A fortnight later, Felix left for France on the boat train. Rain was forecast, Neville said. On board the ferry he shepherded Felix and George into the saloon, corralling them with their suitcases. It would be a long night. Then he went in search of coffee to go with the sandwiches Mrs Rose had wrapped up in greaseproof paper.
It was smoky and loud in the bowels of the boat. The rumbling under the floor began to get stronger.
‘Would you excuse me?’ she said, standing up. Felix couldn’t bear to think she might miss the sight of herself leaving England for the first time. ‘Just a touch queasy, I’m afraid. I may need a little air. Won’t be long.’
‘Shall I come with you? I should hate to think . . .’ George looked helplessly at their luggage and over his shoulder for Neville.
‘Oh no! Please don’t worry. I’m afraid I’m a very poor sailor. Fresh air should do the trick, honestly.’
She was backing away as she spoke.
Felix loved the steepness of the stairs stretching her calves and the ‘muster station’ signs, and she felt quite heady with the tang of engine oil. Announcements boomed through the ship’s tannoy in English and then again in slow pedantic French. Somewhere out of sight, instructions to the crew ricocheted around steel walls.
She arrived at the stern too late to see the gangway being raised. The widening expanse of dark water was choppy, and the fine spray on her face could have been sea or rain. There weren’t many other passengers on deck; most were huddled in twos and threes.
Felix retrieved her headscarf from her mac and tied it on firmly. Her passport – crisp and new – was still safely in her pocket. She tucked herself into the lee of a tarpaulin-covered lifeboat, leant over the railing and swallowed great gulps of salty air, licking the taste off her lips. Slowly, the lights of Dover diminished. Without a moon, the cliffs looked quite grey.
She wondered if Nat had looked back at this moment, too. How unlucky they had been the night he left. So mortifying. She couldn’t forget how Sister Macpherson had seen him silently off, while Felix just stood on the pavement as helpless as a baby. The memory still made her seethe with shame and fury.
Hearing footsteps, she squeezed herself further into the gap between lifeboat and rail. George might come looking for her, and she didn’t want to be found.
She heard a match strike close by, and then an exhalation, the kind that follows the first draw on a cigarette. A cough. Not George, she decided, feeling reprieved. Too rough and low. But with the idea of his arrival – the thought of standing there alone on deck with George – a sudden realisation swept through her in a hot and prickly flush.
This trip was to be a finishing line. An end to months of hints and nudges and contriving. Her knuckles turned white as she gripped the railings. That was why Mother and Neville never let her fetch the coal, the hot water, the newspaper, whatever it was, when George was around. How could she have been so stupid? And just when she thought she’d almost got away.
Felix knew just what would happen now. She and George would find themselves walking alone together . . . beside the Seine . . . or by the Eiffel Tower . . . or . . . or . . . (she ran out of suitable Parisian landmarks). And he would try to hold her hand. And then . . . oh God. The terrible certainty of it all made her dizzy with claustrophobia. She pictured the knowing smile between friends when she and George returned to the hotel. Neville’s congratulations. His complacency. There would be no discussion. And then George would introduce her to the textile millionaire . . . as his fiancée.
‘Looking your last on Albion?’
Felix started. Another man had joined the smoker, his face also out of sight on the other side of the lifeboat.
‘Ah bloody hope nae!’ returned an older Scottish voice. ‘But it’s nae Albion ah want t’ see again, anywise.’
‘No, I dare say it’s not,’ replied the newcomer. They were clearly together, though hardly seemed an obvious pair. This man sounded just like a doctor Felix knew slightly, a new arrival at the hospital from Cambridge. ‘Where are the others, anyway? I thought we were supposed to stick together from now on.’
‘You’ll find them at the bar. Tempted t’ hae a pint myself, but ah want tae keep my wits abit me.’
‘Quite right too. The last thing we need is anyone shooting their mouth off before we’ve even reached Paris.’
‘I’m wi’ ye there. Tried tae tell ’em, but ye ken how it is. Some folk don’t like tae be told.’
Felix was glad she had kept in the shadows.
‘Well, I’ll retrieve them shortly. Got a light, by any chance?’
The matches were handed over. After a while, the conversation resumed.
‘So, what’s your previous experience? Ready for this?’
‘Fifteen years in the Scots Guards. Four years on th’ dole. Aye. You could say I’m ready.’
‘Good man. Good man.’
‘You?’
‘OTC at school. Officer Training Corps. Repton.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Haven’t actually seen action yet. All rather theoretical, I’m afraid.’ Felix noticed an awkwardness in his response.
Felix risked peering round the ropes and saw an angular young man in a gabardine coat, staring out to sea as he drew heavily on a cigarette. His gruffer companion wore a flat grey cap.
‘Fred an’ Ronnie met on the boxing circuit, seemingly,’ he said. ‘Amateur welterweight champions, the pair of them. Good thing too.’
‘Indeed.’
‘Speak French, do you?’ asked the older man.
‘Yes, as a matter of fact I do.’
‘Spanish?’
‘Just a little. My Latin’s not bad, of course.’
‘Your Latin?’ Felix could almost hear the Scotsman’s eyebrows rising, but he made no comment. After a short silence he said: ‘So, woulds you mind tellin’ me th’ plan? For when we get to Paris? Or is that nae allowed?’
‘To be honest, I’m not entirely sure of the details, though I hear it’s all very efficient now the Soviets are on board.’
‘Aye.’
‘I believe we’ll be met at the Gare du Nord. At the taxi rank. But that’s all I know. Just have to take it from there, I suppose. And hope Madrid’s still standing by the time we get there. It’s not looking too good, is it?’
A silence fell. The wind picked up, and Felix began to shiver. The rest of the strangers’ conversation was mostly drowned out. But she had already guessed where these men were heading: they were new recruits to the fight against Fascism. Like Nat, they were joining the International Brigades.
She was pleased to have put two and two together so quickly, though Felix still found it all rather confusing. She wasn’t used to the idea of right-wing rebels, rising in arms against a left-wing Republican government. Wasn’t it usually the other way round? And why did the Fascists in Spain call themselves Nationalists when they seemed intent on destroying the nation?
The spray turned decidedly to rain, and the men moved off. Bracing herself, Felix retraced her swaying steps to the saloon. Perhaps she’d have a chance to speak to them later. Would they think her very odd if she gave them a message for Nat? No, no, she couldn’t possibly.
They sat with empty cups in front of them. Plotting? Neville’s thumb and forefinger worked thoughtfully over his moustache. Checking to see if it had got any thicker, Felix always imagined. George looked more relaxed, his feet outstretched and his arms linked behind his head. They both rose as she approached.
‘Your coffee’s gone cold, Sis, but it can’t be helped.’
‘Never mind. Thanks for getting it.’
‘Feeling better, Felix? Here. Let me move these bags for you.’
‘Please don’t worry. I’m fine.’ Felix stepped over the luggage and they all sat down again.
The noise of the chugging engine filled their silence.
‘I was just asking George about this horse we’re going to meet on Monday,’ said Neville. ‘What did you say it was called? Corridor? Funny kind of name.’
‘Correeda, actually,’ corrected George. ‘It means bullfight, I believe . . . in Spanish.’
‘Spanish?’ He finally had Felix’s attention. ‘Is it a Spanish horse?’ she said. ‘What’s it doing racing when there’s a war on? That doesn’t seem right.’
‘Oh no, no, she’s French. But you know what racehorse names are like.’
‘Ridiculous. Don’t blame you for wanting to cover motor racing instead. Numbers are so much easier to remember,’ said Neville. ‘What was that other horse you were talking about? By Jingo? Something like that?’
George laughed his hearty laugh, and went on polishing the lenses of his binoculars. ‘Yes, his sire’s By Golly. I suppose Corrida’s less absurd than many, when you think about it. It’s got the right feel at least – speed, power, excitement!’
‘Or murder, cruelty, bloodshed,’ interrupted Felix.
Neville and George stared at her.
‘The Fascists in Spain are using the bullrings to slaughter Republicans instead of bulls now,’ she told them bluntly. ‘Did you know that? 4,000 men dead in Badajoz. Think of it. The bullring was knee-deep in blood.’
‘Calm down, Felix,’ said George. ‘You’re upsetting yourself. What’s all this about? Badda-where? I’m sure that can’t be true. Why on earth would anyone do anything so beastly?’
‘Because they’re beasts!’
‘Heavens. She’ll be joining the Left Book Club next.’ Neville caught George’s eye, more amused than disapproving.
‘I’ll tell you something else. When the king left Spain five years ago lots of rich landowners in the south fled too. Do you know what the people did? They ploughed up the fighting bulls’ pastures to grow crops. And they divided the animals between the peasants.’ Felix was determined to make them listen. ‘To eat, you see. To eat. Some of them had never tasted meat before. Imagine.’
‘How very revolutionary!’ George’s laugh didn’t hide his embarrassment. He didn’t try to stop Felix talking again.
Neville had no qualms. ‘Do spare us the lectures, Felicity. Self-righteousness is so unattractive in a girl. As I’ve told you before. Anyway, how on earth do you know all this? What makes you think it’s even true?’
‘Oh, I’ve been reading about Spain,’ said Felix, a little defensively, thinking of her visits to Whitechapel Library. She’d managed to slip away quite a few times at the end of a shift, or sometimes in a tea break. Though often too tired to take much in, she was determined to be ready for the first letter that came from Nat. How else could she convince him she was worth another one? She wasn’t just some silly little suburban ignoramus. ‘Quite a lot. And talking to people. You know.’
They obviously didn’t.
‘Well, I’m surprised you’ve got time for all this stuff. Shouldn’t you be working for your exams?’ said Neville.
George tried a more placatory tack. ‘There’s not much we can do about Spain anyway. It’s a civil war. None of our business, I’d say. And won’t it all be over quite soon? Last thing I heard was that the government had fled Madrid.’
‘Not much of a government then.’ Neville clearly thought he’d had the final word.
Felix opened her mouth to contradict them both. Germany doesn’t think it’s none of their business. Nor Italy. And promptly shut it again. When was the last time she’d actually won an argument against Neville?
‘Now, how about grabbing forty winks while we can?’ he continued. ‘George, why don’t you let Felix use your coat as a pillow? Her mac’s damp now and your coat’s quite a bit thicker than mine.’
‘Of course.’ George quickly folded it up for her. It smelled of him – not unpleasantly. ‘Next time we do this, we’ll do it in style, I promise. Those sleeping cars really did look splendid, didn’t they?’
Next time, Felix thought.