‘A bit grim, actually. They’ve moved me on to trying to get some children evacuated across the lines. Most of them are orphans. That’s always ghastly.’ She turned away, tears pricking unexpectedly at her eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’ve had a long day and this new work brings back – bad memories.’

‘Do you want to talk about it?’ he asked, with gentle curiosity.

She decided to tell him. Cordelia was right, it was no use just bottling it all up. ‘When I was working in Madrid there was this man – an Englishman in the International Brigades, actually. We were together over last winter. Then he went to the Jarama. Missing believed killed.’

Sandy nodded. ‘I’m very sorry.’

‘It’s only been nine months, it’s hard to get over.’ She sighed. ‘It’s a common enough story in Spain these days, I know.’

He offered her a cigarette, lit it for her. ‘One of the volunteers?’

‘Yes, Bernie was a Communist. Though he wasn’t working class, not really; he’d got a scholarship to a public school, he spoke like you. I found out later the party thought he might be ideologically suspect because of his complicated class origins. Not enough of a man of steel.’

She looked at Sandy and was surprised to see that he had leaned back in his seat and was looking at her with an intent, frowning stare.

‘Which public school did he go to?’ he asked quietly.

‘A place called Rookwood, in Sussex.’

‘His last name wasn’t Piper, by any chance?’

‘Yes.’ It was her turn to be shocked. ‘Yes, that’s right. Did you—’

‘I was at Rookwood for a while. I knew Piper. Not very well, but I knew him. I don’t suppose he ever mentioned me?’ Sandy laughed, a strange forced bark. ‘The bad hat of the form.’

‘No. He didn’t talk about his school much. Only that he wasn’t happy there.’

‘No. We had that in common, I remember.’

‘Were you friends?’ Barbara’s heart had leapt, it was as though a part of Bernie himself had returned.

Sandy hesitated. ‘Not really. Like I said, I didn’t know him well.’ He shook his head. ‘God, this is a coincidence.’

She smiled. ‘It’s like fate. Meeting someone who knew him.’

THE FACT SANDY had known Bernie, even if they hadn’t been friends, drew Barbara to him. They took to meeting every Thursday in the bar for drinks. She found herself looking forward to those nights. Cordelia had gone back to the front and these were her only nights out now. She had left one morning, giving Barbara a quick hug and refusing an offer to help carry her bags to the station. Barbara had thanked her for helping her begin to recover a little, but Cordelia had smiled and said that she would have done the same for anyone, her faith and love of God required it of her. The impersonal reply had hurt Barbara, left her feeling very alone again.

She learned that Sandy had known Harry, too, been his friend if not Bernie’s. He puzzled her in some ways. He was enigmatic, saying next to nothing about himself. He had no tours on at the moment but he stayed on in Burgos, trying to set up some business, he said. He would never tell her what. He was always immaculately dressed. Barbara wondered if he had a girlfriend somewhere but he never mentioned anyone. It crossed her mind that he might be a pansy but he didn’t seem to be. He was lonely too, though, you could see that.

One Thursday in December Barbara hurried to the cafe through cold relentless rain that hammered down from the darkened sky. When she arrived Sandy was already there, sitting at their usual table with a man in Falange uniform. Their heads were bent together, and although she couldn’t hear what they were saying, Barbara could tell they were arguing. She hesitated, rain dripping from her coat to the floor. Sandy, seeing her, waved her over.

‘Sorry, Barbara, I was just finishing some business.’

The Falangist stood up. He glanced at her. He was a middle-aged man with a stern face. He looked down at Sandy.

‘Business that should be for Spaniards, señor,’ he said. ‘Spanish business, Spanish profits.’ He bowed curtly to Barbara and walked away, heels clacking on the floorboards. Sandy looked after him, his face set and angry. She sat down, embarrassed. Sandy pulled himself together, gave a brittle laugh.

‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘Plan I had for some work, it’s fallen through. They don’t seem too keen on enterprise here.’ He sighed. ‘Never mind. Back to the tours, I suppose.’

He got Barbara a drink and came back to the table.

‘Perhaps you should think about going home,’ she said. ‘I’ve been wondering about what I’ll do when the war ends. I don’t think I want to go back to Geneva.’

He shook his head. ‘I don’t want to go back,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ve nobody there. England’s stifling.’

‘I know what you mean.’ She raised her glass. ‘To rootlessness.’

He smiled. ‘To rootlessness. You know, that first night we met, I thought, there’s a girl who stands apart, watching. Like me.’

‘Did you?’

‘Yes.’

She sighed. ‘I don’t like myself very much,’ she said. ‘That’s why I stand apart.’

‘Because you’re angry with Bernie?’

‘With Bernie? No. It’s not that. He made me like myself a little. For a while.’

Sandy looked at her seriously. ‘You shouldn’t leave it to other people to make you like yourself. I know, I was the same once.’

‘You?’ She was surprised. He always seemed so confident, so sure of himself.

‘Only before I was old enough to think for myself.’

She took a deep breath. ‘I had a bad time at school. I was bullied.’ She paused but he only nodded encouragingly. She told him the story. ‘I hear their voices in my head sometimes, you know. No, not hear them, that would mean I’m mad, but I remember them. When I’m tired and make mistakes at work. Telling me I’m ugly, speccy four-eyes, no good. More since Bernie died.’ She bowed her head. ‘I don’t talk about it. Only Bernie knew.’

‘Then I am privileged you’ve told me.’

She didn’t look up. ‘I feel I can tell you things. I don’t know why.’

‘Look up,’ he said quietly. ‘Look up at me, don’t be afraid.’

She raised her head, smiling bravely, blinking back tears.

‘Tell them to get lost,’ he said. ‘When you hear them, tell them they’re wrong and you’ll show them all. Not out loud but in your head. That’s what I did. With my parents, masters, telling me I was destined to go to the devil.’

‘Did it work? Yes, it must have – you believe in yourself, don’t you?’

‘You have to. You have to decide what you want to be and then go there. Don’t listen to other people’s opinion of you. Everyone’s looking for someone to put down. It makes them feel safe.’

‘Not everyone. I’m not.’

‘All right. Most people. Can I tell you something?’

‘If you like.’

‘You won’t be offended?’

‘No.’

‘You don’t make the best of yourself. It’s as though you don’t want to be respected. Just put a little effort into your clothes, your hair, you could be a very attractive woman.’

She lowered her head again.

‘That was the other thing I thought, the night we met.’ She felt the tips of his fingers touch hers. There was a moment’s silence. She had a vivid memory of the church, Bernie kissing her. She pulled her hand away, looked up.

‘I’m not – I’m not ready for this. After Bernie, I don’t think I can ever—’

‘Oh, come on, Barbara,’ he said gently. ‘Don’t tell me you believe that romantic stuff about there only being one person for everyone.’

‘I think I do, actually.’ She wanted to go, the turmoil of feelings inside her made her feel sick. He raised a hand.

‘All right. Forget it.’

‘I just want to be friends, Sandy.’

‘You need someone to look after you, Barbara.’ He smiled. ‘I’ve always wanted someone to look after.’

‘No, Sandy. No. Just friends.’

He nodded. ‘All right. All right. Let me look after you a bit, anyway.’