George emerged from the garage at the back of the building. He brushed the dust from his hands and knees with a sense of satisfaction. It had been worth coming. The Frigidaire was up and humming again, and he’d saved pints and pints of blood, in next to no time. The mobile generator in the van wasn’t quite so straightforward – he would need to improvise a spare part. But he had an idea for that.
Oh yes, this was more like it. Lots of people could write a news story far better than he could. And lots of them were more willing to give the papers the kind of stories they wanted. But nobody, he thought with an uncharacteristic touch of arrogance, nobody could mend a machine more quickly.
He felt in his pocket for his notebook, planning to make a quick sketch to show exactly what was needed when he got to the ironmonger’s. Bother! He must have left it on the floor of the storage room.
Turning briskly through the main front door he nearly knocked over a donor who was on his way out. George had noticed him earlier when he was being shown round: with his bandaged arm and serious expression, the Brigader made rather a poignant picture. A good intro to the piece. Even the wounded are playing their part . . . etc . . . etc . . .
George risked English. ‘My apologies, old chap. Haven’t hurt you, have I? Your arm all right?’
‘Sorry?’ He hadn’t heard him.
‘Did I hurt you? I didn’t mean to. In a bit of a rush.’
‘No, no. I’m fine.’
Relieved, George hurried on, wondering if he should offer to service some of the unit’s other machinery while he was there. Regular maintenance, that was the thing. You couldn’t expect these things to keep grinding on, day after day, not without a little tenderness. Machines were the same as anything else.
The notebook was just where he’d left it. He could hear the director’s voice again. He hesitated on the threshold, listening at the half-closed door to judge his moment.
‘I can’t stress this more strongly. Accuracy in determining blood type is paramount. Could you translate that, please, Angela? I want to be quite sure that Dolores understands.’
He couldn’t just barge in.
‘Obviously, the standard serum makes it a hell of a lot easier, but it’s not essential. Just so long as you know the blood type of the donor, that is. What I’m going to show you now is the open slide method of compatibility testing . . .’
Definitely not the moment. He’d make his offer when he came back later.
Walking back past the queues of waiting donors, his stride regained its spring for the first time in months. Really, these women were simply marvellous. Such courage, and – the thought came into his head before he knew it – so beautiful, so many of them, despite the pinched look that hunger lent. He grinned at them cheerily and remembered Ilsa’s stories about the early days. When the siege began, the women of Madrid forced their fleeing menfolk back to the front. Told them to put up barricades. Even grandmothers waited on their balconies with pans of boiling water to greet the Fascists. Incredible.
Oh look, there was that young man again. He was giving his food coupon to a barefooted girl with a baby on her hip. She ran off right away, as if he might change his mind. George gave him a wave. Good chap, he thought. Every little helps.