The old woman tried to heave herself up. ‘You are kind to us.’

‘De nada,’ Harry said awkwardly. The little boy stared at him with fearful eyes. Harry looked round the room again, taking in the musty smell, the stains of damp under the window. He felt ashamed of his own wealth and security.

‘Señora Avila was hovering about again when Señor Brett arrived,’ Sofia told her mother.

‘That beata,’ the old woman slurred. ‘She thinks if she tells enough tales to the priests, God will make her a saint.’

Sofia reddened. ‘Would you mind leaving first, Señor Brett? If we are seen leaving together there will be talk.’

‘Of course,’ Harry said, uncomfortably.

Enrique heaved himself up. ‘Thank you again, señor.’

Harry said his goodbyes and walked slowly back to the tram stop in the Puerta de Toledo. He watched the ground for potholes and the coverless drains that sent a sickly stench up into the street. If you did not watch out, you could break a leg. He felt sad that now he might just get a doctor’s bill, and that would be the end of it. They would not expect him to come back. But somehow, he decided, he would see Sofia again.

THE FOLLOWING MONDAY was a busy day at the embassy. Harry had arranged to meet Milagros Maestre at the Prado at four but a press release from the embassy about British victories in North Africa needed translating into Spanish and he was a quarter of an hour late.

He had rung her at the weekend. He hadn’t wanted to but he couldn’t just leave it, it would be rude; Tolhurst had said it might annoy Maestre and they couldn’t afford that. Milagros sounded delighted and immediately accepted his invitation.

He had visited the Prado before, with Bernie one afternoon in 1931. It had been bustling with activity then but now the huge building was quiet. He bought his ticket and passed through into the main hall. There were hardly any visitors, fewer than the attendants who paced slowly round, keys clinking at their belts and footsteps echoing hollowly. The light was poor and in the dull winter afternoon the building had a gloomy, abandoned feel.

He half ran down the steps to the cafe where he had arranged to meet Milagros. She was sitting at the only occupied table, at the far end of the cafe. He was surprised to see a man sitting opposite her. The man turned and Harry recognized Maestre’s companion from the ball, Lieutenant Gomez. There was a frown on his hard square face. Milagros smiled, looking relieved.

‘Ah, Señor Brett,’ Gomez said reprovingly. ‘We were beginning to wonder if you were coming.’

‘I’m so sorry, I was held up at the embassy.’ He turned to Milagros. ‘Please forgive me.’

‘It is nothing,’ she said. ‘Please, Alfonso, it is nothing.’ She was wearing an expensive fur coat and her brown hair was freshly set in a permanent wave. She was dressed as a grown woman but Harry thought again how child-like her plump face was.

Gomez grunted. He stubbed out a cigarette and rose. ‘I will leave you. Milagros, I will see you in the entrance at half past five. Good afternoon, Señor Brett.’ His look was cold as he shook hands. Harry remembered the basket of roses Maestre was supposed to have presented to the nuns, with the Moroccan heads in the middle. He wondered if Gomez had been there.

He sat opposite Milagros. ‘I’m afraid I’ve offended him.’

She shook her head. ‘Don Alfonso is too protective. He takes me everywhere, he is my chaperone. Do girls still have chaperones in England?’

‘No. Not really.’

She pulled a packet of cigarettes from her pocket. Good cigarettes, Lucky Strike, not the poisonous things Sofia had been smoking. He had found himself thinking of Sofia all over the weekend.

‘Would you like one, Señor Brett?’

He smiled. ‘No thanks. And call me Harry.’

Milagros blew out a long draught of smoke. ‘Ah, that is better. They don’t like me smoking, they think I am too young.’ She blushed. ‘They think it is a sign of bad morals.’

‘All the women I know smoke.’

‘Would you like a coffee?’

‘Not just now, thanks, maybe after we’ve seen the pictures?’

‘That would be nice. I will finish this then.’ She smiled nervously. ‘It is a treat for me to smoke in public.’ She blew out a blue cloud of smoke, angling her face away from him.

Harry didn’t mind visiting art galleries if he didn’t have to stay too long, but he wasn’t really an enthusiast. The sense of the Prado’s cavernous emptiness grew as they walked through the echoing galleries. Most of them were largely bare, empty spaces on the wall where the pictures had been lost or stolen during the Civil War. Black-uniformed guards sat on chairs in the corners, reading Arriba.

Milagros was even more ignorant of art than Harry. They would stop before one and he or she would make some stilted remark and move on.

In the Goya room the dark horror of the ‘Pinturas Negras’ seemed to make her uneasy. ‘He paints cruel things,’ she said quietly, looking at the ‘Witches Sabbath’.

‘He saw a lot of war. I think we’ve done nearly everything now – would you like a coffee?’

She smiled at him gratefully. ‘Oh yes. Thank you.’

The galleries had been cold but the cafeteria was overheated. When he brought two cups of bad coffee over to their table she had taken off her coat, releasing an overpowering musk of expensive perfume. She had put on far too much. He felt suddenly sorry for her.

‘I should like to see the galleries in London,’ Milagros said. ‘I should like to see all of London. My mother says it is a great city.’

‘Has she been there?’

‘No, but she knows all about it. My parents love England.’

Spaniards didn’t like their daughters going out with foreigners, Harry knew, but in these times a place in England would be a desirable destination in the eyes of someone like Maestre. He looked into her plump earnest face.

‘Every country looks better from a distance.’

‘Perhaps.’ Milagros looked downcast. ‘But it must be better than Spain, here everything is so poor and dirty, so inculto.’

Harry thought of Sofia and her maimed family in that flat. ‘Your father has a fine house.’

‘But it is all so insecure. We had to flee Madrid during the war, you know. Now there is this new war hanging over us, what if we lose everything again?’ She looked sad for a moment, then smiled again. ‘Tell me more about England. I have heard the countryside is pretty.’

‘Yes, it is very green.’

‘Even in summer?’

‘Especially then. Green grass, lots of big, broad trees.’

‘Madrid used to be full of trees. When we came back the Reds had cut them all down for firewood.’ She sighed. ‘I was happier in Burgos.’

‘Things are pretty insecure in England too now. It was different before the war.’ He smiled. ‘I remember at school, there was nothing nicer than a long game of cricket on a summer afternoon.’ He had a vision of the green playing fields, the boys in cricket whites, the clop of bat and ball. It was like a dream, as far away as the world his parents’ photograph had been taken in.

‘I have heard of cricket.’ Milagros laughed nervously, looking more like a plump schoolgirl than ever. ‘But I do not know how it is played.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘I am sorry, this afternoon – I do not know anything about paintings, either.’

‘Neither do I, really,’ he replied awkwardly.

‘It was just, I had to think of somewhere we might go. But if you like we could go out to the country some time, I could show you the Guadarrama mountains in winter. Alfonso could take us in the car.’

‘Yes, yes perhaps.’ She was blushing, there was no doubt about it, she was soft on him. Oh hell, Harry thought. He looked at the wall clock. ‘It’s time to go,’ he said. ‘Alfonso will be waiting. Mustn’t annoy him again.’