The first Flora knew about the Spanish coup d’état was when Vera came rushing to the apartment in Park Circus.
‘Sandy wants to volunteer and go to Spain. I’m so worried,’ she cried. ‘He says he must go, that this Fascist movement of General Franco’s is a great danger. They are bombing innocent people. His group are gathering up anyone ready to fight.’ Vera plonked herself down on the sofa to light a cigarette. ‘I want to go with him, but they’re not taking women. What shall I do?’
Flora’s heart sank. ‘Does he know what he’s letting himself in for? War is no picnic, I promise you. It’s bound to be chaotic at first. Aren’t we supposed to stay neutral?’
‘How can you say that, when innocent people need our support?’ Vera leapt up and paced the room. ‘They’re setting up a Spanish Aid committee so at least I can drum up funds from this end. Can you help us?’
‘Let me think about it,’ Flora replied, realising what Sandy needed was a decent coat, sturdy boots and some first-aid kit. She could help with that. ‘It’s funny there’s not been much in the newspapers.’
‘The Establishment is against intervention, typical bourgeoisie head in the sand,’ Vera said. ‘They think Herr Hitler is a great leader, but Sandy says wait and see what he will do…’
Two weeks later Flora went with Vera to wave off the men from George Square, joining a group of weeping women in shawls, clutching children crying for their daddies. The volunteers were taking a bus to Dover via London. Then they would travel through France to the Spanish borders. Sandy had waved his visitor’s pass for Paris at them, valid only for a day trip, but after that, Vera explained, they were on their own, making their way to Perpignan and hoping no one would ask why only one of them had a passport.
Flora was uneasy, but Vera was busy raising funds for their men. It gave her something to focus on, while she waited for his letters to arrive. Flora admired her sister for her earnest belief in their cause but when had anything good come out of civil war, she wondered?
On cold winter nights, Vera came to stay over. It was good to have her company and Flora persuaded her to take in a film at the Picture House. She refused to go back to Kildowie House now that Virginia was there.
‘It’s nothing personal but it’s not my home and it has too many memories. I don’t belong to that life anymore.’
She was adamant about her priorities. Flora was not so full of certainty, no longer sure of anything now Ivo had gone. For her part Vera was living with the worry of separation. Those fireside evenings, when silence reigned and only the ticking clock disturbed their thoughts, were precious. Flora thought of her own rebellious self all those years ago, defying the census, marching for the women’s vote. Perhaps they were both cut from the same cloth, after all. Flora wondered what ancestor had given them such defiant spirits.
In some ways she envied Vera, knowing her own life was now quiet, uneventful and a little boring. Was she settling into a matronly middle age? How she hoped not.