It was a big hospital: well-organised, but still overflowing with casualties from Brunete. The neighbouring graveyards were full too. When George arrived nobody knew quite where Felix had got to. Several orderlies and a few of the walking wounded shook their heads when he asked. And then a softly spoken chica overheard his question – his Spanish was still slow and loud – and she directed him to the mausoleum.
‘Gracias, señorita,’ he said. ‘Muy gentil.’
Rifle on knees, an armed guard in overalls lolled on a velvet-upholstered chair near the entrance to the royal tombs. He acknowledged George’s presence with his eyebrows, inspected his papers, but made no effort to stop or question him further.
And there she was. At last. George had wondered for months if he’d even recognise her. Now he wondered how he could ever have imagined he might not. God, she was beautiful. What a girl! And there she stood, more real than ever. Real in a way that made him ache, and looking at him with utter amazement in her eyes. Her hands uncrossed and fell to her sides.
‘Here, let me . . .’ George bent to pick up the scattered papers. They seemed to be eluding Felix. He overcame the urge to look at them closely.
‘Thank you. Thank you.’ Felix snatched them back, far too eagerly. They were clearly precious. Then she tucked the pages quickly away into a pocket, without glancing at them again. She looked startled, in a caught-in-the-act kind of way. Another girl might have blushed. George coughed, so that he could turn away.
His heart had just frozen in mid-leap. He knew exactly what this meant. A wasted journey. The end of everything. The chill of the mausoleum reached his bones.
‘So,’ she said. ‘You’re here. Well, obviously you are.’
‘And about time! It’s taken me long enough to find you,’ said George. Jovial, that’s what he would be. Keep things jovial. But the cramped feeling he had got used to carrying about in the pit of his stomach took a firmer grip.
Felix’s face had become unreadable again, guarded. He kept thinking about the taxi in Paris.
‘Not that I’m blaming you,’ he added quickly. ‘Don’t get me wrong.’
He smiled, very determined to be nice, whatever it took. But how strange. It had never even occurred to him that she might be in love with someone else. Not in a million years. So much had happened since Paris, and what could he know about any of it? His smile faltered slightly. Get a grip. Damn. Damn. Damn.
‘I think you probably should,’ said Felix. ‘And I wouldn’t blame you.’ She was about to launch into something . . . An apology. Or a confession perhaps. But George was too tired to deal with anything like that. Every muscle in his body felt weak at once. He wanted to lie down and sleep and blot everything out.
‘Shhh,’ he said, putting his hands up, defensively. He was tempted to block his ears. ‘Let’s not. What’s done is done. Best let bygones be bygones.’ Although . . . and a train of thought began that did not take him in a useful direction. He put the brakes on it, before it got too far.
‘That’s very good of you, George, I must say.’
She was looking at him so warmly that he began to crumble a little again.
‘And Neville told me . . . you’re working with us now,’ she said. ‘You decided to stay in Spain. That’s wonderful. I’m so proud of you.’
George coughed, embarrassed now.
‘Well, after a certain point it just seemed the obvious thing to do. I couldn’t ignore what I could see with my own eyes. It’s different when it’s all happening right in front of you, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, yes, of course. Of course it is. Completely different. I’m so glad you understand.’
‘Actually, I wish I did,’ said George. ‘In some ways, the more I know, the less I do understand.’
He couldn’t interpret her face. He thought he saw doubt, but maybe he was imagining it. She checked her watch.
‘Do you have to go? On duty?’ he asked.
‘In a little while. Not just yet. Would you like me to show you round? There are several hospitals here. Oh, you probably know that already. You must have come for a reason. You’re not just here for me?’ She looked a little horrified.
‘In El Escorial? No, don’t worry. I’m picking up the bug hatcher.’
Felix began to scratch.‘I hate that name.’
George shrugged, half-smiling.
‘Oh well, the delousing machinery if you like. And the portable showers. Mostly I’m at the auto-parque workshop these days – repairs, refits, anything that’s needed really. It’s been busy since Brunete. So much to do right now . . . well, you don’t have to imagine. But they needed a chófer for this so I volunteered to drive. I fancied a change . . . fresh air. And I’d just got a letter from Neville. He told me where you were. So it was a chance to finish what I’d started.’
Felix frowned.
‘Tracking you down.’ George couldn’t quite look at her. ‘That’s all I meant. God knows, it’s taken me long enough.’ He stared at her bare feet – dark with sun or dirt? The remains of winter chilblains. ‘Pretty useless, really.’ He was suddenly finding it difficult to talk again.
‘Oh.’ A pause. ‘Sorry. Thank you. That was my fault. I really am sorry.’
‘Well. Never mind that now. Tell me how you are . . . that kind of thing. How are the kitchens round here? Could you “organise” us some coffee?’
Felix made a face. Anything hard to get had to be ‘organised’. ‘I’ll try. Let me get my shoes back on and then I’ll go and see if I can get away for a bit longer.’ She sat down and he watched from a distance and longed to run his hand down her extended leg, soothe her bones and tie the laces round her ankle. He watched, and waited, and then pulled her to her feet. She smiled – that smile she had that always felt like a reward, or a prize or something.
‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I don’t suppose you came to spend the afternoon in a mausoleum, anyway.’
‘I don’t mind what we do. Just happy to be with you.’ He shouldn’t have said that. Idiot. Idiot. Anger rose. He nearly kicked the doorframe as he turned round to hide his shame.
A few minutes later they were blinking in the glare of the afternoon. She pushed the hair away from her face, and squinted at him.
‘Look at you, all brown and blonde. The sun suits you!’
‘Look at you . . .’ he said, lamely, feeling his stubble, feeling self-conscious. ‘You’ve changed too.’ Yes, come on, keep it breezy. That’s the idea, remember. ‘Go on then. Show me where you work. I’d like to see.’
‘The wards are still packed. It’s been so awful. Though we’ve just sent a great many patients off to convalescent hospitals on the coast. The only ones left here now are the men who can’t be moved. But there are far more of them than we’d like.’
‘I’m sure.’ After Brunete, George had repaired – or rather reassembled – at least four ambulances. He’d seen the state of them, and he knew what had happened to their drivers. You couldn’t weld human bodies with an acetylene torch.
As they crossed a vast courtyard, he saw Felix struggling to frame a question. He waited. There was only so much help he was prepared to give her.
‘All this time. They haven’t needed you in London?’ she asked in the end.
‘No. I’ve quit the paper.’
‘Completely? You’ve given up your job?’
‘Yes.’
She bit her lip. ‘Was that my fault?’
George thought about this. ‘That’s not how I see it.’
‘Oh . . . And are you writing at all now?’
‘Just a diary. When I can. You know how it is. And I’ve done some bits and pieces for wall newspapers.’
Felix nodded, looked at the ground. George imagined her searching the Brigaders’ makeshift noticeboards for her lover’s name on the casualty lists, but never noticing his own byline. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. He couldn’t, and it made him cruel.
‘Obituaries, mostly, as it happens,’ he went on. ‘But I sold my typewriter after Guernica.’
‘Oh. You were at Guernica?’ Felix had gone white at this news. ‘Oh God, I heard . . . is that why . . . ?’
‘Yes.’ George cut her off. He returned to Guernica too often in his dreams to talk about it in daylight. ‘Now I wish I’d kept the machine for the Brigade. It could have been useful.’
‘Never mind.’
‘Actually I did think of doing a piece for the Brigade newspaper – you know, the Volunteer for Liberty? Something about the drivers. Do you ever see it?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘I don’t know what to make of it.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Felix.
‘Are we really winning? I can’t tell. Was Brunete really a victory? It seems incredible. It felt like a disaster.’
‘Of course we’re winning. We’ve got to be. Every day of fighting weakens Fascism.’
George looked hard at Felix, and his lips tightened. She meant it.
‘Mmmm. That’s what they say. I hope they’re right.’ So much for keeping things jovial, he thought to himself. He’d never dared have such a dark conversation with anyone before. He felt safe with Felix, he supposed.
‘Oh, do write that piece,’ she said. ‘The drivers are so important.’
‘Yes, of course. Of course. That’s not why I’m hesitating.’
‘So . . . ?’ Felix was looking at him with a confused expression. He looked around. There was nobody within earshot, but he moved a little nearer all the same. And then he wished he hadn’t had to, because he felt himself losing control again. Could she feel it? It was like silk rubbing together. If he came too much closer, there’d surely be sparks.
‘Difficult to explain. It’s just I find that kind of thing quite hard to do. All that morale-raising stuff, you know?’ (Did she?) George ran his hand through his hair. His scalp was tingling. ‘You read it and cheer. It’s great. We’re all marvellous. Everyone is so brave. And that’s true, isn’t it? I know that’s true. And then you read between the lines. And how do you know what to believe?’
She didn’t answer. So he kept going.
‘You never see the casualty figures. But you have a pretty good idea of just how many trips the ambulances have made. And you’ve cleaned the blood off them. And worse. Over and over again.’
Yes, she did know what he was talking about.
‘It’s been hell, hasn’t it?’ She put a sympathetic hand on his arm, and George made himself just keep walking, strolling on, one foot after the other, though the light pressure of her finger tips just below his rolled-up sleeves seemed to burn his bare skin.
George hated to think what Felix had been through, what was still to come. She still looked so innocent. Such a child. Quite unaware of the effect she was having on him. She couldn’t possibly have guessed what he’d had planned for Paris. For a moment he considered abandoning everything, then and there. What chance he could persuade her to come home with him? Right now? He opened his mouth, and shut it just as quickly.
He could guess her answer. And wait for the war to follow us to England? No, thank you.
And then George remembered the envelope in Felix’s pocket. It must be burning a hole. Her hand kept returning to it as they walked, checking it was still there, safe and sound. She couldn’t help herself.
‘But it’s important to keep up morale, isn’t it?’ continued Felix. ‘I mean, without that . . .’
‘I know. Morale is crucial. It’s just not my strong point. I’m not convincing.’
‘Do you know, I’m not sure we should even be talking like this. It doesn’t help. What if . . . ?’
‘Fine. We haven’t had this conversation.’ He trusted her not to tell. That wasn’t her way. She was far too busy seeing the good in people to think of the bad. Anyone else would say he was a defeatist. That’s what they called you now if you expressed the slightest doubt about victory. That wouldn’t do at all. These days, in fact, it was positively dangerous. You never knew who might report you, if you didn’t toe the Party line.
‘Really? OK. Look, through here . . . this is my ward.’
Bed after bed. High windows. Acres of floor. Blue and white tiles. All very crisp and clean after the black grease and filthy overalls of the vehicle workshop. A slightly older nurse with spectacles and a clipboard spotted Felix and began to stride over. She didn’t look happy.
‘There you are, Felix. Good. Can I have a word?’
Felix seemed taken aback. ‘Will you excuse me please, George?’
He stepped aside, and the two women lowered their voices. But in the quiet of the ward, heads turned towards him and away from the patients, their words were still quite audible.
‘What is it, Kitty?’
‘I thought you’d trained Dolores to do the cross-matching.’
‘For blood groups? Of course I did. She’s been doing it for weeks now. I’ve been very impressed.’
‘Well, I’m not. She’s rushing the slide test. You can’t get accurate results like that.’
‘Oh, hell. Are you sure? She always seems so careful to me. Maybe she’s tired.’
‘We’re all under strain, but tiredness is no excuse. Men’s lives are at stake. You know what could happen if Group II types get mislabelled as Group IV.’
‘Obviously.’
‘You’ve got to supervise her more closely until she’s proved her competence again. To my satisfaction. Discipline, Felix, discipline.’
‘Yes, yes, of course. I’ll speak to Dolores right away. Make sure she’s really understood.’
‘No damage done this time, but it was bloody lucky I was there.’
The other nurse turned on her heel, and set off down the corridor on a fresh mission. George saw Felix pass her hand across her face, which had turned a shade of grey. He felt for her. He hadn’t understood its substance, but he could recognise a drubbing when he overheard one.
‘George, I’m terribly sorry. Something’s come up. Are you going back right away? Might we meet again in a little while? We barely seem to have scratched the surface . . . so much to talk about.’
‘I’m not sure.’ Just at that moment George wanted to get away completely. There was a limit to how much longer he could go on being nice and calm when, underneath it all, he just wanted to break something. But as he spoke he saw the disappointment in her eyes. ‘I’ll see what I can manage. How long everything takes. I’ll do my best, Felix. Can I . . . ?’
‘Oh, no, don’t worry. I’m fine.’ And then, unusually, her face seemed to cave in. ‘It’s just something that I’m not looking forward to terribly. Someone I have to talk to. She’s very shy. Nervous, you know. But she’s been trying so hard, I can tell. Really keen to get everything just right. And I’ve worked so hard to build up her confidence, and I’m awfully afraid of criticising her now . . . such a setback. You know what a difference it makes in a team for everyone to be utterly reliable.’