Just when Felix needed to stock up on sleep, it eluded her. For lack of beds, she and Kitty were sharing an attic mattress. Without waking, Kitty muttered something and rolled over, taking their blanket and her body warmth with her.
Waiting. Waiting. Everyone on edge. And nights were haunted by longing.
They were in a new part of Spain, Aragon – Anarchist territory – and had commandeered the house of a lawyer who’d long ago fled. Christmas – extra chocolate and cigarette rations all round – had been and gone, and the latest victory celebrated hard. Spanish soldiers had taken back the town of Teruel, the toe of a foot-shaped slice of Fascist territory kicking at Republican Spain.
The weather gave some breathing space: Franco’s air force was grounded by snow. The International Brigades were on standby. Felix knew the British must be close. Surely Nat must have finished his training by now? If rumour was right, his company would need him soon enough.
Felix gritted her teeth and gave up the struggle to sleep. She was hopelessly wide awake now. She might as well get up, and keep moving. The uncurtained square of window glass in the roof was lightening to grey anyway. Felix had been watching it for hours. It would soon be time to take over from Dolores.
She rolled off the mattress. On hands and knees, she felt for a tinderbox, and managed not to knock over the candle stub. It was jammed into an empty condensed milk tin, which warmed her hands a little once the flame was lit. No need to get dressed, as she was wearing all her clothes already – a horsehide coat and ski pants ‘organised’ by Kitty on their way here a few weeks earlier. No water which wasn’t frozen, so no hope of splashing her face.
She laced her boots and felt her way downstairs, wondering how the night had passed in the ward. Her breath made clouds. Felix moved quietly, not wanting to disturb the patients. There weren’t too many here just then. Mostly flu cases.
Dolores was at the bedside of their only borderline patient, Ramón, a scout caught in crossfire during the street fighting at Teruel a few weeks earlier. He bore everything with immense fortitude, but he had lost a great deal of blood before making it to theatre. Abdominals – belly cases – they were always tricky. There was talk of another transfusion, if he didn’t improve soon.
Doug must have given the go-ahead, for Dolores was preparing Ramón already. He had a cannula in his arm, and was managing to flirt quietly, despite his weakness. Felix hovered in the doorway, invisible to them both. Watching silently, she ticked off a mental checklist. She was always alert to accidents now. It was so easy to make a mistake when you were exhausted. Dolores asked Ramón to look away for a moment, and Felix smiled to herself. After what he must have seen . . . Then her smile froze.
Dolores had attached the tubing and was holding up the flask of blood. Gravity would speed the blood on its journey into Ramón’s veins. At that moment the sun made it over the horizon, and a strong ray of light suddenly streamed through the window behind the nurse. Lit up from behind, the glass glowed. But not the rich ruby red Felix expected, the colour of Spanish wine. This was darker, much darker, almost brown. No trick of the light, she was sure. Something was wrong. Why hadn’t Dolores noticed?
She darted towards her, crashing into the end of a metal cot so violently that the sleeping soldier in it woke with a shout of terror. Felix stumbled and caught at the flask. She felt an unexpected heat as it slipped from her grasp. Both nurses cried out. Glass shards exploded across the flagstones. A pint of blood splashed in all directions, flecking against sheets, walls, floor, legs, everywhere. It puddled at Felix’s feet.
‘¡Qué pérdida!’ said Dolores. ‘What a waste!’
What could she mean? That blood was already wasted. It was hot. It was damaged. She knew that. Felix stared at Dolores, and goose pimples crept up her neck and across her scalp. She couldn’t say anything here. Not in front of the patients. A terrible lapse of judgment, another one. Every cork-stoppered bottle from the blood bank came labelled with a warning to check its colour. If it was not red, it was spoiled, couldn’t be used. It was a simple test. This flask had somehow become contaminated, ruined. Why was it so hot?
‘My fault,’ Felix stuttered after a silence that seemed to last for hours. ‘I’ll clear it up. Do we have more blood?’
Dolores shook her head. ‘It was the last.’ She looked desperate, and began to roll up her left sleeve.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I will give him my own blood.’
‘No, no.’ Felix had to whisper. ‘You know you are the wrong type for Ramón. You tested him yourself, didn’t you? What are you thinking of? Fetch the mop. I’ll ask Doug what we should do now. Where’s he gone anyway?’
‘No! No! Please don’t! He is asleep.’
But the patients were all awake, watching everything. Be normal. Be normal.
‘Good morning! Good morning! How are we all today? Sorry about that, Ramón. Here, let me feel your pulse . . .’
Felix beamed at Ramón. ‘Excellent!’ And it was. He was so much better than yesterday. ‘You’re on the mend!’
‘But Dolores said . . .’
‘Really? Ah well. Things change so quickly, don’t they? You’re lucky! Really lucky!’ She said the last words so lightly. She could not have meant them more.
Think. Think. Don’t be hasty. Felix had rarely carried out the handover routine more chirpily. Inside, she could hardly contain her fear.
She had been inattentive. Too tired. Too little time. What else might she have missed? She tried to remember. After they left El Escorial . . . that man from Murcia, the major. Why had he taken such a turn for the worse? The chills, the restlessness, the sudden stupor. What had happened there?
Dolores came back with the bucket and mop. She shook her head when Felix tried to take them, and, with a blank face, she set to cleaning up the mess herself. From time to time, she murmured to herself . . . qué pérdida.
What a waste. All the work Felix had put into training the girl – her friend: gaining her confidence, building her up, working alongside each other for hour after hour. They had been like sisters to each other. Not the giggling, secret-sharing kind perhaps, but sharing something else, just as important. They had been through so much together. And now Dolores was cracking up.
Felix knew it happened – to soldiers as well as nurses. And she knew you couldn’t always see the signs. But she had seen them, and failed to realise what they meant. She hadn’t supervised her well enough. She had let her down. She’d have to tell someone now. Confess to Kitty. The prospect made her feel quite sick. If only George were here, she thought, surprising herself. He’d know how to handle this.
First she must talk properly to Dolores though. Find out exactly what she’d done. But the last time had made her so upset. Felix could not bear more tears and shame and self-recrimination. Still, it had to be done, and quickly. Where was she now?
A patient with a bandaged hand beckoned Felix over. He had shot himself on purpose – no disguising those powder burns on his palm – and he was for ever trying to make up for what he’d done.
He made her bend close to his face so he could whisper in her ear.
‘She’s gone out to empty the bucket. That’s where she is.’
‘Oh.’ She tried to stand up, but he pulled her down again.
‘Listen, I haven’t finished. You need to watch that one, you know.’
Felix sighed. In recent months all kinds of tales had been flying round. Disgrace and fear made people say strange things. She didn’t want to hear this.
‘I saw her last night. She was shaking that blood flask. Hard, I mean. That’s not right, is it? That’s not what you do, is it? I notice things, you know. I’ve never seen anyone else do that.’
‘Really?’ said Felix, in a voice she hoped was neutral.
‘And then I saw her open it—’
‘Thanks for telling me.’
She headed for the door. There was movement upstairs. The others were getting up. The kitchen women would soon be here to make breakfast, and collect the washing. She must get Dolores out of the way while she worked things out. Kitty would be down in a few minutes. She could leave the patients safely till then.
That thought was knocked sideways when Felix stepped into the courtyard.
‘A visitor. For you.’ Dolores nodded a blank face over her shoulder. Felix was looking past her already.
It was the cold that took her breath away, surely? She steadied herself against the rough wall, not quite trusting her legs.
Nat seemed taller than ever, and older. Perhaps it was his clothes. A peaked cap replaced his beret and his boots were high black leather, laced up the front. There was a new strength and authority in his bearing too. Then he took his hands from his pockets and held them towards her, palms up, half-welcoming, half-questioning. Not entirely certain of his reception, but having a pretty good idea. His face echoed the gesture. His eyebrows were up to their old confusing tricks and she knew Nat was still Nat.
Without realising she’d moved, Felix was in his arms, tears she didn’t know she’d shed freezing on her eyelashes. His neck smelled of wool and wood fires and paraffin and cigarettes. She could feel the strength of its pulse against her face.
‘You’re here!’ she said into his skin. Her stiff coat felt like noisy armour. It was in the way. All their thick clothes were in the way. ‘How did you manage it? I’ve been hoping and hoping . . .’
‘So have I,’ he said, drawing back, just a little, and looking at the light in her face. ‘I managed to slip away for a few hours. Officer’s perk. Not fair at all, but I can live with that. The company’s still on standby, just about, but it won’t be long now. Not long at all.’
‘Then we’ll be moving too,’ said Felix, excited, relieved, terrified.
‘We’re waiting for water for the radiators. The drivers are melting it now. I hoped I might find you here.’ He looked at her again, laughed, and rolled his eyes. ‘No, that’s not true. I asked everywhere. I was desperate to see you.’
Felix was breathless with laughter too, the kind that is close to sobbing. ‘I always think this. I can’t believe you’re real.’
‘Try me.’
He pulled off his gloves and they stood holding both hands before them. They leaned back against each other’s weight, testing the sensation, and Felix hungrily absorbed Nat’s presence.
‘I’m due some leave soon,’ he said eventually. ‘After this battle’s over.’
‘And?’
‘I wanted to ask you. Could you get away too? I was wondering . . . any chance I could take you to Valencia? I’ve heard there’s a hotel there and . . . oh God, I’m sorry, I don’t know how to say this—’
‘Oh stop. You’ll have me running away here and now. I don’t know. We’ll have to see.’ Time felt too short. She’d do anything he asked right now. Anything at all. Damn the consequences. ‘I’ll try. Of course I’ll try. Yes. I’ll come. Of course I’ll come.’ But it was hard to look him in the eye. ‘Look at your hand!’ She kissed it, greedily, all over. ‘You can hardly see the scar! And how are your ears?’ She stood on tiptoe, and knocked his hat askew as she whispered into one of them.
‘Is that a medical question?’
‘Sort of. No. Not exactly. I need to use them. Something’s happened. I’m not sure what to do . . . But can you wait? Ten minutes? Fifteen?’ Felix had never felt more reluctant to leave Nat. ‘There’s a conversation I need to have first. With Dolores. It really is terribly urgent. Then I’m all yours, I promise, for as long as we’ve got.’
She knew that wasn’t quite true but surely she could wangle something, under the circumstances. Kitty would understand. Nat pulled her back towards him, put both arms around her again, and kissed the top of her head, smoothing down her hair. Warmth rushed through her. She wished they could stay like that for ever, stop everything. But she wrenched herself away. Wait till Valencia. There would be plenty of time in Valencia.