Kit spent a whole week at the O’Keeffes’ farm, helping out with older children who were in need of discipline and occupation. They were troubled souls, old before their time, still shocked by what they had witnessed on their trek across the mountains.
Sam tried to get them to open up about their experiences but it was Consuela who had the knack of giving them sweet cordials and biscuits, sitting them round the table and coaxing them gently to tell each other how they made the journey into France.
Ricardo shook his head at first. ‘I don’t know, it was dark. My father carried my little sister. We had to be quiet, but Paula wailed. The shepherd told them to shut her up. “There are guards!” Papa tried to quieten her but she struggled. If you don’t shut that baby up, I will shut her up for ever, they said, and made me put a scarf around her mouth.’ Ricardo stopped and began to weep.
‘She kept on crying and Papa wound it round her face… She was silent after that. It was too tight and when we were allowed to rest, Mama pulled the scarf away but Paula did not move or breathe… no life. Did I kill her?’ Ricardo’s head fell on his arms. ‘They took Papa away to another place.’
‘The cold killed her.’ Consuela put her arms round him. ‘It isn’t you… you were being kind, giving her your scarf.’
Kit could barely listen to this sad story. So many of them here were separated from their families, lost in a confusing, silent world, with no ruins, bombs, or familiar voices, just strangers.
The O’Keeffes were doing their best to find work, by fishing and giving French lessons. The village school was too full to accept any more refugees and there were fights with local boys, who called them names. Some were offered a chance to be taken to Sète, where ocean liners would take them to another Spanish-speaking country, in South America. Some were heading north to Britain. Sam was reluctant to let his charges go, until he heard that Scotland was settling children in the countryside. ‘Do you know where Perthshire is?’ he asked Kit.
‘Perth will make a fine place with its rivers and lochs, lots of fruit picking and open spaces for them to play. Our schools are first class.’
‘Will you escort them then?’ Consuela asked, but Kit shook his head.
‘Sorry, my place is right here. I have no desire to return…’
Sam smiled. ‘Of course not, how could you explain your new lease of life? Lazarus returned from the dead. One day you’ll have to make your peace with all your lies, you know.’
Kit ignored this jibe. La Retirada, as they called the invasion of Spanish families, was in full flow. Exhausting though it was, there was always this haven to return to, for some peace but not quiet. This children’s house was anything but. He arranged for a football match with local boys, ordering mixed teams to battle it out on the field next to the school. The locals were in for a shock, for some of Sam’s boys could duck and dive and shoot fast. Better to mix them up and then it would be a fairer match.
Kit had never lost his love for the game. Watching Glasgow Rangers versus Celtic was one of his fondest memories, even if the resulting skirmishes outside the grounds had bloody outcomes. He recalled the wartime soldiers’ banter, as they went careering over rough ground before a stand-to. There were some professional footballers among them, but mostly they were just Saturday team lads. How many of them had survived to play again? Not many, he feared. It was hard to shake loose those images from his mind. No point in going back into the past. There were too many ghosts waiting to pounce on him there.