‘Yes. Her and Papa and Uncle Ernesto.’

‘Your uncle was a priest, wasn’t he?’

‘Yes. In Cuenca. We haven’t heard from him since the Civil War started. He may be dead; Cuenca was in the Republican zone. Do you mind, Harry, may I smoke?’

‘Of course.’ He took an ashtray from the coffee table and passed it to her. His hand trembled slightly, he saw.

‘Was it bad?’ she asked. ‘The war in France?’

‘Yes. A shell landed right beside me, killed the man I was with. I was deaf for a while and had these wretched panic attacks. It’s been much better recently. I fought it, I thought I’d beaten it, but it came back tonight.’

‘I wonder if you take enough care of yourself.’

‘I’m all right. I can’t complain, I get good rations and live in this big flat.’

‘Yes, it is nice.’ She looked around the room. ‘But it has a gloomy atmosphere somehow.’

‘It’s too big for me really. I rattle about a bit. It used to belong to a Communist official.’

‘Those people did themselves well.’ She sighed.

‘Sometimes I seem to feel his presence.’ Harry laughed self-consciously.

‘Madrid is full of ghosts now.’

All the lights went out, plunging them into total darkness except for the glow of the brasero. They both exclaimed, then Sofia said, ‘It is only another power cut.’

‘God, what a moment for that to happen.’

They both laughed.

‘I’ve got some candles in the kitchen,’ Harry said. ‘Give me a match to see by and I’ll fetch them. Unless you’d rather go home now?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘It is good to talk.’

Harry lit candles and set them in saucers. They cast a flickering yellow light over the room. Where it caught the candlelight Harry noticed again how her hair wasn’t quite black, there were elusive shades of brown there too. Her face was sad.

‘We are always getting cuts,’ she said. ‘We get used to it.’

Harry was silent a moment, then said, ‘I’ve seen more hardship here than I ever thought possible.’

‘Yes.’ Sofia sighed again. ‘Remember our beata, Señora Avila? She visited us yesterday. She says the priest is concerned we cannot afford to look after Paco properly; he wants us to let him go to the orphanage. The priest would not come himself as we do not go to church. That of course is the real reason they want Paco away from us. But they will not get him.’ Her mouth went hard for a moment. ‘Enrique will soon be able to work again. There may be a place for him at the dairy.’

‘I have a friend, an Englishwoman, she worked for a while in one of the orphanages. She said it was a bad place. She left.’

‘I have heard of children who kill themselves. That is what I fear for Paco. He is always so frightened. He hardly ever speaks, and only to us.’

‘Is there nobody who could – I don’t know – help him?’

She laughed bitterly. ‘Who? There is only us.’

‘I’m sorry.’

She leaned forward, her large eyes glinting in the candlelight. ‘You have no reason to be sorry. You have been kind. You care. The foreigners, and those who have money here, they shut their eyes to how people live. And those who have nothing are beaten down, apathetic. It is good to meet someone who cares.’ She gave a little smile. ‘Even if it makes you sad. You are a good man.’

Harry thought of Gomez, his terrified eyes. He shook his head. ‘No, I’m not. I’d like to be but I’m not.’ He put his head in his hands. He sighed deeply, then looked up at her. She smiled. Then he slowly put out his hand and took hers. ‘You are the good one,’ he said.

She did not move her hand. Her eyes softened. He leaned slowly towards her and put his lips to hers. Her dress made a rustling sound as she leaned forward and kissed him back, a long deep kiss with a sharp exciting tang of smoke. He pulled away.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘You’re alone in my flat, I didn’t mean—’

She smiled and shook her head. ‘No. I am glad. It was not hard to see how you felt. And I have been thinking of you since the first time you came, sitting in our salón looking so lost but wanting to help us.’ She lowered her head. ‘I did not want to feel this, our lives are complicated enough. That is why I did not get the doctor at first.’ She smiled. ‘Poor Enrique. You see, I am selfish really.’

He leaned forward and took her hand. It was small, warm, pulsing with life.

‘You’re the least selfish person I’ve ever met.’ Something in him still hesitated, he couldn’t quite believe this was happening.

‘Harry,’ she said.

‘You pronounce my name like no one else,’ he said with a little choking laugh.

‘It is easier to pronounce than the way the English say David.’

‘The boy from Leeds?’

‘Yes. We were together for a while. In war you have to take chances while you can. Perhaps I shock you. The Catholics would say I am an immoral woman.’

‘Never.’ He hesitated, then leaned forward and kissed her again.

BARBARA HAD HEARD that if you loved a person and then stopped loving them, sometimes it turned into hate. She hadn’t believed it but it was true. Sandy had said her heart was full of sentimental mush, but it wasn’t, it was full of loathing now.

She had to hide her feelings. It was Wednesday, and she had met Luis again; Agustín would be back from leave in three weeks’ time, on the fourth of December. As soon as he came back, Luis would go to Cuenca and finalize everything. The date for the escape would depend on the guards’ timetables but they should be able to do it before Christmas. During that time she had to make sure Sandy suspected nothing.

The house with its big rooms and expensive, immaculately clean furniture felt increasingly oppressive. Sometimes Barbara wanted to pull down the highly polished mirrors and smash them on the waxed tables. As she moved restlessly through the house or looked out at the wintry garden, she began wondering if she was going a little mad.

After their argument over the orphanage Barbara had once again made herself as agreeable and submissive as she could. The Sunday after their row Sandy went out for the morning in the car; business, he said. Barbara went for a walk and bought some Andalusian roses in an exclusive flower shop; they were expensive but they were Sandy’s favourites. She brought them in to dinner in a vase. He picked one up and sniffed it.

‘Very nice,’ he said flatly. ‘You’re out of the sulks, then?’ He was still in an angry mood.

She said quietly, ‘There’s no point in quarrelling.’

‘Your letter to Sister Inmaculada’s raised a few eyebrows. One or two people have asked if I’m harbouring a subversive.’

‘Look, Sandy, I don’t want to cause problems with your business friends. Why don’t I volunteer for something else, work at one of the veterans’ hospitals perhaps?’

He grunted. ‘They’re mostly run by the Falange. I don’t want you rowing with them next.’

‘So long as I don’t have to see children mistreated, that’s all.’

He looked at her, his eyes bleak and cold.

‘Most children are mistreated. It’s the way of the world. Unless you’re lucky, like my brother. You were mistreated, so was I.’

‘Not like that.’

‘It’s all mistreatment.’ He shrugged. ‘I’ll talk to Sebastian about the veterans.’

‘Thanks.’ She tried to sound grateful. Sandy grunted and bent his head to his plate.

He hadn’t approached her for sex since their row. The next afternoon, Barbara had gone down to the kitchen to speak to Pilar and on the stairs she had heard a laugh. Sandy was there, leaning on the table, smoking a cigarette and smiling, a lubricious smile. Pilar stood washing dishes at the sink, laughing too; when she caught sight of Barbara she blushed scarlet and bowed her head.

‘I’ve brought the shopping list, Pilar,’ Barbara said coldly. ‘I’ll leave it on the table.’

Afterwards she said nothing but he did. They were sitting in the salón and he sat back, twirling his whisky glass. He smiled. ‘Nice girl, Pilar. She can be quite cheeky sometimes.’