She leaned her head on her hand, hiding her face. They sat there in silence. The rain hissed down outside.

AUTUMN TURNED to winter. There were rumours of a new Nationalist offensive that would end the war. For a while Burgos was full of Italian soldiers, then they disappeared again.

Sandy kept his word; he made no more romantic overtures. She didn’t feel the same towards him as she had towards Bernie, that was impossible. Yet almost despite herself, she felt thrilled and excited that another man had found her attractive. She realized that part, a small part, of her grief had been for herself, that her only chance of love had come and gone. As though his declaration had unlocked something, she began to think of him as a man, a large strong man.

In mid-December the news came that the Republicans had preempted Franco’s offensive with one of their own at Teruel, far to the east. The weather was cold, there was snow on the ground in Burgos, and in the office they heard of soldiers having frostbitten feet amputated on the battlefield. The Red Cross office was busy again.

‘You should give it up,’ Sandy said to her when they met that Thursday evening. ‘It’s wearing you out.’ He looked at her with concern but also with that hint of impatience she had seen recently. Last week, for the first time, he had tried to take her hand as they left the bar. They had had more than usual to drink, he had kept ordering more wine. She had pulled it away.

She sighed. ‘It’s what I do. I’ve cancelled my Christmas leave to help.’

‘I thought you were going home. To Birmingham?’

‘I was. But I didn’t really want to, I’m glad of the excuse.’ She looked at him. ‘What about you? You never talk about your family, Sandy, all I know is you have a father and a brother.’

‘And a mother, somewhere, if she’s still alive. I told you, I’ve broken with them. They belong in the past.’ He looked at her. ‘I am going away for a couple of weeks, though.’

‘Oh?’ She felt her heart sink; she had relied on him being with her over Christmas.

‘Business opportunity. Importing cars from England. They don’t like outsiders getting involved in their deals, I’ve learned that, but they’ll need someone with English for this job. I’m going up to San Sebastián to look into it.’

She remembered the Falangist he had had the argument with. ‘I see. It sounds a good opportunity. But it’s a bad time of year to travel, and the roads will be full of soldiers, with this battle—’

‘Not the roads north. I’ll try and get back for Christmas Day.’

‘Yes. It would be nice to celebrate it together.’

‘I’ll try.’

HE WASN’T THERE, though. The call to the office she had hoped for never came. It affected her more than she would have expected. On Christmas Day she went for a walk alone through the snowy streets, looking enviously into the houses with their Nativity scenes in the gardens, the families going in and out of services in Burgos’s innumerable churches. She felt a sudden angry impatience with herself. Why didn’t she take what Sandy had offered her? What was she waiting for? Old age? She thought of Bernie and sorrow clutched at her heart again, but Bernie was gone.

HE PHONED HER at the office two days after Christmas. ‘Sorry I took so long,’ he said.

She smiled at the sound of his voice. ‘How did it go?’

‘Very well. You’re talking to a man with an import licence signed by the trade minister himself. Listen, want to go to the bar tonight? I know it’s not Thursday.’

She laughed. ‘Yes, that would be nice. Usual time?’

‘See you at eight. We’ll have some champagne, celebrate the deal.’

She wore her new coat, the green one Sandy had picked for her that he said went well with her hair. He was there before her as usual, a large brightly coloured parcel on the table. He smiled.

‘A belated Christmas present. To say sorry for being away so long.’

She opened it. Inside was a brooch in the shape of a flower. It was made of gold, little green stones glinting in the petals.

‘Oh, Sandy,’ she said. ‘It’s wonderful. Are those—’

He smiled. ‘Emeralds. Just little ones.’

‘You shouldn’t, it must have cost the earth.’

‘Not if you know where to look.’

‘Thank you.’ Her lip trembled. ‘I’m not worth it.’

‘I say you are.’ He reached out and took her hand. This time she didn’t withdraw.

He looked into her eyes. ‘Take off your glasses,’ he said. ‘I want to see your face without your glasses.’

ON THE WEDNESDAY after her walk with Harry, Barbara went to meet Luis for the third time. It was a warm, sunny autumn day. As she walked down the Castellana dry leaves crunched underfoot and there was a faint tang of smoke from leaves burning somewhere. Barbara walked more and more lately; it helped her to think and she increasingly disliked being in the house.

Her money had not come from England and she was beginning to despair of it ever arriving. If Luis provided her with the proof she had asked for that Bernie was in the camp, she would have to chase it up somehow.

He was at the cafe already. He was smoking a good brand of cigarettes and she wondered if some of the money she had given him for the journey to Cuenca had gone on them; she didn’t know how much the fare was. She only had his word, of course, that he had actually been anywhere.

He got up and shook her hand, formally polite as ever, then went and fetched her a cup of coffee. The cafe was quiet, the one-legged veteran with the sewn-up trouser-leg alone at the bar.

She lit a cigarette, glancing deliberately at his own packet. ‘Did you get to Cuenca?’ she asked.

‘I did, señora.’ He smiled. ‘I met Agustín in the town again.’ He leaned forward. ‘Agustín managed to get a look at Bernard Piper’s file, though it was not easy. He told me many details.’

She nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘He was born in a place called the Island of Dogs, in London. He came to fight for the Republic in 1936 and suffered a small arm wound in the battles in the Casa de Campo.’

Barbara’s heart quickened. There was no way Luis, or Markby, could have known about that wound other than by looking at an official record.

‘When he recovered he was sent to the Jarama, wounded and taken prisoner.’

‘Wounded?’ she asked sharply. ‘How badly?’

‘Not serious. A flesh wound in the thigh.’ Luis smiled. ‘He bore a charmed life, it seemed.’

‘Not that charmed, Luis, if he ended up in the camp.’

‘Agustín described him,’ Luis continued. ‘He is a tall man, broad in the shoulders, with fair hair. Probably a very handsome man, Agustín said, though now of course he has a scrubby beard and lice.’ Barbara winced. ‘He is known to be a difficult man, his spirit is unbowed. Agustín has told him to be careful, that better times may be coming, though no more than that for now.’ Luis smiled wryly. ‘He says your man has duende. Courage, class. He thinks he has the will to try and escape. Many in the camp have lost the will, or the energy.’

Barbara’s heart was thumping wildly. She knew now it was all true, she was certain. Luis put his head on one side. ‘Are you satisfied, señora? Satisfied that I have told you the truth?’

‘Yes. Yes, I am. Thank you, Luis.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I haven’t had the money through from my bank in England yet. It’s difficult getting money out of the country now.’

He looked at her seriously. ‘It is very important to get this done before the bad weather sets in. The winters are hard up there, and start early. It will be getting cold already.’

‘And the diplomatic situation may change. I know. I’ll chase them, I’ll write again today. What if I meet you here, a week today again. I’ll have the money by then, one way or another. If it comes sooner, is there any way I can get in touch with you?’

‘I have no telephone, señora. Could I telephone you?’