man with a heavy square face. He tipped his head interrogatively. ‘
¿Señor.?
’
Harry ordered a glass of red wine, fishing in his pockets for theunfamiliar coins embossed, like everything else, with the Falangist yoke and arrows. The barman set his drink before him.
‘¿Alemán?’
he asked. German?
‘
No
.
Inglés
.’
The barman raised his eyebrows and turned away. Harry went and sat at a bench. He picked up a discarded copy of
Arriba
, the Falange newspaper, the thin paper crinkling. On the front page a Spanish border guard shook hands with a German officer on a Pyrenean road. The article spoke of eternal friendship, how the Führer and the Caudillo would decide the future of the Western Mediterranean together. Harry took a sip of the wine; it was harsh as vinegar.
He studied the picture, the breathless celebration of the New Order. He remembered telling Bernie once that he stood for Rookwood values. He had probably sounded pompous. Bernie had laughed impatiently and said Rookwood was a training ground for the capitalist elite. Maybe it was, Harry thought, but it was a better elite than Hitler’s. Despite everything, that was still true. He remembered the newsreels he had seen of the things that happened in Germany, elderly Jews cleaning the streets with toothbrushes amidst laughing crowds.
He looked up. The barman was talking quietly to a couple of the old men. They kept glancing at him. Harry forced himself to drain his glass and got up. He called
‘Adiós,’
but there was no reply.
There were more people about now: well-dressed, middle-class office workers making their way home. He passed under an archway and stood in the Plaza Mayor, the centre of old Madrid, of festivals and
pronunciamientos
. The two big fountains were dry but there were still cafes round the broad square, little tables outside where a scattering of office workers sat with coffees or brandies. Even here, though, the shop windows were half empty, paint flaking from the ancient buildings. Beggars huddled in some of the ornate doorways. A pair of
civiles
circled.
Harry stood irresolutely, wondering whether to have a coffee. The street lights were starting to come on, weak and white. Harry remembered how easy it was to get lost in the narrow streets, or trip in a pothole. A couple of the beggars had risen and were walking towards him. He turned away.
As he left the square he noticed that a woman walking ahead of him had stopped dead, her back to him: a woman in an expensive-looking white dress, red hair covered with a little hat. He stopped too, astonished. Surely it was Barbara. That was her hair, her walk. The woman began walking again, turning rapidly down a side street, moving quickly, her figure fading to a white blur in the dusk.
Harry ran after her, then stood irresolute at the corner, unsure whether to follow. It couldn’t be Barbara, she couldn’t still be here. And Barbara would never have worn clothes like that.
Chapter Five
T HAT MORNING B ARBARA had woken as usual when the church clock across the road struck seven. She rose from sleep to the heat of Sandy’s body beside her, her face resting on his shoulder. She stirred and he made a gentle grunting noise, like a child. Then she remembered and guilt stabbed through her. Today she was meeting Markby’s contact; the culmination of all the lies she had told him.
He turned and smiled, eyes heavy with sleep. ‘Morning, sweetie-pie.’
‘Hello, Sandy.’ She brushed a hand gently across his cheek, spiny with stubble.
He sighed. ‘Better get up. I’ve got a meeting at nine.’
‘Have a proper breakfast, Sandy. Get Pilar to make you something.’
He rubbed his eyes. ‘It’s OK, I’ll get a coffee on the way.’ He leaned over, smiling mischievously. ‘I’ll leave you to your English breakfast. You can eat all the cornflakes.’ He kissed her, his moustache tickling her upper lip, then got up and opened the wardrobe next to his bed. As he stood selecting
¿Señor.?
’
Harry ordered a glass of red wine, fishing in his pockets for theunfamiliar coins embossed, like everything else, with the Falangist yoke and arrows. The barman set his drink before him.
‘¿Alemán?’
he asked. German?
‘
No
.
Inglés
.’
The barman raised his eyebrows and turned away. Harry went and sat at a bench. He picked up a discarded copy of
Arriba
, the Falange newspaper, the thin paper crinkling. On the front page a Spanish border guard shook hands with a German officer on a Pyrenean road. The article spoke of eternal friendship, how the Führer and the Caudillo would decide the future of the Western Mediterranean together. Harry took a sip of the wine; it was harsh as vinegar.
He studied the picture, the breathless celebration of the New Order. He remembered telling Bernie once that he stood for Rookwood values. He had probably sounded pompous. Bernie had laughed impatiently and said Rookwood was a training ground for the capitalist elite. Maybe it was, Harry thought, but it was a better elite than Hitler’s. Despite everything, that was still true. He remembered the newsreels he had seen of the things that happened in Germany, elderly Jews cleaning the streets with toothbrushes amidst laughing crowds.
He looked up. The barman was talking quietly to a couple of the old men. They kept glancing at him. Harry forced himself to drain his glass and got up. He called
‘Adiós,’
but there was no reply.
There were more people about now: well-dressed, middle-class office workers making their way home. He passed under an archway and stood in the Plaza Mayor, the centre of old Madrid, of festivals and
pronunciamientos
. The two big fountains were dry but there were still cafes round the broad square, little tables outside where a scattering of office workers sat with coffees or brandies. Even here, though, the shop windows were half empty, paint flaking from the ancient buildings. Beggars huddled in some of the ornate doorways. A pair of
civiles
circled.
Harry stood irresolutely, wondering whether to have a coffee. The street lights were starting to come on, weak and white. Harry remembered how easy it was to get lost in the narrow streets, or trip in a pothole. A couple of the beggars had risen and were walking towards him. He turned away.
As he left the square he noticed that a woman walking ahead of him had stopped dead, her back to him: a woman in an expensive-looking white dress, red hair covered with a little hat. He stopped too, astonished. Surely it was Barbara. That was her hair, her walk. The woman began walking again, turning rapidly down a side street, moving quickly, her figure fading to a white blur in the dusk.
Harry ran after her, then stood irresolute at the corner, unsure whether to follow. It couldn’t be Barbara, she couldn’t still be here. And Barbara would never have worn clothes like that.
Chapter Five
T HAT MORNING B ARBARA had woken as usual when the church clock across the road struck seven. She rose from sleep to the heat of Sandy’s body beside her, her face resting on his shoulder. She stirred and he made a gentle grunting noise, like a child. Then she remembered and guilt stabbed through her. Today she was meeting Markby’s contact; the culmination of all the lies she had told him.
He turned and smiled, eyes heavy with sleep. ‘Morning, sweetie-pie.’
‘Hello, Sandy.’ She brushed a hand gently across his cheek, spiny with stubble.
He sighed. ‘Better get up. I’ve got a meeting at nine.’
‘Have a proper breakfast, Sandy. Get Pilar to make you something.’
He rubbed his eyes. ‘It’s OK, I’ll get a coffee on the way.’ He leaned over, smiling mischievously. ‘I’ll leave you to your English breakfast. You can eat all the cornflakes.’ He kissed her, his moustache tickling her upper lip, then got up and opened the wardrobe next to his bed. As he stood selecting
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