Winter in Madrid

  ‘You can say that again.’

  Tolhurst smiled sardonically. ‘Sam’s a bitter man. He wanted to be Viceroy of India.’

  ‘The in-fighting can’t make anyone’s job easier.’

  ‘Way things are, old boy.’ Tolhurst looked at him seriously. ‘Best you should know the score.’

  Harry changed the subject. ‘When I was at school I remember some adventure books by an Alan Hillgarth. Not the same man, I suppose?’

  Tolhurst nodded. ‘The very same. Not bad, are they? Ever read the one set in Spanish Morocco? The War Maker. Franco comes into it. Fictionalized, of course. The captain admired him, you can tell.’

  ‘I haven’t read it. I know Sandy Forsyth liked them.’

  ‘Did he now?’ Tolhurst said with interest. ‘I’ll tell the captain. That’ll amuse him.’

  They drove through the centre into a maze of narrow streets of four-storey tenements. It was late afternoon and the heat was starting to lift, long shadows falling across the road as Tolhurst steered carefully over the cobbles. The tenements had had no attention for years, plaster was falling from the brickwork like flesh from skeletons. There were several bombsites, heaps of stone overgrown with weeds. There were no other cars around and passers-by glanced at the car curiously. A donkey pulling a cart shied away into the pavement as they passed, nearly unseating its rider. Harry watched as the man steadied himself, mouthing a curse.

  ‘I was wondering,’ he said, ‘how I was recruited.’ He kept his tone casual. ‘Just interest. Never mind if you can’t tell me.’

  ‘Oh, that’s no secret. They were hunting up Forsyth’s old contacts and a master at Rookwood mentioned you.’

  ‘Mr Taylor?’

  ‘Don’t know the name. When they found you knew Spain they were in seventh heaven. That’s where the interpreter idea came from.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Real piece of luck.’ Tolhurst skirted a crack in the road by a bombsite. ‘Did you know, the embassy here was the first piece of British soil to be hit by a German bomb?’

  ‘What? Oh, during the Civil War?’

  ‘Hit the garden by accident when the Germans were bombing Madrid. Sam’s had it put back in order. He has his good points. He’s a first-class organizer, the embassy runs like clockwork. You have to give the pink rat his due.’

  ‘The what?’

  Tolhurst smiled confidentially. ‘It’s his nickname. He gets these fits of panic, thinks Spain’s about to come into the war and he’ll be shot, has to be persuaded not to run off to Portugal. D’you know, the other evening a bat flew into his study and he hid under the table, screaming for someone to take it away. You can imagine what Hillgarth thinks. But when he’s on form Sam’s a bloody good diplomat. Loves strutting about as the King-Emperor’s representative; the Monarchists all go soppy at anything to do with royalty, of course. Ah, here we are.’

  Tolhurst had pulled up in a dusty square. There was a statue of a soldier in eighteenth-century dress on a pedestal in the middle, one arm missing, and a few fly-blown shops with half-empty windows. Tenements ringed the square, the windows behind the rusty iron balconies shuttered against the afternoon heat. The place must have had style once. Harry studied them through the window. He remembered a picture he had bought in a back-street shop in 1931: a crumbling tenement building like this, a girl leaning out of a window, smiling as a gipsy serenaded her underneath. He had it in his room at Cambridge. There was something romantic about decaying buildings; the Victorians had loved them, of course. But it was different if you had to live in them.

  Tolhurst pointed to a narrow street leading north, where the buildings looked even more down at heel.

  ‘Wouldn’t go down there if I were you. That’s La Latina. Bad area, leads across the river to Carabanchel.’

  ‘I know,’ Harry replied. ‘There was a family we used to visit in Carabanchel when I came in 1931.’

  Tolhurst looked at him curiously.

  ‘The Nationalists shelled it badly during the Siege, didn’t they?’ Harry asked.

  ‘Yes, and they’ve left it to rot since the Civil War. See the place as full of their enemies. There are people starving down there, I’m told, and packs of wild dogs living in the ruined buildings. People have been bitten and got rabies.’

  Harry looked down the long empty street.

  ‘What else is there you should know?’ Tolhurst asked. ‘English people aren’t very popular generally. It’s the propaganda. It’s never more than dirty looks, though.’

  ‘How do we deal with Germans if we meet them?’

  ‘Oh, just cut the bastards dead. Be careful about greeting people who look English on the streets,’ he added as he opened the car door. ‘They’re just as likely to be Gestapo.’

  Outside the air was full of dust, a breeze lifting little whorls of it from the street. They took Harry’s case from the car. A thin old woman in black crossed the square, a huge bag of clothes on her head supported by one hand. Harry wondered which side she had supported during the Civil War, or whether she had been one of the thousands without politics, caught in the middle. Her face was deeply lined, her expression tired but stoical; one of those who endured – somehow, only just.

  Tolhurst handed Harry a brown card. ‘Your rations. The embassy gets diplomatic rations and we distribute them. Better than we get at home. A lot better than the rations they get here.’ His eyes followed the old woman. ‘They say people are digging up vegetable roots for food. You can buy stuff on the black market, of course, but it’s expensive.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Harry pocketed the card. Tolhurst went over to one of the tenements, producing a key, and they entered a dark vestibule with cracked flaking paint. Water dripped somewhere and there was a smell of stale urine. They climbed stone steps to the second floor, where the doors of three flats faced them. Two little girls were playing with battered dolls in the hallway. ‘Buenas tardes,’ Harry said, but they looked away. Tolhurst unlocked one of the doors.

  It was a three-bedroomed flat, such as Harry remembered would often house a family of ten in crowded squalor. It had been cleaned and there was a smell of polish. It was furnished like a middle-class home, full of heavy old sofas and cabinets. There were no pictures on the mustard-yellow walls, only blank squares where they had hung. Dust motes danced in a beam of sunlight.

  ‘It’s big,’ said Harry.

  ‘Yes, better than the shoebox where I live. Just the one Communist Party official used to live here. Disgrace when you see how most people are crowded together. Left empty for a year after he was taken away. Then the authorities remembered they had it and put it up for rent.’

  Harry ran a finger along the film of dust on the table. ‘By the way, what’s this about Himmler coming here?’

  Tolhurst looked serious. ‘It’s all over the Fascist press. State visit next week.’ He shook his head. ‘You never get used to the idea that we might have to run. There have been so many false alarms.’

  Harry nodded. He’s not really brave, he thought, no more than I am. ‘So you report directly to Hillgarth?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s right.’ Tolhurst tapped the leg of an ornate bureau with his foot. ‘I don’t get to do any actual secret work, though. I’m the admin man.’ He gave a self-deprecating laugh. ‘Simon Tolhurst, general dogsbody. Flats found, reports typed, expenses checked.’ He paused. ‘By the way, make sure you keep a careful note of everything you spend. London’s red-hot on expenses.’ Tolhurst looked out of the window at the central courtyard where patched washing flapped on lines strung between the balconies, then turned back to Harry. ‘Tell me,’ he asked curiously, ‘does Madrid look much different to when you were here under the Republic?’

  ‘Yes. It was bad enough then but it looks worse now. Even poorer.’

  ‘Maybe things’ll get better. I suppose at least now there’s strong government.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Did you hear what Dalí said – Spain’s a nation of peasants who need a firm h
and? Cuba was the same, they just can’t handle democracy. Everything goes to pot.’ Tolhurst shook his head, as though it was all beyond him. Harry felt a spurt of anger at his naiveté, then reflected that it was beyond him too, the tragedy that had happened here. Bernie was the one who had had all the answers but his side had lost and Bernie was dead.

  ‘Coffee?’ he asked Tolhurst. ‘If there is any.’

  ‘Oh yes, place is stocked. And there’s a phone, but be careful what you say, it’ll be tapped as you’re Dip Corps. Same with letters home, they’re censored. So take care if you’re writing to family, or a girlfriend. Got anyone back home?’ he added diffidently.

  Harry shook his head. ‘No. You?’

  ‘No. They don’t let me out of the embassy much.’ Tolhurst looked at him curiously. ‘What took you to Carabanchel, when you were here before?’

  ‘I came with Bernie Piper. My Communist schoolfriend.’ Harry smiled wryly. ‘I’m sure it’s in my file.’

  ‘Ah. Yes.’ Tolhurst reddened slightly.

  ‘He got friendly with a family down there. They were good people; Christ knows what’s happened to them now.’ He sighed. ‘I’ll get that coffee.’

  Tolhurst looked at his watch. ‘Actually, I’d better not. Got to check some damned expenses. Come to the embassy at nine tomorrow, we’ll show you the ropes for the translators.’

  ‘Will the other translators know I’m working for Hillgarth?’

  Tolhurst shook his head. ‘Lord, no. They’re all regular Dip Corps, just performers in Sam’s circus.’ He laughed and extended a damp hand to Harry. ‘It’s all right, we’ll run through it all tomorrow.’

  HARRY TOOK OFF his collar and tie, feeling a welcome current of air playing on the damp ring around his neck. He sat in a leather armchair and looked through Forsyth’s file. There wasn’t much there: some more photographs, details of his work with Auxilio Social, his contacts in the Falange. Sandy was living in a big house, paying liberally for black market goods.

  Outside he heard a woman’s voice, harsh, calling her children in. He put down the file and walked over to the window, looking through the washing to the shadowy courtyard, where children were playing. He opened the windows, the old familiar smell of cooking mingled with rot striking his nostrils. He could see the woman leaning out, she was young and pretty but wore a widow’s black. She called her children again and they ran indoors.

  Harry turned back to the room. It was poorly lit and seemed full of gloomy corners, the places where pictures or posters had been removed standing out as ghostly squares. He wondered what had hung there. Pictures of Lenin and Stalin? There was something oppressive about the still, quiet atmosphere. The Communist would have been taken after Franco occupied Madrid, hauled away and shot in a cellar probably. Harry switched on the light but nothing happened. The light in the hall was the same; probably a power cut.

  He had been uneasy about spying on Sandy but now he felt a growing anger. Sandy was working with Falangists, people who wanted to make war against England. ‘Why, Sandy?’ he asked aloud. His voice in the silence startled him. He felt suddenly alone. He was in a hostile country, working for an embassy that seemed to be a hotbed of rivalries. Tolhurst couldn’t have been friendlier but Harry guessed he would be reporting his impressions of him to Hillgarth, taking pleasure in being in the know. He thought of Hillgarth telling him to treat this as an adventure, and wondered, as he had wondered from time to time during his training, if he was the right man for this job, if he was up to it. He had said nothing about his doubts: it was an important job and they needed him to do it. For a second, though, he felt panic clutch at the corners of his mind.

  This won’t do, he told himself. There was a radio on a table in the corner and he switched it on. The glass panel in the centre lit up; the power must be back on. He remembered when he was at his uncle’s, on holiday from Rookwood, playing with the radio in the sitting room in the evening. Twiddling the dial, he would hear voices from far-off countries: Italy, Russia, Hitler’s harsh screech from Germany. He had wished he could understand the voices that came and went, so far away, interrupted by swishes and crackles. His interest in languages had begun there. Now he twiddled the dial, looking for the BBC, but could find only a Spanish station playing martial music.

  He wandered through to the bedroom. The bed had been freshly made up and he lay down, suddenly tired; it had been a long day. Now the playing children had gone he was struck again by the silence outside, it was as though Madrid lay under a shroud. An occupied city, Tolhurst had said. He could hear the blood hissing in his ears. It seemed louder in his bad one. He thought of unpacking, but let his mind drift back, to 1931, his first visit to Madrid. He and Bernie, twenty years old, arriving at Atocha station on a July day, rucksacks on their backs. He remembered emerging from the soot-smelling station into blazing sunlight, and there was the red-yellow-purple flag of the Republic flying over the Agriculture Ministry opposite, outlined against a cobalt-blue sky so bright he had to screw up his eyes.

  AFTER SANDY FORSYTH left Rookwood in disgrace, Bernie returned to the study and his friendship with Harry resumed: two quiet, studious boys working for their Cambridge entrance. Bernie tended to keep his political views to himself in those days. He made the rugby XV in his last year and enjoyed the rough, speedy brutality of the field. Harry preferred cricket; when he made the first eleven it was one of the high points of his life.

  Seven people from that year’s sixth form sat the Cambridge entrance. Harry came second and Bernie first, winning the £50 prize donated by an Old Boy. Bernie said it was more money than he had ever imagined seeing, let alone owning. In the autumn they went to Cambridge together but to different colleges and their paths diverged, Harry mixing with a serious, studious set and Bernie off with the socialist groups, bored with his studies. They still met for a drink now and then but less often as time passed. Harry hadn’t seen Bernie for over a month when he breezed into his rooms one summer morning at the end of their second year.

  ‘What’re you doing these hols?’ he asked once Harry had made tea.

  ‘I’m going to France. It’s been decided. I’m going to spend the summer travelling around, trying to get fluent. My cousin Will and his wife were going to come to start with, for their holidays, but she’s expecting.’ He sighed; it had been a disappointment and he was nervous of travelling alone. ‘Are you going to work in the shop again?’

  ‘No. I’m going to Spain for a month. They’re doing some great things there.’ Harry was reading Spanish as a second language; he knew the monarchy had fallen that April. A Republic had been declared, with a government of liberals and socialists dedicated, they said, to bringing reform and progress to one of Europe’s most backward countries.

  ‘I want to see it,’ Bernie said. His face shone with enthusiasm. ‘This new constitution’s a people’s constitution, it’s the end for the landlords and the church.’ He looked at Harry thoughtfully. ‘But I don’t really want to go to Spain alone, either. I wondered if you’d like to come. After all, you speak the language, why not go and see Spain too, see it first hand instead of reading dusty old Spanish playwrights? I could come to France first if you don’t want to be on your own,’ Bernie added. ‘I’d like to see it. Then we could go on to Spain.’ He smiled. Bernie was always persuasive.

  ‘Spain’s pretty primitive, though, isn’t it? How will we find our way around?’

  Bernie pulled a battered Labour Party card from his pocket. ‘This’ll help us. I’ll introduce you to the international socialist brotherhood.’

  Harry smiled. ‘Can I charge an interpreter’s fee?’ He realized that was why Bernie wanted him to come and felt an unexpected sadness.

  THEY TOOK the ferry to France in July. They spent ten days in Paris then travelled slowly south by train, spending their nights in cheap hostels along the way. It was a pleasant, lazy time, and to Harry’s pleasure their easy companionship from Rookwood returned. Bernie pored over a Spanish grammar, he wanted to
be able to speak to the people. Some of his enthusiasm for what he called the new Spain rubbed off on Harry and they were both staring eagerly out of the window as the train pulled into Atocha that hot summer morning.

  Madrid was exciting, extraordinary. Walking round the Centro they saw buildings decorated with socialist and anarchist flags, posters for rallies and strike meetings covering the peeling walls of the old buildings. Here and there they saw burned-out churches, which made Harry shudder but Bernie smile with grim pleasure.

  ‘Not much of a workers’ paradise,’ Harry said, wiping a sheen of sweat from his brow. The heat was baking, a heat such as neither of the English boys had imagined could exist. They were standing in the Puerta del Sol, hot and dusty. Pedlars with donkey carts threaded their way between the trams and ragged shoeshine boys slumped against the walls in the shade. Old women in black shawls shuffled by like dusty, smelly birds.

  ‘Christ, Harry, they’ve had centuries of oppression,’ Bernie said. ‘Not least from the church. Most of those burned-out churches were full of gold and silver. It’s going to take a long time.’

  They got a room on the second floor of a crumbling hostal in a narrow street off the Puerta del Sol. On the balcony opposite theirs a couple of prostitutes often sat resting. They would call bawdy remarks across the street, laughing. Harry would redden and turn away, but Bernie shouted back at them, saying they’d no money for such luxuries.

  The heat continued; during the hottest part of the day they stayed in the hostal, lying on their beds with their shirts open, reading or dozing, savouring every tiny breeze that wafted through the window. Then in the late afternoon they would walk in the city before spending the evenings in the bars.

  One evening they went to a bar in La Latina called El Toro where flamenco dancing was advertised. Bernie had seen it in El Socialista, the socialist newspaper, full of optimism and hope, which he got Harry to translate for him. When they got there the bulls’ heads round the walls startled them. The other customers were working men and eyed Harry and Bernie curiously, giving one another amused nudges. The boys ordered a greasy cocido and sat at a bench under a banner advertising a strike meeting, next to a burly brown-faced man with a drooping moustache. The buzz of conversation died as two men in narrow jackets and round black hats walked into the centre of the room, carrying guitars. They were followed by a woman in wide red and black skirts and a low bodice, a black mantilla covering her head. All had narrow faces and skin so dark they reminded Harry of Singh, Rookwood’s Indian boy. The men began to play and the woman sang, with a fierce intensity that kept his attention even though he couldn’t follow the words. They performed three songs, each one greeted with applause, then one of the men came round with a hat. ‘Muy bien,’ Harry said, ‘muchas gracias.’ He put a peseta in the cap.