Felix spent most of the summer working at El Escorial, at the foot of the mountains north-west of Madrid. July was a nightmare: the battle of Brunete brought more casualties than anyone could have imagined. Later things were a little calmer, though no more certain. August was so hot that by early afternoon everyone just tried to sleep, patients and medics.
Sometimes Felix wandered down into the royal mausoleum simply to cool down. She loved to unlace the strings of her alpargatas and slip off the rope-soled shoes so she could feel the icy marble floor under her bare feet. It calmed her down. It emptied her mind.
She went there now, to prepare herself for reading her letters. Due ceremony, that was what she wanted to give them, though for different reasons. Facing the rows of gilded caskets, Felix stood for a moment and felt the rush of heat leave her head. Each scrolled golden cartouche opposite bore the name of a king of Spain. Her shoes made a slow pendulum as they swung silently from one hand. Fanned in the other, she held two envelopes. Felix stared at them, wondering which to open first.
Then she sat down, legs straight ahead, and hitched up her skirt. The floor worked its magic. The cold flooded from her calves up her thighs. Delicious agony.
Both letters had been opened before and resealed. She was not the first to read them. That was what happened in wars. She knew that now.
Neville first, Felix decided. And then it would be over and done with. Seeing the Sydenham address at the top of the page gave her an unexpected pang.
Dear Felicity, she read. Mother and I are very glad you’ve stopped being so silly and secretive about your forwarding address. We also have appreciated the fact that we are no longer entirely in the dark about your movements (it was certainly a relief to know you were alive) but it has been very hard for Mother. She wants to send you things, of course. She plans to write herself soon, but first she is keen to finish knitting you some gloves, as she hates to think of your fingers being cold. And yes, I did tell her that it would not be so cold in Spain now. And also that it was bound to be all over by next winter, one way or another. But she said, ‘You never know.’
Felix’s strangled laugh bounced off the marble tombs. What had come over him? How had she got off so lightly?
She skimmed the next few paragraphs: about the cherry blossom in Crystal Palace Park, the silver wedding celebrations of the deputy director of Pearl Assurance, and Neville’s hope that next door’s wayward cat would not eat all the new goldfish in the garden pond.
Then she saw the word ‘George’. What was this? Bother. The censor must have muddled the pages. She shuffled them back.
And I’ve been able to tell George where you are, finally. I suppose you still don’t know he followed you to Spain? He spent months looking for you, with no success.
Felix couldn’t believe this. George had been here too, all this time? Looking for her? And by now he’d be back in London – at the side of some racetrack, perhaps, binoculars in hand. Whistling cheerily, she hoped. She disapproved of his chivalry, but she had more than a soft spot for George and he deserved her thanks.
Neville was right. She had been silly. Horribly so. A selfish idiot in fact. Not for coming. But for cutting herself loose so completely. Just a few mysterious letters home so they knew she was still alive. Insisting – until the last one – that they leave her alone. She heard a quiet whimpering groan: she had made the noise herself.
Not like George to give up a search? Of course not. But perhaps if you’d given him a little more encouragement instead of running off like that in Paris . . . This is no time for recriminations. I’m sure you can guess how I feel about your behaviour.
Of course. But to be fair, George had never exactly made his feelings clear. Even now Felix couldn’t be sure if her instincts about his Paris plans had been right.
Whatever it is about this war in Spain that’s got you in its grip, it’s captured George now too. I didn’t quite understand his letter. Something about not standing by while evil takes over. Very excitable.
Felix felt all hot again.
George has resigned from the paper. It seems he’s working as a mechanic, or a driver or something, for the International Brigades. I don’t know more than that. Personally, I find the decision extraordinary. Mother says please to let her know if there’s anything else you want.
She rolled over onto her stomach and laid her cheek flat against the coolness of the floor. Her pulse eventually slowed.
Dear God, she thought, George is still here in Spain. It was too much to take in.
As Felix puzzled over this news, she realised George’s decision to stay was more in character than Neville seemed to think. George always was a decent sort: the upright type. A great one for doing the right thing. She must ask around. Perhaps someone here at El Escorial had come across George, and could give her news. Good for George. Who would have thought?
It was some time before Felix was ready to open the second letter. The tearing envelope was the loudest noise in the mausoleum, louder than her breathing. The paper was very thin – like tracing paper. No, it was lavatory paper. Medicated with Izal, according to the print along the edge. Must have been sent from England by some well-meaning Aid committee. If only they knew. But why so empty?
There were some random lines on one page, which could have been the outline of mountains. More lines, and some cross-hatching on another. Rocks? Or the branches of trees perhaps. Each page, alone, looked like a half-formed idea. But layered, and held up to the shaft of light that cut across the room, an image took shape. Nat had turned the landscapes into her face. His name was at the bottom. With a date: 2nd August 1937. He had survived the battle at Brunete.
Bloodless with relief, her fingers accidentally released the papers. They fluttered to the floor, sliding away from her. She couldn’t hold Nat so she held herself, wrapping her own arms around her own body. A hand round each shoulder, eyes shut, she hugged herself tightly while she tried to summon him back to her.
A breeze caught the fallen pages, a breeze from an opening door.