‘No.’

They crossed a couple of wooden planks laid over a trench. There were old rotten boots in the bottom, and a pile of rusty sardine tins labelled in Russian. On the lip of the trench a notice board displayed an arrow pointing in each direction. ‘Nosotros’ and ‘Ellos’. Us and them. In the distance the two women walked slowly on, still clinging to each other.

‘And then you met Sandy?’ Harry interrupted her thoughts.

‘Yes.’ She looked at him seriously. ‘He rescued me, you know.’

‘He told me he was out there doing tours of the battlefields.’

‘Yes. I was very lonely in Burgos. Then I met him at a party and he sort of – took me up. Supported me through everything.’

‘Quite a coincidence, meeting another Rookwood man.’

‘Yes. Though all the English people in Nationalist Spain met at one time or another. There weren’t many of us.’ She smiled. ‘Sandy said it was fate.’

‘He used to believe in fate. He told me he didn’t any more.’

‘I think he does, though he doesn’t want to. He’s a complex man.’

‘Yes. He is.’ They had come to another trench. ‘Watch these duckboards. Give me your arm.’

He took her hand and guided her over. Again, the ‘us’ and ‘them’ signs pointing in different directions.

‘He’s been very good to me,’ Barbara said. ‘Sandy.’

‘Sorry.’ Harry turned to her. ‘I didn’t hear. I’m still a bit deaf on that side.’ His expression was momentarily lost, confused.

‘I said Sandy’s been good to me. He’s persuaded me to do this voluntary work, he knew I needed something new.’ She wondered bitterly, is it guilt that makes me defend him like this?

‘Good.’ Harry’s tone was careful, neutral. Barbara thought with sudden surprise, he doesn’t like Sandy. Then why had he made friends with him again?

‘He’s trying to help some of the Jews who fled from France.’

‘Yes. He mentioned that.’

‘When the Germans invaded a lot of them fled down here with nothing but what they could carry. They try to get to Portugal and then on to America. They’re terrified of the Nazis. There’s a committee that tries to help them and Sandy’s on it.’

‘There was a Falange demonstration at the embassy recently, yelling anti-semitic slogans at the tops of their voices.’

‘The regime have to toe the Nazi line, but they let Sandy’s committee carry on so long as they’re discreet.’

Over in the distance the two women had stopped. One was crying, the other held her close. Barbara looked at Harry again. ‘Sandy and I aren’t really married, did he tell you that?’

He hesitated. ‘Yes.’

She reddened. ‘Perhaps you think we’re awful. But we – we weren’t ready for that step.’

‘I understand,’ he said awkwardly. ‘These aren’t normal times.’

‘Are you still with that girl, what was her name?’

‘Laura. No, that ended ages ago. I’m single at the moment.’ Harry looked at the Royal Palace in the distance. ‘Do you think you’ll stay in Spain?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know. I don’t know what the future will bring.’

He turned to her. ‘I hate it,’ he said with sudden passion. ‘I hate what Franco’s done. I used to have this idea of Spain, the romanticism of its winding streets and decayed buildings. I don’t know why, perhaps because when I came here in ’31 there was a spirit of hope, even among people with nothing, like the Mera family. Do you remember them?’

‘Yes. But Harry, those dreams, socialism, it’s all over—’

‘I went to the square where they lived last week, it had been bombed or shelled. Their flat was gone. There was a man – ’ he paused, then went on, his eyes bright with anger – ‘a man who was attacked by some dogs that had gone wild. I helped him, took him home. He lives in a tiny damp flat with his mother, she’s had a stroke but I don’t think she gets any care, and a little boy who went half mad when his parents were taken away, and his sister, this bright intelligent girl who was a medical student but works in a dairy now.’ He took a deep breath. ‘There’s the New Spain.’

She sighed. ‘I know, you’re right. I feel guilty at how we live, among all that. I don’t tell Sandy but I do.’

He nodded. He seemed calmer again, the anger gone. Barbara studied his face. She sensed there was more to his anger and disillusion than meeting a poor family, but she didn’t understand what.

He smiled suddenly. ‘Sorry to go on like that. Ignore me, I’m just tired.’

‘No. You’re right to remind me.’ She smiled. ‘Doesn’t look like you’re still neutral, though.’

He laughed bitterly. ‘No. Maybe not. Things change.’

They had arrived at the Manzanares, the little river that ran through the west of the city. Ahead was a bridge, then stairs leading up to the palace gardens.

‘We can get back to the palace from here,’ Barbara said.

‘Yes. I’d better get back to the embassy.’

‘Are you sure you’re all right, Harry?’ she asked suddenly. ‘You seem – I don’t know – preoccupied.’

‘I’m fine. It’s just, you know, Hendaye and everything. Everyone’s jumpy at the embassy.’ He smiled. ‘We must have dinner again. You could come round to my flat. I’ll give Sandy a ring.’

SANDY WAS HOME when Barbara returned to the house. He was in the salón, reading the paper and smoking one of the big cigars that filled the room with thick, heavy smoke.

‘Just got back?’ he asked.

‘Yes. We went for a walk in the Casa de Campo.’

‘What did you want to go there for? It’s still full of unexploded bombs.’

‘It’s safe now. Harry wanted to go.’

‘How was he?’

‘A bit down. I think Dunkirk affected him more than he lets on.’

Sandy smiled through the haze of smoke. ‘He needs to find himself a girl.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘What d’you want to do on Thursday? A dinner?’

‘What?’ She looked at him, puzzled.

‘It’s the third anniversary of the day we met. You hadn’t forgotten?’ He looked hurt.

‘No – no, of course not. Let’s have dinner somewhere, that would be good.’ She smiled. ‘Sandy, I’m a bit tired, I think I’ll go and lie down for a bit before dinner.’

‘Yes, all right.’ She could tell he was annoyed that she had forgotten the anniversary. It had completely slipped her mind.

When she went out Pilar was coming up the corridor. She looked at Barbara with those dark expressionless eyes. ‘Shall I make up the fire, señora? Only it is getting a little cold.’

‘See what Mr Forsyth thinks, Pilar. He’s in the lounge.’

‘Very well, señora.’ The girl raised her eyebrows a little; household matters were the mistress’s province. Barbara couldn’t be bothered. A heavy tiredness had descended on her on the way home from the meeting with Harry, she had to lie down. She went up and stretched out on the bed. She closed her eyes but her mind was whirling with images: Harry’s visit to Madrid after Bernie disappeared, the end of hope that Bernie was still alive, then Burgos, Burgos where she had met Sandy.

SHE HAD ARRIVED in the Nationalist capital in May 1937, as summer began, bright blue sunshine falling on brown ancient buildings. Crossing the lines was impossible; she had had to travel all the way from Madrid to France, then back again across the frontier with Nationalist Spain. On the way she had read a speech by Dr Marti, the venerable Red Cross statesman, to delegates in Spain. Do not choose sides, he had said, take only a clinical point of view of how best to help. That was what she must continue to do, she told herself. Travelling to Franco’s Spain wasn’t a betrayal of Bernie; she was going there to do her job, as she had in the Republican zone.

They put Barbara to work in the section that tried to send messages between family members left on different sides of the lines by the war. A lot of it was familiar administrative work, light compared to dealing with the prisoners and children. She knew from their solicitous manner that her colleagues knew about Bernie. She found herself resenting being treated with gentle sympathy, she who had always been in charge, the organizer. She developed a sharp, brittle manner with them.