And then Dolores did what Felix was least expecting.
‘I’m very tired.’ She yawned. ‘It’s been a long day. But very interesting. So much to learn.’
Felix checked her watch again. It was 8.37 p.m. At last.
‘I have a headache too,’ said Dolores. ‘Do you mind if I stay here?’
Would she mind? Felix wanted to throw her arms round her. But Dolores was already pulling back the thin cover on the bed they would have to share that night, and inspecting the sheets. Felix couldn’t quite decide if there was disapproval in her voice. Perhaps Dolores thought her shameless – rushing off like that with Nat, without a thought. Perhaps she was.
‘You’re quite sure you’ll be all right here on your own?’ Felix began picking stray hairs from her hairbrush, like petals from a daisy. She will. She won’t. She will. She won’t. ‘I can stay if you like. I don’t have to go out.’
Except I do. I really do.
Dolores shook her head, and plumped the bolster. ‘I don’t want to go. I will look at my notes from this afternoon. I don’t want to make any mistakes. It’s complicated, this blood thing. I didn’t know.’
‘You have to be careful,’ Felix agreed.
‘Very careful.’
Felix walked towards the window to hide her delight. She was already imagining Nat coming round the corner, glimpsing the top of his head, seeing him before he saw her this time. Would the pressure of her gaze make him look up? But she couldn’t open the shutters, not without switching off the light. It was still early. He wouldn’t be there yet. Would he?
Felix turned to remind Dolores about the lights. She was starting to unpack the small leather bag she’d brought with her to Madrid. An amber-beaded rosary slithered to the floor. Dolores scooped it up, hastily, without looking up, and Felix pretended not to notice. Just as she hadn’t commented on a ghostly ochre outline on the wallpaper: it was obvious that a crucifix had recently been removed. With reluctance or relief? Another of those things it might be better not to know.
Nothing was straightforward in Spain, Felix thought, for the hundredth time. As far as she was concerned, church had always simply been a place she went with her family on Sunday mornings, if she really had to. Here it meant so much more: a building, a refuge, but also a terrible tyranny . . . something like an empire, even. Felix found this entangled mess of politics and religion as impossible to sort out in her head as it seemed to be in reality. The more she discovered about both sides, Nationalist and Republican, and all the different allegiances they contained, the more confusing everything became. So she had taken a decision: concentrate on the job she had come to do. That was straightforward enough.
Now she simply excused herself and walked back down the tall, narrow corridor to the communal bathroom at the end. Not the cleanest, but it had running water. Glorious to wash from head to toe. By herself. On the chipped tiled wall, there was a mirror, age-spotted, but serviceable. It had been weeks since Felix had seen herself. With the corner of a towel, she rubbed away the condensation on the glass.
She could see why it had taken Nat so long to recognise her. Bread soup and dysentery had taken their toll. Her cheekbones stuck out more and there was room for a jersey now under her nurse’s uniform. At least she wasn’t in her dungarees. Her haircut made her look very different too. Practical, but hardly stylish, despite Kitty’s best efforts. She was sure it made her look older. She ran the brush through it.
No need for lipstick – her lips were permanently bright red, chapped by wind and cold. Felix had a little pot of petroleum jelly, a present from Kitty, and she fingered some on to make her lips gleam. Then she pinched her cheeks to relieve their pallor. She overdid it. Now she looked feverish, like a TB patient. Though come to think of it, this yellow light hinted at jaundice. Struck by mild hysteria, Felix laughed out loud at herself, and her reflection laughed back, just as artificial, and the laughter rang off the tiles.
It was already nine, just. She put her head round the door of the bedroom to say goodbye.
‘Don’t wait up. I’ll try not to wake you.’
‘Enjoy yourself. Don’t worry about me.’ Dolores was already getting ready for bed. Felix knew she liked privacy to change, and quickly withdrew.
There was a very small reception area downstairs. It was empty. To judge by the food smells and the clattering of cutlery, the hotel staff were all eating their supper. Felix sat down on the narrow upholstered bench, kept still for about forty seconds, and then jumped up again.
They hadn’t exactly agreed where to meet. Perhaps he was already outside, waiting, wondering where she’d got to. What if the bell was out of order? No, it couldn’t be. It had been working that morning. Determined to be decisive, Felix pulled open the door.
The pavement was empty. Far away, she could hear the echo of light artillery. It was very dark. Felix shivered. City darkness was more alarming than night in the countryside. You didn’t expect to be able to see much in the middle of nowhere. Except when the moon was full of course, and then you didn’t go out if you could help it. Not when there was a bomber’s moon.
The sound of footsteps made her stand up straight and set her face ready to smile. But they faded before they reached her, turning off into a side street.
Felix’s eyes began to see more details. A few bold posters. Washing on a balcony, gently billowing. She paced a little, experimentally, four steps in one direction, four in the other, stiffening her knees against their shaking. Again she listened. She could just catch the faint strumming of a guitar, invisible in some upstairs room. Horse hoofs somewhere, or maybe a donkey. A siren. It was funny how there were no other animals on the streets of Madrid. In any other city, this was the kind of night you’d expect to encounter a cat on the prowl, or hear the howl of a dog. Maybe a rat rummaging in the gutter.
Like a bad conscience, the imagined voice of Neville came into her head. What was she thinking of? Waiting alone on a street corner at night, in a foreign city, in a war, waiting for a boy who was little more than a stranger to her? How naïve could she get? Even George wouldn’t find an excuse for this, she decided, and you could usually rely on him. A belated surge of affection caught her by surprise. Coming back from the clinic that afternoon she’d glimpsed a man in the distance she’d almost taken for George: he had just the same purposeful walk and mess of sandy hair. She had nearly called out his name. How idiotic. As if! When she got back to London she’d have to find some way of making it up to him. Felix didn’t want to rake over old coals – and it would be easy to embarrass George with apologies, so she’d have to be careful – but she must let him know she was sorry. Sorry for disappointing him, at any rate. Not sorry for going.
Nat’s voice finally broke into her thoughts.
‘Not late, am I? I got lost. Streets all blocked. A place doesn’t look the same here two days running.’
His head was cocked forward as he walked, as if he were making sure it was really her. His face and his sling gleamed whitely.
‘It’s fine,’ she called back, and his steps became louder and quicker. She felt stiff and self-conscious, and it seemed an age before he reached her.
He stopped a foot away. His expression was shadowed. She took heart from the jaunty angle of his beret. As he shifted his weight on his feet, she heard his leather jacket softly creaking. One sleeve hung loose and empty. She started towards him. Then held herself back.
‘Your friend isn’t with you?’ he said.
‘No. She wanted an early night.’
‘Oh.’ It was just a moment of awkwardness, which dissolved without an audience. ‘That’s good. Let’s go then.’
Nat finally closed the space between them, and she let him link his good arm with hers. She even leaned against him a little as they walked. Their steps quickly found a rhythm.
‘I can’t believe this,’ he said. ‘Let’s go somewhere I can look at you.’