‘It’s Felix’s writing, isn’t it?’ said George. ‘What does she say?’
He was reliving that falling feeling at the Gare du Nord. He had turned to ask Felix what she thought, and found her gone. And just as he was despairing of ever finding her in the crowds, he had spotted her . . . at least, he thought he had. George and Neville argued all day about it, replaying the scene endlessly. Could it really have been Felix getting into that taxi with those strangers? Surely she was the kind of girl to put up a fight in a tight spot? George wanted Neville to go straight to the police. Neville didn’t trust a French gendarme to sort anything out.
‘Just tell me what’s happened,’ said George, wishing now he’d opened the envelope straight away himself, never mind the name on it.
Neville read so slowly he could have been translating from a foreign language.
Come on. Come on. ‘Has she been kidnapped?’ George asked. Stupid question. She’d hardly write her own ransom note. He felt the weight of the little box heavy in his pocket and despaired.
Neville still didn’t answer. His whole body went limp and he let out a kind of moan.
‘Oh God, why did I get her a passport? We could have come on a weekend ticket. There was no need. And she’s only seventeen. I thought . . . I thought . . . No, we shouldn’t have come at all.’ Then he turned to George, looked at him with disgust and said: ‘Why did you have to persuade me?’
George snapped. ‘For God’s sake shut up and tell me what she says!’
‘She’s gone to Spain. Red Spain. She’s only volunteered as a nurse, the silly little bitch.’
George was rarely moved to violence, but he found his right hand had formed a hard fist. It took an enormous effort to hold it back with the other.
‘Don’t you ever speak about your sister like that again,’ he said, very quietly.
Neville had shocked even himself. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Unforgivable.’
‘Yes.’
‘But how dare she? How dare she? Why the hell is it any business of hers what’s going on in Spain? They can kill each other all they like without our help.’ He paced the room, fingering his moustache. ‘I was supposed to look after her. I promised Mother. What am I going to say to Mother?’
Like animals in a zoo, they circled each other, though there was barely room. The third time he passed the window, George stopped and struggled with the unfamiliar catch. He threw open the casement and the shutters. He didn’t actually want to look at the ring again. It was nothing special really, not in itself: just a very simple solitaire, and not very many carats. But it had seemed just right for Felix. Without a word, he suddenly hurled the small red leather box down onto the street below, where it bounced faintly off the pavement and into the gutter.
‘Damn. Damn. Damn.’
He couldn’t get that image out of his head. Felix’s navy coat disappearing into the taxi. Her bent head. She’d gone without a backward glance. If only he’d made his intentions clearer.
For a while, he stood hunched over the peeling ironwork, half-leaning out into the Paris evening. He breathed in the cold air, hoping for inspiration, or maybe consolation: he wasn’t sure which. It dawned on him how much he’d come to take the Rose family for granted. George’s first ever job, so soon after his mother’s death, had been hard. What a difference it had made during those gloomy days in a strange city to have Neville at the office, showing him the ropes. His invitations home gave George the perfect excuse to disappear at weekends too. His heart would lighten each time he left the baby-sick smell of his older brother’s house, and the noise and the mess and all those children, and set off for leafy Sydenham, where order reigned, and tea was always on time.
After he landed the job at the paper, his visits to Sydenham became even more frequent. It was round about then that Felix left home to start her nursing training and he started to think of her, well, like that. Quite a surprise, really. Had she changed? Grown up suddenly? He wasn’t sure. But he knew she was nothing like the girls he met at work. You always knew exactly what was going on in their heads. Felix was so unpredictable. (Who would have thought she could care so much about Spain?) Was there such a thing as the quietly fiery type? Her face gave so little away. You wanted to look at it for hours, just in the hope you’d find some clue to her thoughts.
This was getting him nowhere. He turned back to the lit room, where Neville sat on the bed rereading the note with a terrible crumpled look on his face. George approached his friend, tentatively. He thought about putting a reassuring hand on his shoulder, and decided not to.
‘Look, just give me a few minutes,’ he said. ‘I’ll talk to the manager, see if I can put through a few phone calls. Might be able to come up with something. Track her down. Can I get you anything, in the meantime? How about a whisky?’
‘Certainly not. I’m fine. You go.’
For once, Neville seemed content to put himself in George’s hands.
George took the stairs two at a time, all four flights of them, his shoulder brushing against the flock wallpaper. He was panting a little when he got back. The ring was safely back in his pocket. It had missed a drain by a matter of inches.
‘This is what we’re going to do,’ he announced. ‘You get back to London and tell your mother not to worry about a thing. I’m going to fetch Felix back.’
‘Pardon?’
‘I’m going after her. To Spain.’
‘You’re not serious?’
‘Absolutely serious.’
‘Oh, George, this really is so good of you. If I can ever . . .’
The gratitude on Neville’s face embarrassed George.
‘No, no . . . It’s nothing. I’ve squared it with the paper. Sports editor’s not too cheery, but News is delighted. They’ve been pushing for months for a man in Spain they can trust. The editor’s fed up to the back teeth with garish descriptions of the collapse of Madrid that turn out to be total fabrications, cobbled together in some café miles away. He’s all for it.’
‘She won’t be hard to find, will she?’ asked Neville, a little doubtfully. ‘I mean, how many English nurses can there be in Spain?’
More than you think, George carefully didn’t say. ‘I’m sure I’ll be able to find out where she’s gone. I might even manage to catch up with her before she leaves France. You never know. The only trouble is . . .’
Neville wasn’t listening. ‘Maybe they won’t let her into Spain!’ he said. ‘Isn’t it against the non-intervention agreement?’
‘Doesn’t apply to humanitarian aid, I’m afraid.’
‘What if they don’t let you in?’ Aghast again. ‘Supposing they think you’re off to fight?’
‘Press card. I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.’ George patted his breast pocket optimistically. He was pretty sure he was right.
‘And you’ll bring her straight back, won’t you? As soon as you find her? She mustn’t stay in Spain. She mustn’t.’
‘I’ll wire you right away.’
Neville was reassured – enough, at least, to suggest they go out to eat. George decided not to confess just yet that he had to file his racehorse piece before he could set off for Spain. It didn’t seem very valiant. Neville would take the news far better on a full stomach.