‘Be quiet!’ Barbara snapped. The beata looked affronted. Sister Teresa folded her arms and looked on with interest as Barbara bent down to the girl.

‘I’m sorry,’ Barbara said gently. ‘It was an accident. Perhaps I could mend your burro.’

The girl rubbed the head against her cheek. ‘Fernandito, Fernandito – she killed him.’

‘Give him to me. I’ll sew him back together. I promise. What’s your name?’

The girl studied her suspiciously, unused to a kind tone. ‘Carmela,’ she whispered. ‘Carmela Mera Varela.’

Barbara felt a jolt in her stomach. Mera. The name of Bernie’s friends. And they had lived in Carabanchel. She remembered her visits three years ago – the big amiable father, the overworked mother, the boy with TB. There had been a little girl too, about eight then.

‘Do – do you have a family?’

The girl shook her head, biting her lip. ‘There was a big shell,’ she said. ‘Afterwards I found an empty cellar for me and Fernandito.’ She began to cry, quiet anguished sobs.

Barbara reached in but the girl wriggled away, still crying desperately. Barbara stood up.

‘Dear God, she must have been living wild for years.’ She knew she mustn’t say she knew her, knew her family. A Red family.

‘Might we perhaps get her out of there?’ Señora Blanco asked coldly.

Barbara knelt again. ‘Carmela, I promise the nuns won’t hurt you. They’ll feed you, give you warm clothes. You’ll be all right if you do what they say but they’ll be angry if you don’t come out. If you do, I promise I’ll mend your burro, sew him together. But you must come out.’

This time the child let Barbara pull her gently from under the bed. ‘Good, Carmela. Now, stand still, take your dress off so I can look at you. Yes, that’s right, give me Fernandito, I’ll take care of him.’

The child’s arms and legs were covered with eczema; Barbara wondered how she had survived. ‘She’s very undernourished. How did you get food to eat, Carmelcita?’

‘I beg.’ A look of defiance came into her eyes. ‘I take things.’

‘Come on,’ Sister Teresa said brusquely. ‘Get dressed and let’s get you registered. And no more fun and games. You’ll get some food if you behave. Otherwise it’ll be the cane.’

The child put on her dress. Sister Teresa laid a plump red hand firmly on her shoulder. As she was led firmly away, Carmela turned and gave Barbara an anguished look. ‘I’ll bring Fernandito in a day or two,’ Barbara called. ‘I promise.’ The door closed behind her.

Señora Blanco snorted. ‘All this rubbish.’ She bent down, picking up lumps of Fernandito’s stuffing. Squeezing them into a tight ball, she threw it into a wastebasket together with the other half of the donkey’s woolly skin. Barbara marched over and pulled it all out again, putting it in her pocket.

‘I promised I’d mend it.’

The beata snorted. ‘Filthy thing. They won’t let her keep it, you know.’ She stepped closer, her eyes narrowed. ‘Señora Forsyth, in all charity I wonder if you are suited to the work here. We cannot afford sentimentality in Spain now. Perhaps you should discuss it with Sister Inmaculada.’ With a toss of her tight curls, she walked out of the infirmary.

AT HOME that afternoon Barbara tried to sew the donkey back together. It was dirty and greasy and she had to be careful putting the stuffing back or it would end up looking shapeless. She used her strongest thread but she wasn’t sure it would withstand constant handling by a child. She couldn’t stop thinking about Carmela. Had she come from that family, Bernie’s friends? Were the others all dead?

Pilar came in to stoke the fire. She looked at Barbara oddly. Barbara supposed she must look strange, sitting there in her old clothes in the salón, sewing up a child’s toy with frantic concentration.

When she had finished she stood the donkey on the hearth. She hadn’t made a bad job. She poured herself a gin and tonic, lit a cigarette and sat looking at it. It had the meek enduring expression of a real burro.

At seven Sandy came in. He warmed his hands at the fire, smiling down at her. Barbara hadn’t bothered to put the overhead light on and, apart from a pool of light from the reading lamp in which cigarette smoke swirled, the room was dark.

Sandy looked sleek and comfortable. ‘It’s cold out,’ he said. He looked in surprise at the donkey. ‘What on earth’s that?’

‘That’s Fernandito.’

He frowned. ‘Who?’

‘It belongs to a child at the orphanage. It got torn when she was brought in.’

Sandy grunted. ‘You don’t want to get too involved with those children.’

‘I thought it was useful to you, me working there. The marquesa connection.’ She reached to the gin bottle on her sewing table and poured herself another. Sandy looked at her.

‘How many of those have you had?’

‘Only one. Want one?’

Sandy took a glass and sat opposite her. ‘I’m seeing Harry Brett again the day after tomorrow. I think I’m going to be able to bring him in on something.’

Barbara sighed. ‘Don’t involve him in anything shady, for God’s sake. He’d hate that. And he works for the embassy, they have to be careful.’

‘It’s just a business opportunity.’ He frowned at her.

‘If you say so.’ She never usually talked to him like this, but she was depressed and exhausted.

‘You don’t seem awfully interested in Harry,’ Sandy said. ‘I thought he was so wonderful to you when Piper went west.’

She stared at him without replying. There was a nasty look in his eyes for a moment, something angry and cruel. With his heavy features lit by the firelight he looked middle-aged and dissipated. He shifted in his chair, then smiled.

‘I told him you’d join us for coffee afterwards. Just the three of us.’

‘All right.’

He smiled again. ‘Funny chap, Harry,’ he went on reflectively. ‘Sometimes you don’t know what he’s thinking – he gets this quiet frowning look and you know he’s turning something over.’

‘I always found him very straightforward. D’you want the light on?’

His dark eyes fixed on her. ‘What’s the matter with you these days, Barbara? I thought doing some nursing might cheer you up but you’re gloomier than ever.’

She studied him. He didn’t look suspicious, just irritated. ‘If you saw the things I see at the orphanage, you’d be gloomy.’ She sighed. ‘Or would you? Maybe not.’

‘You’ll have to snap out of it. I’ve a lot on at the moment.’

‘I’m just tired, Sandy.’

‘You’re letting yourself go, look at that tatty old jumper.’

‘I wear it for the orphanage.’

‘Well, you’re not at the orphanage now, are you?’ He was annoyed, she could see. ‘It reminds me of when I first met you. And you need your hair waved again. I can see why those girls used to call you frizzy-hair. And you keep wearing those glasses.’

The strength of the pain and anger that rose inside her surprised Barbara. Very occasionally, if she crossed him, Sandy would strike out like this. He knew how to wound. It was hard to keep a tremor from her voice. She got up. ‘I’ll go up and change,’ she said.

Sandy gave his broad smile. ‘That’s more like it. I’ve got some papers to read – tell Pilar we’ll have dinner at eight.’

She left the salón. On the way upstairs she thought, when I’ve got Bernie out I’ll go back to England. Away from this terrible place, away from him.

LUIS WASN’T at the cafe when she arrived the next day. She looked in through the window and there were only a few workmen sitting at the bar. It was a cold grey afternoon.

She went to the counter and ordered a coffee. The fat old woman looked at her speculatively. ‘Another assignment, señora?’ she asked, then gave a wink. Barbara flushed and said nothing.

‘Your amigo is quite handsome, señora, sí? Your coffee.’

An old couple were sitting at one of the tables, hunched over empty cups. They had been here last time, Barbara thought, as she took the usual table and lit a cigarette. She studied them. They didn’t look like spies, just an old poor couple spending time in the cafe because it was warm. She sipped her coffee; it tasted like hot dirty water. She had been there ten minutes, getting more and more anxious, before Luis arrived. He was breathless and apologetic. He fetched a coffee and hurried over to her.