In April came the terrible news of the bombing of Guernica. ‘They were not Spanish planes,’ Hector said, pushing his paper aside. ‘Just a practice for foreign allies. This is a rehearsal for war.’
Rose and Flora were busy distributing leaflets to churches and committees, appealing for aid and clothing to be shipped across from Britain. Flora took up the cause, alongside Rose and Vera. It felt like old times, but Vera was looking very strained. She had not heard from Sandy for over a month and was beginning to fear the worst. It didn’t help matters that the government had made it illegal for British nationals to fight in Spain. That did not stop Glasgow men from enlisting, nor had it stopped Maudie Wallace from joining the fray with the Swiss Aid. She sent a letter from Lucerne to her friends.
By the time you get this letter I shall be somewhere in Spain with the Swiss White Cross. I could not stand by and watch. Don’t worry, it’s a spiffing unit and we will not be partisan to either side, no matter how or where our sympathies lie. With the war experience I’ve had, I can be useful, especially to the young nurses, who I feel will be shocked by battle conditions.
I know you will all want to be useful, so raising funds will help us deliver clothes and food where it is most needed. The innocent bystanders suffer the most, I fear. I will write when I can, but don’t be surprised if the letters are delayed…
Dear Maudie was heading into danger once more and Flora felt a stab of envy. They were comfortable and settled in a rut here.
Flora was still working at the clinic, hearing stories of injured fighters returning home, restless and lost from a world their wives couldn’t share. Vera was tireless, speaking at the Women’s Rural Institutes, explaining the need to make homes for Spanish orphans, little colonies where they could recover in fresh air. Much fell on deaf ears, but there were some willing to offer their empty country houses.
Then came disturbing rumours of many Scotsmen held in prisoner-of-war camps, where treatment was harsh, with regular executions. This sent Vera into a frenzy of despair.
‘I have to go and see for myself,’ she said. ‘I can’t wait here, not knowing if Sandy is alive or dead. You have to help me, Flora. I have no means of going by myself. My bank account is almost empty.’
‘Steady on, you won’t be able to cross into Spain. All the border posts are closed.’
‘Then I’ll walk over the mountains.’
‘To do what? Get yourself arrested as an alien? You have no passport. Think about it… you’ll have to go through proper channels, consuls, whatever. Be patient, there’s nothing you can do but wait.’
Vera stormed off, yelling, ‘You don’t understand. I can’t bear to think of him suffering in a prisoner-of-war camp.’
Oh, but I do, Flora sighed to herself, thinking about Kit’s struggle with depression and despair during the war. She could never believe he walked into the sea to end it all and yet it must be true. She would never get over all the losses in their life, but worst of all, she had failed to save him from himself.
Vera deserved her help. How could she risk her sister rushing into this wild scheme? What if she disappeared one night and tried to enter Spain? That must not happen. Who better to accompany her? Come to think of it, what was keeping her in Glasgow?
What if they went down into France together? What if they filled her old car with relief clothes and tins?
They could pass this off as a holiday, collect a proper passport for Vera, book into a hotel somewhere and see what news they could glean. It was a crazy notion, but the idea gripped Flora. She would make sure Vera would not cross into Spain illegally. As far as Pa was concerned, she was taking Vera on a much-needed break. No one would object to this holiday, not Rose nor Hector.
Flora was sure Ivo would think it a sensible solution. He was such a generous soul. She missed him dearly, but it was five years since he had passed, another world away. When she dreamed of him, his face would always fade, to be replaced by Kit’s, smiling at her. She awoke with an empty feeling in her stomach, knowing she would never love again in her life.
Why not ask Drusilla and Lionel for support, too? Then there was ‘Cyril’ to consider. Her saloon was getting on in years and perhaps not up to the long journey. Time to retire him to the country cottage, time to purchase one of those station wagons with plenty of room for boxes in the boot. They could share the driving, buy maps and compasses. It would be an adventure, with purpose at the end of it. Now Flora couldn’t sleep, as the scheme buzzed in her head like a demented bee.