Kit stayed on to help Sam finish the farmhouse extension. Earlier in the year, a contingent of young students on an international exchange helped them to paint the walls, make shelves and clear another vegetable patch. Kit enjoyed their youthful enthusiasm. Many were Quakers, intent on promoting peace instead of war. This long break on Sam’s farm helped him regain strength, stay sober and teach the children painting, drawing and a little English.
Sam’s wife was worried about her family in Barcelona and the news that the Republicans were retreating north alongside an ever-growing influx of refugees into France. There were rumours that desperate families were searching for work and places to rest, but they were not always welcome. Many were turned back at the border but then took to crossing the Pyrenees at night and on foot.
The Magret farm housed mothers and children, who rested in the renovated barn. But Sam was facing a dilemma. ‘We can’t take them all in. Just look at their sores and the state of their feet. We can only do so much here,’ he confided to Kit. ‘Consuela would have us pack them in like sardines so I only hope there are other agencies closer to the border. I’m afraid this trickle will become a flood, if things go on as they are.’
It was then that Kit knew his time was up here. He owed it to Sam and his wife to move westwards, to find out what was going on. ‘I can always go down to the border and see if any preparations are being made for refugees. I have a notion to visit the coast. They say the light is wonderful for artists. I owe you both so much, but it is time I made my own way.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Look at me, I am as fit as a butcher’s dog, thanks to you. Time I did something useful. Having seen the state of some of your guests, perhaps it’s time I saw things for myself. You have saved my sanity.’
‘Dear old Kit,’ Sam replied. ‘This house will always be here for you but stay safe, old boy. Your chest will always be weak and mind you keep off the booze. It won’t help anything.’
‘No booze, no women, no exertion – that’s quite a prescription,’ Kit laughed.
A week later Sam and Consuela saw him off on the train with a packed lunch, a case full of artwork, shirts, knitted jumpers and a little book full of the children’s drawings, along with a photo of Sam smiling into the camera in front of the farmhouse.
He travelled along the coast road towards Perpignan, stopping off at the resort of Collioure. He wanted to explore around the area – Port Vendres, Banyuls, Saint-Cyprien – so his first purchase was a bicycle. He was back to painting villas, selling pictures of houses to owners wherever he stopped for a few days. There was even enough money to rent a small room.
Collioure was a quaint, colourful village that dipped down to a harbour where a large castle loomed over the bay. There was a labyrinth of narrow streets and passageways, fishermen tending nets, women sitting in the streets knitting. It was crowded with many nationalities, because this was the holiday season. Further out of the town he saw a different reality: families in rags, sitting in the shade, barefoot children with staring hungry eyes. In his heart he wanted to feed them all, but his pocket was empty and he felt ashamed. When he asked the concierge of the rented room what was happening, her reply dismayed him.
‘Poof! They are like stray dogs, mangy, covered in fleas, and they should stay in their own country, not burden us with their filthy diseases.’
Surely there had to be some centres where they could be resettled? Kit was determined to find out more. His first call was to the local church, knowing they must be aware of the plight of those poor folk on their doorstep.
It was strange, entering the portals of the Catholic church. It was cool and peaceful. His footsteps echoed around the building. This bore no resemblance to his former church in Glasgow which was plain, austere, with very little ornament.
The priest was sorting papers and looked up. ‘Can I help?’
‘Father, I am new to the area but I am seeing things that disturb me: the beggars, the ragged children, families living on the street. What can be done?’
The reply was chilling. ‘We are trying to move them on, because it’s not good for the district to be filled with Spanish rebels. It frightens the tourists to see beggars,’ he said. ‘You are English?’
‘Ecossais. Are there places of refuge somewhere? They are innocent women and children: “suffer the little children to come unto me…”’ Kit quoted.
‘Ah, you are Protestant. The British have left us to pick up the pieces of a righteous war. General Franco defends the country and the church…’
‘I have little knowledge of the rights and wrongs of this war, but we can’t let children starve in the streets.’ Kit was shocked by his indifference.
‘Then you feed them, sir. We have our own poor to attend to.’ The priest did not flinch from the look of dismay on Kit’s face.
‘Thank you, Father, for you have given me an idea…’ he replied.
There must be someone, some agency, some charity that was taking action. He would need a place, a feeding station, such as they had had in the trenches. Suddenly ideas flooded into his head and Kit rushed back to his digs to pen a long letter to Sam. He had not felt so energised for years. Here, at last, was something useful he could do.