C. Sansom - Winter in Madrid

‘Did you come through the town?’

‘Yes. It was very quiet.’

‘The camp should have radioed to the civiles by now.’

‘We didn’t see any.’

‘Have you a car?’

‘Yes. One with diplomatic number plates. Harry’s car. It’s hidden outside the town, we’re going to drive you back to the embassy. They’ll have to take you in.’

‘Won’t Harry get into trouble?’

‘They won’t know he was involved. We’ll leave you outside and you can say you stole the clothes, broke into a house or something, then hitch-hiked.’

Bernie looked at her, then suddenly burst into tears. ‘Oh, Barbara, I thought I was finished, then I heard you were going to save me. And I abandoned you to go back to the war. Barbara, I’m so sorry—’

‘No. No. Look, darling, come on. Someone might come. You have to change.’

‘All right.’

Bernie began undressing, grunting painfully as he took off the shirt he had worn for days, stuck to his body with dirt. In the gloom Barbara caught glimpses of scars, of the physique she had loved reduced to skin and bone.

A few minutes later he stood before her dressed in Sandy’s suit, coat and trilby that she’d brought from home, crushed from the rucksack but making him look plausibly normal except for his dirty tramp’s face and beard. She pulled at a couple of creases. ‘There,’ she said softly. She had a sudden wild desire to laugh. ‘You’ll do.’

THE HALF HOUR after the priest left was the longest in Harry’s life. He and Sofia paced about uneasily, looking between the door and the old man. They had had a narrow escape with the priest. And they were on the verge of happiness, he and Sofia and perhaps Paco too. Let nothing else go wrong, he prayed to the God he didn’t believe in, nothing else.

At last the door opened again. Harry and Sofia tensed. The old man stared too, fearfully, as Bernie and Barbara came slowly in, Barbara supporting Bernie who was limping with exhaustion. At first Harry didn’t recognize the gaunt, bearded figure, then he ran over to them, Sofia following behind.

‘Bernie,’ he said quietly. ‘Christ, you look as if you’ve been through it.’

Bernie laughed incredulously. ‘Harry. It is you.’ He kept blinking rapidly, as though this new world where he found himself was too much to take in. ‘Jesus, I couldn’t bloody believe it.’

Harry felt his face working with emotion at the sight of the scarecrow face. ‘What the hell have you been up to? Look at the state of you. Rookwood would have something to say.’

Bernie bit his lip. Harry could see he was close to tears. ‘Been fighting a war, Harry.’ He leaned forward and hugged him in the Spanish way. Harry allowed himself to relax into the embrace and they held each other tightly for a moment before Harry pulled apart, embarrassed. Bernie swayed a little.

‘Are you all right?’ Sofia asked anxiously.

‘I’d better sit down.’ Bernie smiled at her. ‘You must be Sofia.’

‘Yes.’

‘ Viva la República ,’ he said softly.

‘ Viva la República. ’

‘Are you a Communist?’ he asked her.

‘No.’ She looked at him seriously. ‘I did not like the things the Communists did.’

‘We thought they were necessary.’ He sighed.

Barbara took his arm. ‘Come on, you have to shave. Go to the font. Go on.’ She handed Bernie a shaving bag and he limped down to the font. Harry went over to the old man. Francisco glared up at him, his face smeared from his tears. Harry handed him the roll of notes. ‘Your money, señor .’

Francisco crushed them in his fist in an angry gesture. Harry thought he was going to throw them to the floor but he slipped them in his pocket and slumped against the wall. Bernie reappeared, his face still a little stubbly, older and much thinner and marked with deep lines but now recognizably Bernie.

‘I must sit down,’ he said. ‘I’m bloody shattered.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Barbara turned to the others. ‘He’s very tired, but we have to get away as soon as possible.’

‘Did something happen?’ Sofia asked, the sharpness in her voice making Harry look up. Barbara told them about Sandy.

‘Jesus Christ,’ Harry said. ‘He’s gone over the edge. Mad.’

‘Half mad anyway, with anger.’

‘We should go as soon as we can,’ Sofia said. ‘I am worried about the priest telling them at the convent that the cathedral is closed, them sending someone to the old man’s house.’

‘Yes.’ Harry glanced over to where Francisco sat looking at them stonily, then put his hand on Bernie’s shoulder. ‘The car’s a few miles away. Outside the town. D’you think you can make it? It’s all downhill.’

He nodded. ‘I’ll try. Yes. If we go slowly.’

‘You look human again.’

‘Thanks.’ He looked up. ‘Is it true England’s still holding out?’

‘Yes. The bombing’s bad but we’re holding on. Bernie, we ought to go,’ Barbara said.

‘All right.’ Bernie stood, wincing as he rose. He’s completely exhausted, Harry thought, burnt out.

‘What were you saying about a priest?’ Bernie asked.

‘Sofia and Barbara met him on their way to the bridge. Then he came into the church to pray, but I managed to get the watchman to get rid of him. It was a nasty moment; I’ll see him kneeling there praying for the rest of my life I think, his black sotana and red hair.’

‘Red hair?’ Bernie thought a moment. ‘What was he like?’

‘Young, tall. Fattish.’

He took a deep breath. ‘God, that sounds like Father Eduardo. He’s one of the priests at the camp.’

‘Yes, that was his name,’ Barbara said. ‘Good lord. He didn’t seem the type.’

‘He isn’t, he’s a sort of holy innocent or something.’ Bernie set his lips. ‘But if he finds us here we’re done for. He’d still report us.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Come on. Let’s go.’

Harry took the empty rucksack and they headed for the door. He felt an overwhelming relief at leaving the building. He looked back at the old man; he still sat on his bench, his head in his hands, a tiny figure among all the gigantic monuments to faith.

THEIR PROGRESS back down the steep, badly lit streets was slow. Bernie felt exhausted. The few people they passed turned to look at them; Bernie wondered whether with his unsteady gait they thought he was drunk. He felt drunk, intoxicated with amazement and happiness.

He had wondered how he would feel seeing Barbara after so long. It was a tougher, more sophisticated woman who had appeared on the cold hillside but it was still Barbara, he could see that all the things he had loved were still there. It felt as though it was only yesterday he had last seen her, that the Jarama and the last three years were all a dream. But the pain in his shoulder was all too real, while his feet, which had swollen into every crevice of his cracked broken boots, were an agony.

Halfway down the long hill they came to a little square with a stone bench under a statue of a general. ‘Can I sit down?’ Bernie whispered to Barbara. ‘Just for a minute?’

Sofia turned and looked at them seriously. ‘Can you not go on?’ She glanced nervously at a bar on one side of the square. The windows were lit and voices came from within.

‘Just five minutes?’ Barbara pleaded.

Bernie slumped on to the bench. Barbara sat beside him and the other two stood a few paces off. Like guardian angels, Bernie thought. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said quietly. ‘I just feel a bit dizzy. I’ll be all right in a minute.’

Barbara put her hand on his forehead. ‘You’re a bit feverish,’ she said. She took out her cigarettes and offered him one.