Kit found volunteers to take a rusty old Citroën van out into the hills that bordered on Spain. There they would distribute what supplies they drummed up from Father Antoine’s congregation and friends. It was tiring work, with wheels that kept puncturing on rocky tracks, and a tank that kept running out of fuel. The heat of the day was so fierce that they began to make night runs, to reach groups who had crossed over the peaks in secret. They were almost always exhausted, hungry and in need of shelter. The volunteers soon ran out of baguettes, dried milk, fruit and drums of water.
It was here Kit joined up with other groups of charity workers, more organised than his own, and they talked about how holding camps close to Saint-Cyprien and Argèles were being set up to shelter the escapees from bombing and persecutions.
After days out in the hills, he was glad to return to the coast and the bustle of Collioure to rest. He had transported wounded Republican soldiers and their women to Dr Ortega. From these men, he heard tales that shocked him; how prisoners of war were shackled to each other with barbed wire, and children were forced to watch their own parents being shot. Had the world learned nothing from the Great War? He called in at the art gallery to see if any of his pictures had been sold. Funds were running low.
‘Sorry,’ said the owner. ‘Though I had a woman in, who took a great interest in your pink villa. She thought she recognised it. An English woman, I think. It seemed to upset her and she backed out, but perhaps she may return. I could see it meant something to her.’
‘Did you get her name?’ Kit was curious.
‘No, we never got round to that. She did ask about the artist. All I could recall was she thought Carstairs was a good Scottish name.’
Kit suddenly felt alarm at this enquiry, but curious nonetheless. ‘Do you think she will come back? What did she look like?’
‘Tall, dark-haired, wealthy, judging by her dress and pearls. A typical tourist of a certain class,’ he replied.
‘How long ago was this?’
‘Just a few days ago, so she may return. You could give her your address.’
‘No, Claude, do you mind if I take back the villa? It’s no longer for sale. I should never have put it in the gallery.’ Kit couldn’t wait to have it back.
‘I did sell a small painting of a farmhouse, but nothing else. Why remove one of your best pictures? I don’t understand. She may want to buy it,’ Claude said, lifting the painting from the window with reluctance.
‘No thanks, I’ll take it back with me now.’
‘Please yourself, but it is a pity…’
How could Kit explain how nervous he was, knowing that someone out there recognised the Rose Villa? Someone might recognise him from the old days, a nurse who knew all about Flora and the scandalous romance with the chaplain. No, it was too risky. He carried the painting under his arm through the streets, like a criminal hiding his loot, making for his own room above the Café Maritime. He found himself shaking, and pulled his straw hat over his face to hide his ginger hair.
Why was he running away? Because somewhere out there was a woman who might recognise him, even after nearly twenty years? Don’t be ridiculous, he chided himself, but he was taking no chances. The Rose Villa was no longer for sale.