. Barbara looked round. Everyone was in their best clothes, even the numerous women in full mourning wore dresses of black silk and some had lacy mantillas hanging over their foreheads. The men were in evening dress or military or Falange uniforms. There was a sprinkling of clerics in black or red robes. Barbara had changed into a white evening dress with a green brooch that set off her eyes, and a white fur stole.

The hall had been refurbished for its first performance since the Civil War. The walls and white fluted pillars were freshly painted, the seats covered with new red plush. Sandy was in his element, smiling at acquaintances. He nodded to a colonel as he passed with his wife. ‘They can put on a show when they want to,’ he whispered.

‘I suppose it’s a sign of things getting back to normal.’

Sandy read from the programme. ‘“El concierto de Aranjuez. To celebrate Señor Rodrigo’s return from exile, his new work is a reflection on past glories amid the peaceful gardens of the Palace of Aranjuez.” We’ll have to drive down one weekend and see the palace, lovey.’

‘That would be nice.’

The hall was filling up. The orchestra was practising, shafts of music piercing the air. People glanced up at the empty royal box.

‘The Generalísimo’s not here yet,’ Sandy whispered.

There was a flurry of activity as two soldiers led a couple in evening dress to their seats in a neighbouring box. Both were very tall, the woman statuesque with long blonde hair, the man with a bald head and an eagle-like nose. There was a swastika armband on his evening jacket. Barbara recognized his face from the newspapers. Von Stohrer, the German ambassador.

Sandy nudged her arm. ‘Don’t stare, lovey.’

‘I hate seeing that – emblem.’

‘Spain’s neutral, lovey. Just ignore them. He took her arm and indicated a tall middle-aged woman in black sitting nearby, talking quietly to a female companion. ‘There’s the marquesa. Let’s go and introduce ourselves.’ He steered her down the aisle. ‘Don’t mention her husband, by the way,’ he whispered. ‘The peasants on one of his estates fed him to his pigs in ’36. Very nasty.’ Barbara shuddered slightly. He often spoke lightly of the horrors people had suffered in the Civil War.

Sandy bowed to the marquesa. Barbara wasn’t sure how to greet her so she curtsied, receiving a little smile in return. The marquesa was about fifty, with a kindly face that must once have been pretty but was now seamed into wrinkled sadness.

‘Your grace,’ Sandy began. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. Alexander Forsyth. This is my wife, Señora Barbara. Forgive this intrusion, but Señor Cana told me you are seeking volunteers for your orphanage.’

‘Yes, he spoke to me. I understand you are a nurse, señora.’

‘I haven’t done any nursing for years, I’m afraid.’

The marquesa smiled gravely. ‘Those skills are never forgotten. Many of the children in our orphanage are ill, or were injured in the war. So many orphans in Madrid.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘No parents or homes or schooling, some of them begging in the streets.’

‘Where is the orphanage, your grace?’

‘Near Atocha, in a building the church gave us. The nuns help with the teaching, but we need more medical help. The nursing orders have so many calls upon them still.’

‘Of course.’

‘Do you think you could help us, señora?’

Barbara thought of the barefoot wild-faced urchins she saw roaming the streets. ‘Yes. I’d like to.’

The marquesa put a finger to her chin. ‘Forgive me asking, señora, but you are English. Are you a Catholic?’

‘No. No, I’m afraid not. I was baptized an Anglican.’ Barbara laughed awkwardly. Her parents had never gone to church. And what would the marquesa think if she knew she and Sandy weren’t even married?

‘The church authorities may need persuading. But we need nurses, Señora Forsyth. I can speak to the bishop, perhaps telephone you?’

Sandy spread his hands. ‘We quite understand.’

‘I will see what can be done. It would be so good if you could help us.’ She inclined her head, indicating the interview was over. Barbara curtsied again and followed Sandy down the aisle.

‘She’ll do it,’ Sandy said. ‘The marquesa has got a lot of clout.’

‘I don’t see why my religion should be a problem. The Church of England’s nothing to be ashamed of.’

He rounded on her, suddenly angry. ‘You weren’t bloody brought up in the heart of it,’ he snapped. ‘You didn’t have to live with those hypocrites day in day out. At least with the Catholics, you know where you are.’

She had forgotten the Church was such a raw nerve. Like mention of his family, it could make Sandy turn suddenly.

‘All right, all right. I’m sorry.’

Sandy had turned away; he was looking at a tall balding man in a general’s uniform standing nearby. The soldier was staring back disapprovingly. He raised his eyebrows slightly and walked away. Sandy turned to Barbara, a trapped, angry look on his face.

‘Now see what you’ve done,’ he muttered. ‘Made me look a fool in front of Maestre. He heard.’

‘What do you mean? Who’s Maestre?’

‘An opponent of the Min of Mines project. It doesn’t matter. Sorry. Look, lovey, you know not to get me started on the Church, eh? Come on, they want us to sit down.’

Flunkeys in eighteenth-century dress were moving through the crowd urging people to their seats. The hall was full now. Sandy led them to their row, near the middle, next to a man in Falange uniform. Barbara recognized him: Otero, one of Sandy’s business associates. He was some sort of mining engineer. He had a round clerkly face, but the olive eyes above the starched blue shirt were keen and hard. She didn’t like him.

‘Alberto.’ Sandy laid his hand on the man’s shoulder.

‘Hola, amigo. Señora.’

There was a susurrating murmur from the crowd. At the far end of the hall a door opened and a bevy of flunkeys bowed in a middle-aged couple. Barbara had heard that Franco was a small man but was surprised how tiny, even delicate, he looked. He wore a general’s uniform with a broad red sash round his paunchy middle. He held his arms stiffly at his sides, moving them back and forth as though leading a parade. His balding head gleamed under the lights. Doña Carmen, walking behind, was slightly taller than her husband, a tiara in her jet back hair. Her long haughty face was made for the regal expression it wore. There seemed something posed, though, about the stoniness of the Generalísimo’s face, the little mouth set hard under the wispy moustache, and the surprisingly large eyes staring ahead as he marched past the stage

The Falangists in the audience sprang to their feet, stretching out their arms in the Fascist salute. ‘¡Jefe!’ they called out. The rest of the audience and the orchestra followed. Sandy nudged Barbara. She stared at him, she hadn’t expected to have to do this but he nodded urgently. She rose reluctantly and stood with arm extended although she could not bring herself to join the shouting. Making the gesture felt awful, shameful.