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Chapter Text

January 1937

CLIVE

Clive had just arrived home. He had changed into something comfortable and warmer than his street clothes and was sitting at his desk in the warm study, preparing for a blessed and much welcome late afternoon of reading and maybe journaling. Then he heard the doorbell and a minute or so later, Robert knocked at the study door:

- A man to see you, sir.

- Who is it, Robert?

- Merchant seaman, sir. Says he has a message from master Leslie to be delivered to you, and you alone.

- From Leslie? Merchant seaman? How bizarre…

- He does look and sound like an officer, sir. Very polite, but used to giving orders and being obeyed… Shall I show him in?

A message from Leslie? Brought by a merchant seaman? What could Leslie be up to? As far as Clive knew, Leslie had returned to Cambridge for the second term of his second year, after Christmas break, a few weeks ago. He had actually spoken with him on the telephone some ten or twelve days before. Still, it was true that Leslie had the most unusual friends, including a schoolmaster, a railway station employee, and a printer.

- Yes, bring him here, please.

The young man Robert brought in instantly reminded him of Maurice. Tall, blond, and serious. Only so much more contained. Maurice would have smiled at once, while this fellow looked slightly inquisitive, as if he was taking in every detail of the room. He probably had left what heavier coat he had been wearing with Robert and wore a navy-blue roll neck jumper under his uniform coat. To Clive’s attentive eyes, his clothes – excellent quality, well cared for, impeccably clean and pressed, but undeniably much worn – made it a difficult puzzle to place him. He carried his immaculate cap under his arm and stood very straight and military like. He was one of those rare blond persons whose skin, though naturally fair, tans easily. His light blue eyes were extremely piercing and alert.

- Mr. Durham…? – he asked.

- Yes, I’m Clive Durham.

- Ralph Lanyon, sir – his handshake was strong and firm, and his accent spelled public school in every syllable.

«Could he be some school acquaintance of Leslie’s? He looks rather old for that… Around thirty, I’d say. » - and yet, the boy had always been so discreet about his friends. Anyway, this chap wouldn’t be one of those working-class men with whom Leslie liked to debate politics.

- I believe you have a letter from my son…?

- Yes, sir. But I’d prefer if you let me give you the additional information I have first and then read the letter after I’m gone.

«How bizarre…! » - yet again it was the only though to come to Clive’s mind.

Still the tone seemed to indicate there was no urgent matter to deal with.

- Certainly, if you wish it to be so. May I offer you a glass of Port? I’m afraid I’ve never been much of a whisky man…

The man smiled and Clive noticed then how very young he really was, maybe in his mid-twenties, not much older than Leslie. Maybe because of his weather-beaten complexion and the small crease between his light eyebrows, giving him a sort of permanent frown, he had believed him to be older at first.

- I’ll take the Port, sir, thank you.

Clive poured a small Port for himself and a generous one for the young man.

- Won’t you sit down? – he invited. And as they both sat facing each other, the man began.

- I met Leslie on his way to Spain. He was on my ship with a group of men who had volunteered to fight in defence of the Spanish Republic, which is, of course, technically illegal – and as the older man in front of him grew pale, Ralph concluded – but he wasn’t going to fight. He was carrying press credentials, a portable typewriter, and a camera. He was going as a reporter for some university political magazine, I believe…

Even if the last words made it a bit less terrible, Clive felt as if he had been hit by a pile of bricks. Spain? Leslie was in Spain?

- But I talked with him on the phone… I don’t know, maybe ten days ago… - his own voice sounded unreal to his ears. If it weren’t a complete impossibility, he might have been just having a bad dream.

Lanyon’s voice was calm, assertive, clear, though there was tiniest undertone of sympathy in his words.

- I know, sir. We were in Lisbon then. I was the one who accompanied him to the Post Office to ask for the call. – he downed half of his Port – He took a lot of trouble to call some Post Office first and then ask for the number, just to hide the fact that he was already out of the country.

- But why didn’t he…? – Clive didn’t even know what to ask. He couldn’t reproach the messenger, not really. It wouldn’t have been this young man’s place to stop Leslie from lying to his father over the phone.

- I can’t really answer that, sir. But if you’re asking my opinion, I guess he wanted to arrive before you knew where he was heading, for fear you might try to stop him. I would have done the same thing in his place…

His tone was calm and matter-of-factly, as if he had turned the subject around in his mind for some time. The man’s detached way of stating things made Clive feel suddenly very angry.

- Damned right I’d try to stop him! Of all the stupid things… - for a fleeting moment, he found it rather difficult to contain his irritation.

What could Leslie mean by going to Spain in the middle of a war? The fire crackled softly. The soft and warm domesticity of the room crashed with the turmoil in Clive’s head, an impression he hadn’t felt in years. He tried to calm himself down, focusing on his breathing rhythm, recalling the techniques he had learned while recovering from his war neurosis. The young man didn’t seem impressed by Clive’s outburst: he had kept all his calm and, somehow, that helped.

- Apparently, sir, he knows you quite well. – he finished his Port and put the glass down on the little table.

- That’s way more than most chaps can say about their fathers… - he added, sounding as if he had given it serious thought - Anyway, Leslie is very determined, isn’t he? I only met him for a few days, but he sounded rather like the kind of man who won’t be easily deterred from what he believes to be right. We had some long talks and always ended in the best terms while still disagreeing.

Clive held to the arms of his chair, eyes momentarily closed, trying hard to make sense of the whole thing. He was beginning to feel the first throbs of a serious migraine, the kind he hadn’t experienced for years.

- He had press credentials, you said…?

- Yes, sir, I saw the papers myself. Maybe they wouldn’t stand an exhaustive inspection, because I don’t believe the magazine will last more than a few months, but they were legit…  - the young man stood up, ready to leave. He reached for something from the inside pocket of his jacket. – This is the letter he sends you. He didn’t want to send it by mail for fear it might attract some attention. He handed it to me as it is.

It was a plain white envelope, addressed in Leslie’s clear hand and hadn’t been closed. Clive held to it like it was the last floating board between him and the ocean.

- May I offer you dinner? – he asked automatically, intimately praying that the other would refuse. He could feel his heart throb at his throat and at the tips of his fingers.

- Thank you, sir, but I have a prior engagement.

He set his cap on his military-short blond hair and gave Clive another strong, earnest handshake.

- He’ll be safe, sir, I made sure of that. He has an emergency contact I gave him, and I can assure you it is one hundred percent reliable. You can rest, sir… - he lowered his voice, plainly trying to offer the only comfort he could.

Clive managed a sad half smile. How strange it was that he seemed to awaken the protective instinct of so many people. Even this fellow who was probably young enough to be his son was trying to spare him. Was he really that helpless? And did it show so plainly? The younger man, already standing by the door, turned around, his piercing eyes taking in so much more than Clive might have wished to disclose.

- I expect it’s easier said than done, sir. Still, you can try… It’ll do you better than worrying.

As soon as the man left, Clive opened the envelope. A single sheet of letter paper emerged, only half written in Leslie’s hand.

«Father,

When you read this, I’ll be in Spain, and will probably have been there for over a week. Though it pains me to sneak away like this, we both know that if I had spoken of my plans, you’d have done everything within your power not only to convince me not to go, but to stop me from even trying. I couldn’t take such a risk.

I need you to understand and to accept this is something I must do. I spent the whole summer agonizing over this. I won’t fight. You know I abhor violence, and if I ever killed anyone, I’d never have another hour of peace. But I must do something. A legitimate government is being challenged and attacked in the most vicious manner, and all countries in civilized Europe seem to look the other way, while the Nationalists are being actively helped by both fascist Italy and nazi Germany, something that ought to sound like a dire warning, and yet everyone is willingly ignoring. It’s an inconceivable cowardice. Reporting what I witness is the only thing I can do to at least avoid being ashamed of myself, as I already am ashamed of my country.

I have the feeling that the future of the world as we know it is at stake here, and though you know how discontent I am with a lot of it, I believe that neither Fascism nor any other authoritarian solution is the answer. Any form of government that needs to be upheld by force and fear cannot be good.

I did everything I could to ensure that no one can associate me with you. I have used Mummy’s surname and your address in London in all my papers, which of course means that some friends had to pull strings on my behalf. I’ll send this letter by hand. The man who’s taking it to you is one of the most decent fellows I’ve met, and though I cannot boast of my vast experience, I still believe I can read people well enough. He’s taking another letter to send to Irene by post.

I am very sorry for all the pain and distress this letter will bring you and Mummy, but there was no way to escape it. All my love to you both,

Leslie»

Leslie, his little boy… Leslie was in Spain, in the middle of a civil war, a cruel business that was splitting villages and families (and Clive had heard some frightening rumours about the atrocities that were taking place there), armed with a few notebooks, a camera and a typewriter, and flimsy press credentials, under an assumed name. There was no way to contact him. The war had been going on for nearly six months and God only knew when and how it might end.

If he tried to pull a few strings, it would become apparent that his son, an MP’s son, was in Spain, under a false name, in possession of dubious press credentials. Siding with the legitimate government, that much was true, he tried to remember… It gave him no release from his worry. A legitimate government, of course, but being now defended by communists and communist sympathisers from all over the world. He might as well hand in his resignation and put a stop to his political career, the exact thing the boy had so painstakingly tried to avoid.

And on top of everything, he’d have to break the news to Anne. The piercing pain behind his left eye became so strong that Clive moaned in agony.

Without knocking, Robert came in with a glass of water and the migraine pills.

- I’m sorry, sir, but I couldn’t help overhearing the last part.

- Did you know anything about this, Robert?

- No, sir! I would have told you if I did, though I can understand… I might have done the same if I was younger.

The mere idea that he could have been facing losing not only his son but Robert as well to a cruel war in a foreign country was almost too much to bear. He felt incredibly angry at the young man who’d brought the letter, even though he was aware of the uselessness of the feeling, and of its injustice as well. The man couldn’t be blamed for having been decent enough to deliver the letter.

- Please take your pills, sir, and lie down for a while. I’ll order some light soup for your dinner and then you must try and sleep. – Robert’s voice and touch brought him back to the cosy study, the fading wintry daylight, the pleasant yellowish glow from his desk lamp, the approaching dinner time, and the dull, throbbing pain behind his left eye – There’s nothing you can do right now, and you’ll need to be well if you are to do anything in the next few days.

***

IRENE

Irene’s class had just arrived at the main school building, after feeding the chickens, in muddy boots and oilskin gardening aprons. They had left their wellingtons in the back hall, the outdoors aprons on the gardening and farming class rack, and Irene had just washed her hands when she remembered the letter. She’d had a letter from Leslie that morning, but with breakfast, Maths, History, and Farming, she had completely forgotten about it. They had a free half period before lunch and the girls were laughing and chattering on the way to the dorm, to brush their hair and freshen up a bit. The envelope lay untouched on her bedside table, where she’d left it when they had gone up to brush their teeth after breakfast. So, she picked it up on her way to sixth form common room.

As she tore the envelope open, she noticed it came from London Central. How very peculiar! Leslie was supposed to be in Cambridge. She sat in her usual corner by one of the windows and blocked the noise of the girls laughing and talking to read.

«Dear Irene,

I hope you forgive me for what I am about to tell you. The one regret I have is having felt the need to hide this from you. I feared your impulsiveness.

I’m in Spain. By the time you read this letter I’ll have arrived in Madrid – or as close to Madrid as possible -, carrying my notebooks, typewriter and camera, and a press identity from the little quarterly magazine I’ve been writing for. I’ll never engage in any form of violence, as you well know, but I couldn’t just stay put. I had to do something.

The uprising of the conservative generals against the Spanish Republic was an outrageous thing. The republican government – and lawfully elected, never forget that, for you’ll find out, when you hear of the subject, that people tend to leave that detail out – was carrying out some amazing changes, real changes, the kind of changes we used to dream about back in the boathouse. Women have been given the vote. There’s no longer any difference in the law between children born to married or unmarried parents. Groups of young people, artists, actors, musicians, teachers, university students have been going to the farthest regions of Spain to let the people know about all the things they never heard of. You know how we used to regret the many millions who’ll never know about the beautiful creations of painters, sculptors, the theatre plays, the films, the music both classical and modern? Well, they were taking all those things to the most remote and isolated little villages. How can anyone be against this?

The insurgent generals have the support of Germany and Italy. Last year, they bombed a small town right out of existence. Our own British news spoke of 400 deaths, men, women, and children. Christian showed me some photographs: nothing but smouldering ruins and dead bodies. What kind of demented people bomb civilians? They are fighting communism, they say. What communism? Everything I have heard and read about the Spanish Republic is not communism, only simple human decency. You know I have my doubts about communism, or at least about what is commonly called communism, and this is not it…

You see that I had to do my bit. I would never kill another man, even if he is a fascist beast, maybe not even to save my own life. Yet I must help in any way I can. I’ll report on what I see, write, and document everything, and maybe it will be read and help awaken people in Europe for what is going on. I’m ashamed enough of our country for looking the other way.

I’ve written to Daddy as well. I know that both Daddy and Mummy will be devastated. I count on your wisdom to help them see I am right.

I don’t know when or if I’ll be able to send news regularly. If possible, I’ll try to slip a note when I send my articles and photographs, though I still don’t know how that’s going to work. Try not to tell anyone, as it might hurt Daddy’s career if it came out that his son is in Spain, siding with what some conservatives believe to be a dangerously communist government. I took all precautions I could without doing anything unlawful. I’m using Mummy’s family name and Daddy’s London address, and asked a friend to post this letter in London and to deliver Daddy’s letter in person. I don’t want anyone to suffer because of my actions.

Till we meet again. Your loving brother

Leslie»

She sat still, staring blindly out of the window, the letter dangling from her hand, feeling completely dumbstruck. She couldn’t even think straight.

- Are you feeling well, Irene?

She looked up. It was Rose, her best friend in school. Because she was in school… For a split second, Irene debated with herself if Rose might be told the truth… Not likely, at least not just yet, she decided. She folded the letter and answered in what she hoped was a detached manner.

- Yes, perfectly well. Is it time for English class? I was daydreaming, I’m afraid… - she had no idea of what time it was. The shock had erased the last few hours from her mind.

Rose frowned. English class would be the last class that afternoon, right before tea. Irene was not the regular scatterbrain who would forget what day of the week it was or go to bed fully dressed – Madeline, from the third form filled that role to perfection. Rose wasn’t really meddlesome, but she thought her friend’s voice had sounded a little odd and she was acting strange. She had received a letter in the morning, the letter she had just been reading and was still holding. She usually was very enthusiastic about the letters she got, either from her parents, her brother, or her friends back at home. This was not like her. One thing was certain, Irene was not her usual self, no matter how hard she tried to conceal it.

- Are you quite well? English class!? We haven’t even had lunch yet…!

Just as she finished saying this and as if to signal how right she was and how strangely Irene was acting, the lunch bell rang.

- There! Lunch time… - brought back to real life by the familiar sound, Irene kept the folded letter in her pocket – Let’s hurry, I’m famished!

Rose followed her, but not before whispering in her ear:

- You can’t fool me, Irene! Something is troubling you and you’ll have to tell me what it is, sooner or later.

Chapter Text

January 1937

RALPH

Ralph had no younger siblings so, although he had been often enough at the receiving end of a good amount of hero worship at school, he had never experienced the need to look after a younger man out of plain, non-sexual affection. He had felt it for Julie, and it had been disturbing enough: not only could he not forget her, but he couldn’t stop caring nor worrying. This was the kind of feeling he had developed for Leslie.

What had attracted him in the first place, he couldn’t explain. Ralph was more than used to seasick people, even mildly fed up with them by then. He gave them any assistance he could, and that was that, he had other things to attend to. The thing was, Leslie had never been just another seasick person.

All the fellows in that group were odd. They were going to fight in a foreign country out of what he perceived to be some misplaced idealism. Whatever idealism Ralph had possessed once, misplaced or otherwise, he had lost it or buried it so deep he could no longer reach it. He found he had no time, nor patience, for the class warfare gibberish. One did one’s duty, there was nothing more to it. «Oh, Ralph, there’s so much more than just doing one’s duty!», had Alec told him a few dozen times «Though I agree that it is central, of course, most of the time at least…»

Oddly enough, Leslie wasn’t even meaning to fight. He had a typewriter and a camera. He was going to war with a typewriter and a camera! He didn’t want to kill his fellow man, but he wanted to do the right thing the way he could. There was valour in that, wasn’t it? Just like Odell, prepared to put his reputation at stake to defend Ralph… There was something of that young Odell in Leslie, the reckless selflessness, the pure heart, the stubborn pursuit of what was right and good regardless of the consequences. It dawned on him that he would never fall in love with Leslie, but neither would he be free from care for the young man. Brotherly love was real then. Perhaps there were things that could overstep duty after all. «Good to know.», he thought with a smile.

As he walked through the light drizzle away from Clive’s flat, he was turning around in his mind all the details he had noticed in that short half hour. Leslie’s father had probably been quite a looker in his day, it was still patent though he was well into his fifties. He had fought in the war, Leslie had told him that much; been wounded a couple of times and not only by bullets and shell, but he was a tough cookie all the same, he gave very little away. The son was a much softer version, even if there was some toughness in him as well. Ralph wondered if Leslie knew that his father had had a loving relationship going on with his valet for some time. «Of course he doesn’t. The idea of one’s parents having sex with each other is preposterous enough. Besides, he’s too occupied with caring for the whole human race to have time to think about sex…» It had taken Ralph no more than a few seconds to know. The younger man was very good at hiding it, but he had sounded overanxious as the guest was leaving, an anxiety that went far beyond the bonds of loyalty between servant and master. Not only he cared, but he cared deeply.

As for the older fellow, he’d been so devastated with the news he’d forgotten all efforts to keep the façade intact. His eyes were on the door, desperately wanting Ralph to leave at the same time he was offering him dinner. Ralph had lied to the man, he had no engagement, prior or otherwise. He was going to have a sandwich and a drink somewhere, and then he would be catching the night train and arrive in Bridstow just in time to kiss Alec good-bye and sleep the whole morning. Only it had been plain that the man wanted him out as early as it could be done.

- Is anything the matter with young Mr. Durham? – the valet had asked as he was giving Ralph his greatcoat.

Buttoning up, for it was damned cold and damp outside, Ralph had answered.

- It’s not my place to tell you that, I’m sorry. But I believe older Mr. Durham is going to need a bit of assistance…

- Oh, I see… Thank you.

The look they had exchanged as the valet closed the door had been enough for both to know that the other knew, and both had felt some reassuring security from the knowledge.

***

January 1937

LESLIE

- When I was seven, I once found a dead swallow…

Leslie was standing by the rail, looking absentmindedly at the city’s dark silhouette. They would be docking in the early morning and Ralph had promised to take him to the Port’s Post Office to make a couple of phone calls. Then, he would have to look for the address he had, book a Hotel room, and meet his contact, a man working close with the Embassy, who could help him to reach Spain, maybe even get someone to take him to Madrid. The others would be sailing on and leave the boat at Barcelona to join the International Brigades, but Leslie wanted to try to enter Spain legally and reach Madrid.

- I was walking home from school… Mummy insisted I went to the village school until I was eleven, she said I must experience the real world before public school…

- How unusual… - some slight amusement was clear in Ralph’s voice.

- Mummy is quite original, yes. I’ve just recently begun to see how original, really. It appeared normal to me then…

- I know what you mean. What we have at home is normal until we begin to know a bit more of the world. It’s rather a shock sometimes… - it probably had been to him from the tone of his voice, there was no amusement this time.

The young second mate and Leslie had taken to each other almost immediately. «Public school boys…», grumbled Christian, and maybe he was right. Christian was nearly always right. Still there were other public school fellows in their group and Ralph hadn’t taken the trouble to say more than the strictly necessary words to either of them, while he had been rather friendly, almost brotherly to him right from the first day, when Leslie had been absurdly sick. 

- As I was saying, I was walking home from school and the swallow was on the grass by the side of the lane. I picked it up, and there was no wound, no blood… Maybe it had hit a car, I don’t know…

Ralph lit a cigarette, his left hand cupping the lighter’s flame, eyes lost in the distance. He was listening attentively, Leslie had learned that his staring into the distance was deceptive, he took every word in. Maybe that was what drove him to tell this little childhood story to a man who spoke so little and seemed to keep so much inside.

- It was still, stiff, as if it had frozen in mid-flight, wings stretched wide. For some reason, it made me feel terribly sad. All I could think was how that poor bird would never again fly under the sun, never again see its nest. I dug a hole in the earth, as deep as I could, which wasn’t much, I expect, and buried the dead bird. I even marked the little grave with a wild rose held down with a stone.

He left out of the tale how he had said a little prayer, hoping the dead bird was now forever flying in Heaven, under God’s loving eyes. Somehow, he was ashamed of it and didn’t want to confess. After the lonely funeral of sorts, he went on, he had run all the way home.

- As soon as I put my things down, I grabbed a sandwich from the tea table, and I ran out again to cry. I didn’t want Mummy, or Irene, or even the servants to see me crying, but I couldn’t hold the tears. I cried the whole afternoon; I just couldn’t stop. Everything that came to my mind made me feel miserable. Suddenly, along those hours of crying, I understood that every living thing dies eventually. Even Mummy and Daddy. Even my little sister and me. It was a completely devastating thought, but it wasn’t frightening, only very, very sad.

He remembered the painful efforts he had made to suppress tears and sobs during dinner, and Mummy’s worry, feeling his forehead, fearing he was coming down with something. He had been sent to bed earlier with a cup of lemon tea and honey, and had cried himself to sleep, crushed by the unbelievable weight of his tremendous discovery.

- In the morning I was quite well again, as if nothing had happened. Amazing, isn’t it, how kids bounce back from the most enormous shock… The knowledge was still there but it no longer made me sad, it was just something I had to live with… - Leslie shivered – Damn the cold, it’s worse than London!

 It was the hour just before dawn, the coldest hour of the day, and though the sky was cloudless and starry, and a thin line of lighter blue was appearing behind the city, the breeze had turned mercilessly cold, and he plunged his freezing hands in his pockets. Ralph flipped his cigarette butt over the rail and turned to face him.

- It hurts like hell when the knowledge hits you, doesn’t it? I remember that… And then it just sinks in, and you learn to live with the pain. One day you discover it doesn’t even hurt anymore. After all, death is just a turn on the road… - he laughed at Leslie’s inquiring look – A fellow I met here, in Lisbon, on that first time I told you about, said this. He was a poet and some queer fish, believe me…

He touched Leslie’s shoulder.

- Come, let’s go below. You ought to sleep a couple of hours at least, you look tired. I’ll call you when it’s time.

***

January 1937

ROBERT, CLIVE, AND ANNE

The letters sent by Leslie created a family crisis. Clive cancelled all his agenda for the next few days and caught the first available train. Robert followed with the car. Sensing she would be needed at home, Irene wrangled from the headmistress a permit to go home for an extended weekend, boldly lying about the motive. Only Rose knew the true reason; Irene had ended by telling her the whole story. Rose was safe to keep a secret and to sympathise, having left Germany with her family some years before to escape the new German regime.

Surprisingly enough, Anne took it better than Clive had expected. He was a mass of nerves himself, hardly knowing how to react, feverishly making plans in his mind, and discarding one after the other almost as fast as he created them. Anne listened to the news, she turned very pale and had to sit down, but when she finally spoke, her voice was calm, and she didn’t cry.

- He’s done what he believes to be the right thing.  He had the courage and the tenacity to search for help with his friends, to do things on his own, to do all within his power to spare you… He’s a grown man now, though we still think of him as a child, Clive. We should be proud…

Her hands were down, still, fingers entwined so tightly that the knuckles had turned white, and he could feel she was bravely fighting the will to cry. Clive had never seen her cry. She had always been strong, stronger than him, in fact. He replied, more to himself than to her. 

- But to go away like this, without a warning, to a foreign country where there’s a war…

- Extraordinary times call for extreme measures. – there was the slightest hint of irony in her tone – Remember saying these words to me when you enlisted?

Clive couldn’t help a sad smile, more a sneer than anything else.

- I was young and foolish. I had no idea… Nobody knew what it was going to be like…

Anne stood up and took Clive’s hands on hers.

- Leslie is young, but he isn’t foolish. He has a purpose and a will of his own. We cannot live his life for him, Clive, no matter how hard we’d wish to.

Just as she was saying this, Irene knocked on the front door. They looked at each other, surprised to hear her voice as Clarkson opened the door. Anne sat back and kept hold of Clive’s hand. «Wait. She’s most likely been highly strung since she got the letter and is going to break down as soon as she stops.»

- Hello, Clarkson. Are Mummy and Daddy in? Oh, of course they are, Daddy’s car is right here. Are they in the study? I’ll see myself in, thank you, just ask Millie to take my bag up, please.

She entered the room bringing in a gush of crisp, cold air, and a vigour that enveloped her and almost sizzled in the warm atmosphere of the study. She kissed her father and only then, as she bent to kiss her mother, she showed the first signs of giving in to the flow of emotion she had been bottling up since the day before.

- Mummy… oh, Mummy I had a letter from Leslie!

Still sitting on her usual armchair in front of the fire, Anne took her daughter’s hands in hers and answered softly.

- We know, darling. Daddy had a letter as well.

Her mother’s calm worked like a pin on a full balloon, and the girl broke down in tears, kneeling by her mother and hiding her face on her mother’s lap, the way she used to do when she was small and something made her really sad, which was a rare event. She hadn’t cried the day before when she had received the letter, nor during that whole day, while all her energy had been set in securing the permit to go home from her headmistress, packing a weekend bag, changing trains in London and walking all the way from the station. Now, all the sadness, the fear, the anger she had felt as soon as she read Leslie’s words, because he hadn’t told her what he was planning, the helplessness at not being able to do anything about it all, all that was coming out in tears and sobs.

Clive was a little frightened by the girl’s breakdown, but Anne discreetly nodded at him to leave them. She knew that Irene was much her father’s daughter in that way of repressing feelings until she could break down, and Clive wasn’t at all good at dealing with that.

- Please, Clive, ask Clarkson to serve us dinner in my study, in about an hour. It’s warm in there and the round table is big enough for the three of us. We’ll join you in a moment…

After Clive left, she let the girl cry for some minutes, caressing her smooth hair in silence. When the sobs began to sound more and more apart, she murmured:

- Calm down, my darling, you’ve driven yourself so very nervous... Daddy is quite beside himself as it is, and we need to be brave for him…

Irene looked up, her eyes red and puffy from crying.

- Oh Mummy, he’s in Spain, in the middle of a war…

- I know, dear, and it is every bit as disturbing to me as it is to you. But your brother is a grown man, he’s done what he thinks is right and we must respect his choice. I know only very little of what is going on in Spain, but from what I could gather from your father’s words and from the newspapers, Leslie is siding with the right people.

Irene felt the tension that had been building up for the last day and a half beginning to leave her, her attention captured by her mother’s wise words. She wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands and even tried to smile. Mummy always knew the right thing to say!

- I know he is siding with the right people. Leslie would never make any other choice…

- So you see the need to be strong and brave, don’t you? For Daddy, he needs us to support him, this may bring back some of his worst memories from the war… You don’t remember, of course, you were very small, but he wasn’t well for a long time.

- Also for Leslie, Mummy. He needs us to be strong for him as well. He’ll send a word as soon as he can. If he’s going to send articles and photographs to that magazine of his, he’ll send at least a small letter to us, a couple of lines with the essential information about how he’s doing. You’ll see…

She had cried all her anxiety out and was herself again, resourceful, and full of hope and confidence.

- Daddy must know someone who can keep an eye on Leslie, and help him back if needed, right?

They debated the situation over dinner. As Anne hadn’t been expecting them, there was only pie and salad, but Irene was eating as heartily as ever. She missed cook’s pie at school.

- Oh, this is delicious! Can I have some more, please?

They were finding it hard to make a plan that wouldn’t damage Clive’s position but could provide them with some way of keeping in touch with Leslie. The more they talked about it, the more impossible it appeared to be. All of Clive’s political contacts must be kept out, or all of Leslie’s efforts to make sure his father’s position wouldn’t be endangered would have gone amiss. Suddenly, Irene remembered:

- I’ll call Alma, I’ll call her as soon as we finish. She can put me up for a night or two…

- Who’s Alma, my dear?

- She’s Rose’s sister. You know Rose, my friend from school. Alma is in Cambridge and she knows most of Leslie’s friends, they moved in the same circles. I’ll catch the first train I can, I’ll go to Cambridge and I’ll go and see the people at that magazine Leslie writes for. Then, when he sends any news, they can forward them to me. No one will find it odd that I get letters from a Cambridge magazine, right? And even if he doesn’t send any personal note – we all know how serious he is in these matters – they can still drop me a word to say he’s sent some new writings or photographs, which will mean he’s alive and well…

It sounded very little and very uncertain, but both Clive and Anne agreed it probably was the best they could get.

Chapter Text

January 1937

LESLIE

He had called a taxi to take him to the Hotel and hadn’t really paid attention to the quick drive. The man from the Embassy had set up a meeting on a café’s terrace. With the help of the Hotel’s porter instructions, given in an odd mixture of French and English, Leslie walked to a large sunny square. It was close but as he walked his first few steps through Lisbon, Leslie was impressed by the light. The sidewalks were paved with white stones and all the walls were white or at least light coloured. Ralph had warned him against the cold – «I came here for the first time during Christmas, a couple of years ago. I was expecting warmth and sun, silly of me, really, I let the things I heard on board cloud my better judgement, it had to be much more to the south to be warm in December, but anyway when I arrived it was damned cold!» – but it was a sunny day and as long as one stood in the sun it was mildly warm.  Contrasting with the sun and the light colours of the buildings, people passed him by wrapped in dark winter clothes. It was nearly nine o’clock and they were hurrying to arrive in time to their workplaces.

At the square, he looked for the café’s name, Suiça, a strange word, he had thought, until the man explained him that it meant Swiss. Leslie sat at a small square iron table, asked for a tall glass of hot milk and coffee (Ralph had taught him how to ask for it, it was called something that sounded like “gallon”, and even Ralph had admitted he couldn’t pronounce it correctly), buttered toast and some pastry he noticed on another table, a small custard tart or something of the kind. The waiter spoke only that strangely sounding language but seemed to understand English.

As he was finishing his breakfast (the milk was foamy and creamy, the coffee very strong, the toast average, and the pastry scrumptious), a man sat at the next table and put his black felt hat on the empty chair. It was the arranged sign.

- Leslie Woods? – he asked without looking his way.

-Yes. – Leslie answered.

- Where are you staying?

Leslie asked for the bill, and as the waiter brought it, he paid at once – it was ridiculously cheap – and wrote the name of the Hotel and his room’s number on the back of the paper, leaving it on the table, under the empty glass. As soon as it was done, he left, and strolled around the square for some half hour, observing the  central sidewalk paved with black and white stones combined to form a wavy pattern, and the houses painted in white or soft pastel colours, pink, sky blue and aqua green, stores and cafés on the ground floor - he counted three, no, four cafés - the bright yellow tramways screeching on the rails and the two big stone and bronze fountains that adorned both sides of the tall column at the centre, crowned by an unidentifiable statue of a man in uniform. When he calculated he had given the man enough time to enter the Hotel and concoct a believable excuse to go up to his room, he headed back.

- Your cousin arrived, sir. He’s waiting for you in the bar… - the receptionist informed him as he asked for his key at the desk.

The man’s accent was appalling but Leslie got the message, and the few seconds it took him to decipher it stopped him from remarking he wasn’t waiting for any cousin. It was the fellow from the Embassy, of course. He met him at the bar, they made a convincing scene of greeting each other warmly and sat at one of the little round tables.

- Auntie Jane sends you some books. – the man said, handing him a small package that looked exactly like a couple of books wrapped in brown paper.

Leslie thanked, hoping he was sounding convincing enough. It all looked a little far-fetched, he felt as if he was inside a novel. The man said a few more platitudes and then got up.

- I must go now but come to dinner tomorrow. Sarah will be delighted to see you. Here, let me write down the address, we’ve moved since I last met you. You better take a taxi, or you might get lost. We dine at seven.

He noted an address on a hotel card he asked for at the bar. Leslie kept it at once and promised to be there the next evening.

In his room, he undid the packet and found a couple of books. Between them there was a paper carefully folded.

«Rest today. Sleep if you manage to, no one will notice, after all you just spent almost a week on a ship. Tomorrow, go out after breakfast and do a bit of sightseeing. The Avenue you can see from your window makes a pleasant walk. Try making the whole tour of the number 15 tramway, it’s all along the coastline, they’ll tell you where to catch it. Enjoy. At half past six ask for a taxi and give he address I gave you to the driver. It’s the genuine address of an English family, and the wife’s name actually is Sarah. We’ll meet there, and you’ll also meet the man who is to take you to Madrid.

These precautions may seem excessive to you, but I assure you it’s all necessary. Though the Portuguese government is adopting a neutral position, it’s no secret there’s a sympathy for Franco’s side. As you may know, there’s also an ancient military treaty with England, consequently they won’t arrest a British subject unless he commits a crime, but they mistrust all foreign journalists as a general principle, so you’ll be under discreet surveillance by the Secret Police. Even if you notice it, pretend not to. Memorise the details of this letter and burn it afterwards, the safety of a few men and women, yours included, depends on it.»

It was a serious business and there was no turning back now. Leslie read the letter until he was certain he knew it by heart, and he burned it carefully, flushed the ashes down the toilet and opened the windows to air the room.

***

January 1939

LESLIE    

The French were treating him fairly well, thanks to his British passport and his Press credentials; they weren't half as nice with the Spanish. He had felt bad about it but when he had started noticing it, he was still too weak to protest, and after some weeks it made no sense protesting. And he was trying to go unnoticed. He would only contact the British Consulate if he had no other option. His papers were good, Woods was a common enough name, and the chance that someone would link the address to his father was minimal, but he didn’t want to draw attention to himself.

From what he could gather from the newspapers and the Hospital gossip, the war in Spain was about to end and the Republic was doomed. Spain would be fascist for the foreseeable future. It seemed that Evil could win, after all. The news from Germany were equally disturbing, and there was probably another war lurking just around the corner.

He was aware that as soon as he was strong enough to travel, the French authorities would send him away. All people coming from Spain were an embarrassment to the French, and the few leftovers from the International Brigades even more so. A foreign journalist might prove to be an even greater embarrassment if he was to report what was going on with some degree of accuracy. Furthermore, anyone coming from Spain was a probable communist, to be looked upon with at least some suspicion. The doctor, a very decent fellow, had discreetly inquired, in his rather fluent English, full of odd sounds, stressing the wrong syllables and using far too many rs, if he had no place to go, besides England.

- Because I hear it is very cold and it rains there all the time. You will need warm and sunny weather, just like we have here, to allow your lungs to recover. It would be ideal if you could stay, but I wouldn’t count on it… If you cannot come up with an alternative in say one or two weeks, they will send you back to England.

At the idea of being sent to England in January, he remembered Lanyon. As they had parted in Lisbon, Lanyon had pulled him aside and given him a paper with an address, a name, and a code. He looked very serious, distressed even, as if he was somehow responsible for keeping an eye on him but still had to let him go.

- Here, take this. I think you are all mad as hatters, but I like you. You're a decent human being and I admire a man who has the guts to fight for his beliefs, misguided as they may be, even more if he’s only armed with a camera and a notebook.

- I’m actually scared stiff, you know that, don’t you?

Lanyon had laughed at that confession.

- That’s what being brave is all about. You’re plunging into a bloody war; you’d be crazy not to be afraid. Real courage is being afraid and going there all the same. So, when you are in trouble, for you will come to trouble sooner or later – sooner, I'd be ready to bet – send a message to this address, care of this chap, and put the code at the end. And don’t forget to add that I sent you. He'll help, for certain. Try to memorise it, just in case...

Then, Ralph had squeezed his shoulder, said «God bless» and just turned around and climbed on board without another word.

Leslie had stood for a few moments on the quay and then had walked away as well carrying his small bag and his portable typewriter, the folded paper safe in his pocket. Only at night, in his hotel room, he had looked at the paper for the first time. It was half a page, neatly torn from the notebook he had seen Lanyon writing on when he had some free time, he recognized it because of the French grid, and that gave Leslie the exact measure of how much the man cared. He had noticed how fastidious Lanyon was about his notebook.  He still had the paper, carefully folded in four inside his own notebook, a small black cloth bound cahier de textes his father had brought him from France some ten years ago. The notebook, where he scribbled topics for his articles, kept his parents' and sister's photographs and loose bits of paper with random information, had miraculously survived every twist of fate, maybe because it was small enough to carry in his pocket. Anyway, he knew the contents by heart. The address was in Malta.

- I kind of know a fellow in Malta who would have me stay for a while...

- Malta would be perfect for you now. Can I help you contact your friend?

- I'll have to send a wire. He's not exactly a friend, though... more like a friend of a friend.

- I'll bring you pen and paper, so you can write it down. When I get out, I'll send it myself, there's a Post Office just around the corner.

That same afternoon the wire had been sent. Leslie had specifically informed the unknown man that the French would require some document proving Leslie had a place to stay, or they wouldn’t let him go.

He had spent the next couple of days anxiously waiting, while wondering what would the fellow think of his message. Lanyon had told him nothing about the man, safe that he would help. Leslie had sent the information the man would need to vouch for him: his name and his address in England. Not his real family name, of course, but his mother’s surname he had been using for the last two years and had grown quite used to by then. He was still doing what he could to avoid getting his father into trouble. On the third day, the doctor had entered the room with a radiant smile, a burly envelope, and followed by an orderly carrying Leslie’s clothes.

- Well, mon jeune ami, you are lucky. The friend of your friend must be someone really important and powerful. Here are your clothes, your papers, – he showed the fat envelope – your hospital discharge, and the ticket to Marseille. There you will find a ticket to the Malta ferry waiting for you at the guichet. Monsieur le directeur received all the instructions. Oh, and this letter is for you.

It was a plain white envelope he extracted from the bigger one, with a small handwritten note on a card.

«We’ll be waiting for you when you arrive. You’ll be on your feet in no time, there is nothing like good sea air, sunshine, and good food. There’s plenty of all three.»

There was no name at the bottom, but the hand was kind of familiar. For a moment, Leslie thought he had seen that hand before, but the thought lasted no more than a moment and he forgot all about it almost immediately.

Part of him felt relieved and grateful. Wherever he was, Ralph Lanyon had managed to look after him. «God bless you, Ralph!» he silently whispered as he changed into his clean clothes. He could be in Malta in two days at the most. «Sunshine» - he thought - «Sunshine, sea air and good food… Oh, my poor Spanish friends, forgive me!» The other part of him felt guilty and despicable.  Before going, he distributed among his Spanish comrades most of his meagre possessions and nearly all the money he had with him, keeping only a few francs to have something to eat at Marseille. He could wire his bank from Malta – Malta was British territory, a safe place – and have his quarterly allowance transferred.

***

February 1939

MAURICE AND ALEC

The cable had been delivered at Mamma Rondina’s. La Valletta, as Maurice used to say, was the size of a handkerchief. The Post Office people knew all messages to Mr. Scudder were to be delivered to Angela, knew that the office was closed in the afternoon, and, of course, the telegram boy knew where she lived. Angela had hurried to take it to Maurice though it was nearly dark by then.

When she knocked at the door, she was almost out of breath.

- Angela! Is anything the matter…?

- Good evening, Giovanna. Is Maurice in?

Giovanna let her in.

- Do breathe, my girl. What’s the hurry ?

- I just received a cable for Maurice.

- He’s in the kitchen…

Angela practically ran those few steps. She entered the kitchen like sudden gush of wind. Maurice was setting the table for dinner, while Alec was frowning at the front page of a newspaper, where news about the imminent victory of the Francoist forces in Spain shared space with Hitler and Czechoslovakia. They both looked up from what they were doing.

- It’s a cable, Maurice. From France, Perpignan it says, and signed with Ralph’s code…

Maurice set down the plates he was carrying and held out his arm to take the paper.

- Ralph…!? But Julie had a post card from Ralph last week. From Newfoundland… Are you sure? He’d have to fly to be able to get in trouble at Perpignan!

Julie telephoned every Sunday, besides writing frequently. Angela frowned.

- Well, I didn’t open it, of course, but the sender has Ralph’s code; I know it by heart! Better open it and see.

Giovanna was just entering the kitchen with a lemon for the salad dressing.

- Is Ralph in trouble?

Maurice was opening the cable.

- I hope not. But we’ll soon find out…

It was nearly dinner time. Giovanna set an extra plate on the table.

- Have dinner with us, Angela. Santo or Mario will take you home afterwards…

She was pretending hard to be calm, but couldn’t take her eyes away from Maurice, who had opened the cable and was reading it. As he read, his expression became rather strange, an odd mixture of incredulity, mild outrage, and amusement. It was plain to everyone he was reading it again and again, as if he couldn’t believe what he had just read. Alec had put down the newspaper and was watching him, growing more worried every minute, until he could no longer wait.

- Bad news…? – he asked trying to sound natural and failing completely at it.

Maurice looked up with a half-smile, but Alec could see it was not his usual smile, it didn’t reach his eyes and he worried even more.

- No, not at all…  – and to Giovanna, who was still as a statue by the table, a glass in her hand – It’s not from Ralph, rest your soul…

Alec was still watching Maurice.

- Now will you care to rest MY soul, please…? – he asked.

Silently, Maurice handed him the paper. Alec read it, also in silence:

«I need a place to stay for some time. In bad shape, recovering from double pneumonia. You must send a call. Otherwise the French won’t let me go. Sorry for the trouble. Ralph Lanyon sent me.» After these words was Ralph’s code. And then the boy’s personal data. Leslie C. Woods, a birthdate in 1918, and a London address, one Alec knew quite well and would never forget. It was the address of Clive’s old London flat, right down to the door number.

He returned the paper, and Maurice took it back, the surprise in his eyes giving way to a slightly amused doubt.

- Isn’t Woods Anne’s maiden name? – Maurice asked.

- I don’t know. It isn’t the kind of information a posh bloke would share with the under gamekeeper, is it? – and without giving Maurice the time to speculate about the matter – Anyway, Woods is a common name. It’s just a coincidence, I’m sure. After all, it’s been what…? Twenty-five years?

Maurice knitted his fair brows. He didn’t much believe in coincidence. Still, it could be…

- Yes, some twenty odd years… I remember Chapman telling me about Clive’s son, he was born in ’18, but there must have been thousands of lads being born that same year. It’s a coincidence, of course, it must be.

Giovanna brought the salad.

- What’s the coincidence? Is it from a friend of Ralph’s…?

- It’s the address, Clive’s old flat… but it won’t be his flat anymore, not after so long… Yes, I believe this is from a friend of Ralph’s.

- Who’s a friend of Ralph’s? – Mario and Santo entered the kitchen – Is Ralph coming?

- No, Maurice just got a cable. Some young man of Ralph’s acquaintance is coming to stay for a while, to recover from some illness…

Santo winked at his mother.

- Good! I missed the old Scudder-Testa Convalescence and Fattening Sanatorium. It’s back in business then? Well, some things never change… - and laughing, the boys ran to their room to take out their coats and wash their hands.

Giovanna couldn’t help laughing as well, and even Maurice laughed while he kept the cable in his wallet.

- Now, what can I do to get the boy here as soon as possible…?

- Are you going to help him? – asked Angela and Alec, sounding like a well-trained choir.

- Of course. Double pneumonia… It sounds like a dire situation, doesn’t it? – there was still a look of doubt in his eyes though not about the need to help the unknown young man.

Over dinner, he made the arrangements with Angela.

- Tomorrow, as early as I can, I must call this guy I know in Marseille and have him give a little push to the French authorities, to speed it up, or they’ll take weeks, the French love a bit of bureaucracy. He’s well connected, and he owes me, he can have it done in a day or two… I’ll draft the call letter tonight. You’ll type it in the morning and do all the necessary lawyer visits. Spiteri, mind you, not Vella, I don’t trust him for this.  I’ll see if we can have it ready to go on the last ferry, and if all goes well the boy may be here in four, five days’ time at the most. We’ll put him in Ralph’s room.

- Right – Giovanna was serving the plates and passing them around – I’ll begin cleaning it tomorrow.

- Santo, I want you on the lookout for the ferries from… let’s say from Thursday on.

- Consider it done!

Chapter Text

February 1937

LESLIE

The man had been true to his word and got him to Madrid in three days, which given the circumstances was remarkable:  they had crossed the border a bit to the south of Badajoz, hidden in the back of a supplies truck, for it was Nationalist territory, and left as close to the Republican side as possible, had walked for the best part of the second night; then they had been driven to the outskirts of Madrid and crossed the defence zone, by night, zigzagging to avoid the trenches and the fighting grounds. The war was raging close enough to light the night sky and the rattling of machine gun fire and of heavy artillery had been in their ears all the way. In the cold, clean air of the break of day, the part of the city closer to the front looked chaotic, ruined buildings that had been bombed crumbling into the streets, older women and children already starting to walk towards the centre, to begin queuing to buy whatever food there was to be had or to gather whatever could be used for firewood… 

Both he and his guide were met by a Spaniard who had been waiting for them. The other fellow left at once: «You’re safely delivered and I have to cross the city to meet someone who needs to leave, which, incidentally, is much more difficult than entering…» Leslie was then walked through narrow and rubble clogged streets to the centre, where the streets were wide, the buildings modern and huge, and there was far less damage, to the Hotel Gran Via. People were going about their daily life as if there wasn’t a war. Piles of sandbags protecting glass doors, and paper tape on windows were the only signs of it. Even movie theatres were still open, announcing the evening’s programme, and stores smothered in sandbags sported handwritten signs proclaiming they were still open.

He was given a small room on the second floor. One of the windows had a cracked glass pane but the paper tape kept it in place. It was clean and rather big, with modern furniture and a washstand behind a screen.

- There’s a complete bathroom right across the corridor. Most foreign journalists are staying either here or at the Florida. There’s no heating, no hot water and not much but lentils or watery vegetable soup to eat, but it’s safer than most places and at least for now you won’t starve. You’ll just have to cross the street to telephone your articles home, La Telefonica is just across the street, literally.

- Thank you…  - he had so many questions – I’ve never been in this situation before…

- I see… – the other man was older and looked slightly amused, though not unkind – I’ll try to answer…

- Is it safe to walk around, to take pictures, to talk to people? It doesn’t look dangerous…

- Almost everyone who wanted and had the means has left… Of course, the very poor often have nowhere to go. It’s safe to walk around, yes, but don’t go alone. There’s other English and a few Americans, some of them experienced reporters, see that you make acquaintance with them. You are very young…

Leslie smiled.

- It shows, huh?

The other smiled as well, but the smile was undeniably kind this time.

- Yes, it shows. Don’t be ashamed though, your heart is in the right place. You’ll learn. You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t brave.

 He then pointed at Leslie’s camera case.

- You’ll want to send the films too, right? I’ll warn you when there is someone going, either to Lisbon or Barcelona, it’s the only way… You should sleep now. I’ll send up one of the boys with some hot soup, and then do sleep. The reporters gather together downstairs, in the bar, around six or seven. I’ll introduce you to some of your fellow English if you want.

Leslie thanked the man and took his advice. After debating with himself for a couple of minutes, he decided against unpacking: it would be easier to just grab his bag if the Hotel was bombed or if he was forced to leave in a hurry. A few minutes later, a boy brought him a cup of something hot: it was watery, but it tasted like soup, it had bits of soft, boiled vegetables and he drank it without second thoughts. It was hot and comforting. He was exhausted and fell asleep as soon as he hit the bed, fully clothed, the first real sleep he had in three days.

***

February 1939

LESLIE

As the ferry approached the island, Leslie stood on the deck, holding the rail, so attentive he hardly blinked. The tiny dot he had seen on the map had transfigured itself into a mass of land. Despite the cold wind, the sun was shining, the air was clear, the sky was absurdly blue, and the city looked beautiful, all built in golden stone, walls dotted with colourful little balconies everywhere.

He had sent a message home, a post card to the London flat, with the essential information «I’m alive and well, must recover from a minor injury and French doctor says I need sun and sea air. I’ll return as soon as possible. Love, Leslie», so that his parents wouldn’t get too worried.  He looked down to ascertain he had not forgotten any of his pitiful luggage items: his bag almost empty of clothes but still heavy as he had kept in there his small bundle of books, his notebooks, as well as the typescripts of all his articles, and the cardboard box his French doctor had got him to keep his camera and the film rolls he still had left. The last photographs, the ones he hadn’t been able to send from Barcelona, he had posted then in Perpignan before leaving. He had lost his typewriter in a bombing outside Madrid, almost a year ago.

While the customs officer examined his papers, he looked around. A dark young man, probably around his own age, approached with an inquisitive smile. He had a fat roll of newspapers under his arm.

- Are you Leslie Woods? – he asked.

- Yes. Mr. Scudder?

The other laughed, his brown eyes sparkling and his perfect teeth shining.

- No. I’m Santo. Maurice – that’s Mr. Scudder – asked me to be on the lookout for you and to take you home. We weren’t sure if you had been able to catch this ferry or the afternoon one…

And to the officer who kept perusing Leslie’s passport:

- He’s the man Maurice was waiting for, he’s all right! Just be a sport and hurry up, will you? They’re all holding lunch at home, waiting for us…

At these words, the man gave Leslie back his papers, without taking another look. Santo helped Leslie with the two volumes, offering to carry the cardboard box.

- You travel quite light, I see.

- I left just about everything to my Spanish friends… They’re in for a rough time, I’m afraid, it was the least I could do.

Santo held the small box under his arm and secured the roll of newspapers he had been carrying under the rope that tied it.

- I say, are you very tired? We can call a cab, if you are… It’s not far, but I’m afraid the way is a bit steep… How is old Ralph?

Leslie declined the cab. He wasn’t at all tired, and he wanted to see the streets and the people, to feel the sun and the sea air. It was so good to be in a place where no guns sounded and there were no wounded people all around after two years of war and over a month of hospital! As for Ralph…

- He was quite well the last time I saw him. Of course, it was a little over two years ago…

He followed the other chap, up a few streets and some flights of stone steps. When he was almost completely out of breath and just beginning to limp a little and to regret having refused the cab, Santo stopped.

- Here we are… - they were at the end of a rather steep alley, in front of a green painted wood   door. Santo knocked, and the sound echoed.

A short, plump woman opened the door.

- At last! Do come in, we were just about to give up waiting, because of the children… - she looked at Leslie and smiled - Hello, my dear! I hope you had a good crossing… Are you hungry?

She let them in to a large sunlit patio. There was a large pot with a small lemon tree, smaller pots with kitchen herbs, and some wicker chairs with red and white cushions. A stone stair went up, and under it there was an open door. She led them in, to a big kitchen. A long table stood in the middle, a very long table, with people sitting all around. There was a delicious smell of good home cooking. At the head of the table, Leslie saw a tall blond man, around his father’s age, who had stood up and was looking at him as if he had seen a ghost. But before he could give it a single thought, someone bumped into his back.

- Oh, I’m so sorry…! - said a deep, pleasant voice.

He turned around and he saw a man. He was middle aged, about Leslie’s height, with silvery grey hair, cut very short, that made a striking contrast with his deeply tanned skin. A very handsome fellow, he thought at once, for he was resolutely decided to be thoroughly honest, at least to himself, and he did notice handsome men as much as he did beautiful girls. The man was carrying a small stash of clean linen napkins and a familiar scent of laundry soap and lavender sachets drifted in the air around him. Leslie’s heart ached with a sudden nostalgia for home and that same scent greeting him as he opened his clean bed on the first day of holidays.

The man just stood there, staring at him as if he couldn’t believe what his eyes were showing him.  Leslie looked again at the table, and it became plain that the blond chap was exchanging significant looks with the man in front of him.

- Hello – he said, his greeting aimed at no one in particular – Thank you so much for having me stay…

And as the silence was becoming awkward, he asked:

- Excuse me, but one of you is Mr. Scudder, right? I am in the right place, am I not? Or is anything the matter?

The blond man laughed. His laugh was hearty and warm, sounded like a soft rumble and was tremendously ticklish and contagious. Smiles appeared on every face and whatever cloud had been hanging over the room vanished in seconds.

- No, of course not, there’s nothing the matter! You are in the right place and you are welcome! Sit down and let’s have lunch. Giovanna’s beef stew is delicious, I hope you’re hungry!

***

February 1939

ROBERT AND CLIVE

Robert had gone down to buy fresh bread from the baker’s just around the corner, and on retuning he saw the envelope inside the letter box as soon as he turned the key. He had forgotten to open it the previous afternoon. He knew Leslie’s hand. It came from France. He nearly dropped the bread as ran up the stairs and into Clive’s still darkened bedroom.

- Wake up, sir! Please, please, wake up!

Clive opened his eyes in confusion. Robert was beside him, holding a paper, eyes shining with joy.

- G’d morning to you, Robert… Is the house on fire? – he asked with a drowsy smile, as he was rested, and it was Saturday…

- Letter from your son, sir. Coming from France.

Since the arrival of the remaining men from the British Battalion, in December last, Clive had heard no news from Leslie. That very day, he had received a message, brought by a young man in a threadbare uniform and with his right arm in a sling, who had visited him in his flat to tell that Leslie had been taken ill and smuggled to a French Hospital only a few days before the International Brigade’s departure.  He’d had no heart to tell Anne such depressing news. Better no news, he thought. As it was, he tried to think of it as little as possible – there wasn’t much he could do and worrying didn’t help.

He sat up, fully alert. The envelope was addressed in Leslie’s hand, so he was well enough to write. And it came from France, so he was no longer in Spain. «Thank God…!» he thought «Now I can tell Anne.»

The post card was a photograph from Perpignan, and turning it, Clive read a couple of lines:

I’m alive and well, must recover from a minor injury and French doctor says I need sun and sea air. I’ll return as soon as possible. Love, Leslie

The hand was firm, and it was Leslie’s hand, no doubt about it. The sparse, almost telegraphic prose was his as well, he saved all his literary verve for his articles. Immediately Clive felt a huge weight lift from his shoulders, a weight he hadn’t known was there until he felt it departing.

- He’s well, isn’t he? – Robert asked, the relief plain in his voice.

Clive looked up and smiled.

- Yes, he’s well…

Robert bent down and kissed him. The lack of news about Leslie’s whereabouts and health had been a tremendous weight on both men for a long time. If anything happened to the boy, Robert was well aware that Clive would be completely wrecked. All the wounds left by the War, carefully kept at bay with loving care, would again threaten to resurface and make damage.

- Oh, I’m so glad! Now you’ll be able to tell Mrs. Durham the truth. And Miss Irene. Is he coming back soon?

Clive handled him the post card.

- You can read it… He’s staying in the south of France, at least for some time. He gives no address, of course, that’s so typical of Leslie’s! Still, we can go home next weekend and give Anne the good news.

- I believe you should call her right now, sir. Why let her suffer for another week?

Clive had grown used to how strong Anne was. Never since their wedding night, when he had frightened her immensely because she had no actual idea of how sex really worked, never had he caught her in a moment of weakness. She didn’t scream, she didn’t cry, she had no tantrums, she never acted silly, and if she was afraid of anything, she had never shown it. Furthermore, since that distant summer day when she had entered his study and announced in the calmest, softest voice that she had had a long talk with Robert and that, in view of said talk, Robert would be staying «because you need him as much as you need me and the children and I managed to make him see that, and Captain What’s-His-Name can easily find any other valet that doubles as a driver», Clive had regarded Anne as a tower of strength. That belief clouded his judgement, and he had virtually forgotten that Anne would be suffering, not knowing about her son. Robert, on the other hand, had thought about it immediately, for Robert was as naturally generous as Clive was selfish.

- You are right! – he replied, recognizing his own weakness – I was only thinking of seeing her face when I give her the news, but you’re a better person than me. Let’s call her now…

They had had a second depressing Christmas, not knowing from Leslie. News from the Continent were dismal, Spain torn by war, Germany clearly becoming a threat and everyone seeming to look the other way, the Prime Minister returning from Munich with a signed piece of paper, and announcing «peace for our time» as if he believed it… Clive had read over and over the letter Leslie had sent him when going to Spain, and couldn’t help the feeling that the boy had been right in wanting to do something. And that he had even been right in being ashamed for his country doing precious little and pretending not to see what was in plain sight. Even Clive was beginning to feel ashamed and to believe that Winston was undoubtedly right about Hitler.

- You must tell miss Irene as well, sir. She doesn’t show it, of course, but she’s been worried sick…

Irene added to their worries. She had received the rare and irregular messages from the magazine, and when the magazine had ended from the small left-wing papers that published Leslie’s articles. There had been a couple of scribbled notes during the first year: «I’m well. Madrid is still under siege and there’s very little to eat. Poor people suffer terribly but don’t lose their courage, it’s amazing.»; «I’ll be leaving Madrid in the next few days. The little food that is brought in is needed for the fighting men and women. Tell Mummy and Daddy I’m well.»… After that, only the occasional call now and then to inform that another article had been transmitted over the telephone or another film had arrived, so Leslie was alive and working. She kept clippings of each article, of each grainy picture, of everything she could find in print about the War in Spain. She grew restless.

The following Christmas, she had arrived home excited beyond description.

- Mummy, Daddy, I know what I want to do. Rose’s father says there is going to be a War, sooner or later, and he bets on sooner. There will be great need for nurses, even if still in training. I’d prefer to be a doctor but that would take a lot of time, and of course I can still do it after… I already have my School Certificate, so I’ll leave school around Easter break and enter nursing training. Rose is doing the same, and two other girls you don’t know. It’s in London, but Rose’s mother says we are going to live at the nursing school, and if that isn’t an option, we can stay at her place…

She would be eighteen in June and it was absurd to try and wage a war against her. Just as she had done with Leslie, Anne had respected her daughter’s choice. Clive had tried a feeble and futile resistance, only to have it completely crushed by Irene’s determination. The conversation «Do you really want to empty bedpans, make beds, give sponge baths and dress wounds?», «It’s useful work, Daddy. Rose’s father says there’s a nurse shortage even now, in peace time. What am I expected to do when I finish school?  Were you really expecting me to be a debutante? I’d probably kill someone even before the first dinner party…», «But what about your drawing, your painting? Wouldn’t you prefer to try that?», «I have no talent, Daddy. I know it, you know it. I sketch a little and that’s all there is to it. I’d rather be a good nurse than a mediocre artist…» had proven a dead end.

She was now about to complete her second semester at nursing school, working very, very hard and doing very well, but she telephoned every week to ask if there’d been any news from her brother.

- Do you have her schedule? When is she free to take a phone call?

Chapter Text

May 1937

LESLIE

- Las golondrinas! Mira, Miguelito, ¡míralas, que bonitas!

Leslie would never forget neither the word nor the scene. A young girl in her mid-teens standing in the middle of the street, pointing out the little flying silhouettes to the little boy holding her hand, her younger brother maybe. They were just regular children, dark haired and dark eyed, looking a little bit dirty, as any normal child would be after a normal day. It was plain they had an adult caring for them, a mother probably, for their clothes were shabby but carefully mended. He lowered himself on one knee and photographed them, standing in front of a pockmarked wall, among the rubble of bombed buildings, the girl holding to her breast a cloth bag with maybe a couple of sweet potatoes, one of the few things that could be had to eat in besieged Madrid, the little boy protecting his eyes against the sun, both looking up, smiling, completely oblivious, for a few moments, to the war, the bombings, the fear and the hunger, oblivious and happy as only children can be.

Las golondrinas, the swallows knew nothing about the war, and kept flying over the city. For the rest of his days, whenever he saw swallows flying, he’d remember those Spanish kids and Jeff.

-Woods! Don’t squander your film, in this light two shots are enough, and God knows if you’ll find another roll when you’re done with the ones you brought! And get over here, kid, I don’t want to lose sight of you…

He was one of the Americans, Jefferson, who hadn’t been allowed to fight given his poor eyesight but had decided to come anyway and work as a reporter. He had almost immediately taken Leslie under his wing as soon as they met. «You are too young to be left alone, kid. I bet your mother is at home right now praying for you to return in one piece and I’m going to make sure it happens that way!»

Leslie very much doubted that his mother would be praying, she wasn’t the praying kind, but still he appreciated both the intention and the company. Jeff, who was just six years older, and was, in his own words, «half-a-quarter Irish, half-a-quarter Negro, a quarter Swedish, a quarter Spanish, and the other quarter even God has doubts about it» was above all a jack-of-all-trades. He had taught night school for workers in his hometown while he was a student himself, he had worked his fare to Europe aboard an ocean liner at nineteen, escaping from the Depression so that his parents wouldn’t have to support him, he had stayed in Lisbon for some time working as translator for a newspaper, giving English lessons to rich kids, and sending home all the money he could save, and then he had lived in Madrid for a few months in ’33, again teaching English, so he knew his way around and spoke a tolerable Spanish.

- Then my old man died, and I had to go back home to settle things for my Mom and the kids, you know, things were still pretty bad – Jeff had five younger brothers and sisters – but Spain had gotten into my blood and all I could think about was coming back. I got work in a printer’s and learned loads there, he printed all kinds of interesting things, so I read all day at work, and at night I went to school to perfect my Spanish and study writing and accounting. I would have got a second job on weekends if only I’d been able to find it, but it was hard times all around. I thought then I might be able to come back to Spain and start a little business of my own, you know, a newsstand maybe, you get to observe a lot when you are selling newspapers, and use my free time to write a book. Kid, I needed days with thirty-six hours in them to do all I wanted to…

Just like Leslie, he was a bit of an outsider with no real political affiliation, just a keen sense of justice and common decency that made him see the fascists for what they were. But differing from Leslie’s experience, Jeff had witnessed and experienced prejudice and poverty and knew that the rich wanted the poor to stay poor. Leslie had never met anyone so unfailingly idealist and so warm-hearted. Behind the thick lenses of his horn-rimmed glasses, his unexpectedly blue eyes mixed a disarming childlike innocence and the clever spark of the slightly mad genius and made a striking contrast with his toffee coloured skin. His articles read like short stories – he always based them in some small detail he had observed – and were intensely humane and compassionate. In a very short time, Leslie had grown very fond of Jeff and soon they developed the habit of reading each other’s work and offering editing tips to one another.

He admired Leslie’s photographic instinct, that talent to pic up the right moment and the right angle.

- I bet you made a beautiful picture! Your writing is a bit dry sometimes, but you’ve a good eye for the camera, kid! I only wish we were able to develop them here so I could keep a print of some… - he looked up – The swallows. Pity they fly so high, you can’t catch them on film…Wonderful birds, the swallows. Las golondrinas. Spanish is such a musical language, isn’t it?

Leslie had no time to answer that. It was rhetorical, anyway, Jeff wasn’t expecting him to reply.

- How good are you at reading Spanish? – he went on – You must read Garcia Lorca, amazing poet! « El río Guadalquivir va entre naranjos y olivos»*. The fascists murdered him at the beginning of the war, the sick bastards. Breaks my heart to see this country torn apart like this. It’s as if the rich can’t abide a world without poverty because then what would be the fun of being rich? Say, this might make a good story…!

Leslie smiled. Jeff’s mind worked a million miles a minute and that was infectious, spreading to everything and everyone around him. Since they had taken to hanging about together, he had no time to brood about the lack of food, the bombings or anything much, really. Days seemed shorter and blended into an indistinguishable timeline of all the little things they saw each day, of all the things he tried to capture with his camera. Women queuing for food, children looking for firewood, the poorer people sleeping in the underground stations to escape the bombings or simply because they had been bombed out of their homes. He composed his weekly articles and telephoned or telegraphed them – sometimes at extremely odd hours, for the building was a much-coveted target for bombings. He photographed a lot. He had sent out a couple of film rolls and slipped inside the box a note for his sister. He slept when it was possible and ate when it was available. He was in the middle of a war and had never been so perfectly happy or felt so good.

***

February 1939

ALEC AND GIOVANNA

During lunch, Alec kept his eyes on Maurice most of the time, though he was at the same time both fascinated and alarmed by how much Leslie looked like Clive.  His main concern however was Maurice. If anyone knew Maurice well, better than he knew himself, it was Alec and therefore he guessed the turmoil that was going inside his mind as everybody ate and talked.

Alec had never feared competition for Maurice’s heart. Oh, he had felt a few little stings of pure, undiluted jealousy during the first year, completely without reason he’d come to discover! No actual consequence had derived: Maurice was absurdly faithful, and that had been so plain to see to all who could be trying anything that every prospective competition had been kept afar by the clearness of it. By the end of their first year, when the War had drastically changed their plans, Clive was already ancient history. As it turned out, Alec had been the one to almost step out of the straight and narrow once or twice during the War, flirting shamelessly with pretty nurses and covertly with handsome soldiers. Maurice had witnessed some of the first with a smile and dismissed the rest as gossip, and he had never been aware of the second. If he had any doubts or suspicions, he had kept it all for himself. But even that was ancient history. They had a life together, had had it for over twenty years, had indeed spent more time together than apart.

Still, this young man’s presence was like a small pebble thrown into a calm lake, producing little ripples that spread, and spread, and spread taking long to reach the shore where they would dissolve into nothing and troubling the still waters as they passed. «You are too kind, Morrie, your good heart will make you bite off more than you can chew someday…!», how many times had Alec warned him? Was this to be that day? Alec wouldn’t let Maurice be hurt.

He took a good look at the boy. How frighteningly like Clive! And yet…

- … that’s what really hurts, losing a dear friend to a stray bullet. Jeff was just like me, a reporter, he wasn’t even armed… - Leslie’s voice broke slightly – He was the best man I ever met, and he loved Spain so much!

- Isn’t that too risky, going into a fighting zone unarmed? – asked Santo.

- Reporters don’t usually carry guns. A man with a camera is harmless, and the press ID is pretty visible, but the fascists are inhuman in their hate… - he hesitated for a split second – After Jeff was killed, I learned to shoot and started carrying a gun…

An awkward silence fell upon the kitchen, as if Leslie’s confession had made them all uncomfortable. Leslie broke it.

- I don’t believe that violence is the solution, but there was no sense in upholding decency when the fascists clearly had none. Fermín used to say that even a dead fascist is dangerous, but a living fascist is not only dangerous but infectious… - and without a pause – I do hope he managed to escape through the French border, Fermín… he’ll be in real danger when Franco gets the power!

Alec suspected that Clive had never been so passionate about anything. The boy’s talk was lively, he moved his hands a lot, to emphasize what he meant, there were even a few tears in his eyes when he mentioned his dead friend. He might be Clive’s son, he certainly was Clive’s son, but he wasn’t Clive. Maurice was in no danger, he had only to get used to the boy. As soon as that happened the extreme likeness would no longer confuse him.

Giovanna knew the story, and though she had never set eyes on Clive, both men’s reaction to the boy told her that he had to look disturbingly enough like his father. She was sure the boy knew nothing about his father’s past infatuation, it wasn’t the kind of thing one told one’s children. As soon as she felt the atmosphere, she took care of the conversation, driving everybody’s attention away from Maurice and Alec. She noticed how Maurice pushed his food around the plate instead of eating, he who always had such a healthy appetite. She saw how Alec, though slowly eating, kept his eyes on Maurice, reading what was going through his friend’s mind as clearly as if Maurice was speaking.

***

February 1939

MAURICE

Unaware of the invisible commotion his arrival had produced, Leslie was eating the first real meal he had in nearly two years. Giovanna, guessing from what she had long known what might be going through Maurice’s mind, cleverly maintained the conversation going, presenting everyone to Leslie. Valentina and baby Salvatore, Angelo’s children, examined the newcomer with big brown eyes and guessing, with that knowledge only very young children possess, his kindness and jolly disposition, ventured a smile very fast. Angela and Santo wanted more details about Ralph and how they had met, and Leslie, between bites, was happy to inform. From Ralph «He is rather enigmatic, isn’t he? Don’t get me wrong, mind you, he was extremely kind to me. He gave me your contact, in case I got in trouble, he said. He thought all men in the International Brigade were mad, and I, going as a reporter, was the maddest of the lot, because I wasn’t even going to fight… I hope I can thank him sometime…But I was always left with the feeling that I had talked for ages and he had hardly said a word.» the talk went on to Spain, the war, the suffering and the bravery of the people in besieged Madrid, the beauty of the Spanish countryside, with its vast open spaces of ochre yellow under the bluest sky he had ever seen and the fierce sun light «a bit like here, really, only it stretches as far as the eyes can see…». When Santo and Mario collected the plates and oranges were brought to the table, no one except for Alec and Giovanna had had the time or the opportunity to notice that Maurice hadn’t said a word nor touched his food.

Though deep down inside he had been expecting the boy to be related to Clive in one way or another, nothing had prepared Maurice for Leslie. After all, he had not seen Clive since that last day of August 1913 and had hardly given him a thought in all those years.

For a moment, it was like seeing Clive again, as if no time had passed. He knew it wasn’t Clive, not really, but the illusion was almost perfect. Maurice looked for Alec, who had gone to fetch clean napkins and had just bumped into the boy, only to see in his face the same suprise and disbelief he imagined everyone could read looking at him.

- Excuse me, but one of you is Mr. Scudder, right? – even the voice, the accent, were just like he remembered – I am in the right place, am I not? Or is anything the matter?

Something in the young man’s voice had brought him back to his senses. This wasn’t Clive and he was making the boy feel awkward. He had laughed away the strangeness hanging about the room and everything had fallen into place. Except, of course, for how he was feeling.

Growing old is a process. We see ourselves every day, and don’t notice it. Maurice had seen Alec almost every day for over twenty years, so, in a sense, Alec had never grown old in his eyes. Of course, his unruly dark curls had turned to a short silvery grey military cut, he was a bit heavier, or, as Maurice used to say, more compact, but it had been so gradual that it had been imperceptible and he remained the most beautiful man in the world as far as Maurice was concerned. Maurice had looked at his own face in the mirror every morning as he shaved. He could see he was older, but again, it had been a slow, steady process, almost invisible.

Thinking back, Clive was the only important person from his previous life he had never seen again. He had met Chapman right before going away with Alec. He had met him again after the War, and maybe some four or five times after that. Chapman had given him a photograph of his and Ada’s children right after the War and had sent him a couple of photographs every other year. Maurice had, if only second-hand, watched his sister age and his two nieces and his nephew, who shared his name, grow up. He had written to Kitty after settling in Malta, and they had kept a regular exchange of letters since, so he knew about her life: she had  never married, she had worked as a nurse during the War, close to the front, and after the War she had shared a flat with a friend Maurice still remembered vaguely, Miss Tonks . They still shared a small house and Kitty taught Hygiene at the Women’s Institute, while Miss Tonks gave piano and singing lessons at home, and they were both politically engaged as well.  The three siblings had met at their mother’s will reading. But he had never met Clive again, though Chapman had thought fit to give him news – how Clive had been wounded but had survived the War and the birth of his two children: a boy and a girl. Somehow, in Maurice’s memory, Clive was still twenty-five, for though he was perfectly aware that Clive would be over fifty by now, he couldn’t picture in his mind how the man might look.

Therefore, he was not prepared to see a young version of Clive entering his kitchen, someone so absurdly like the Clive he had met in Cambridge, but with some disconcerting differences. It was like those pictures in the entertainment page of the newspaper, that are perfectly identical except for a few tiny details one is expected to spot. Soft brown curls instead of the smooth straight hair he remembered. Brown eyes instead of blue. An extra inch in height. And some troubling signs of how ill he had been. Hollowed cheeks, extreme thinness, and a deep, rasping cough that seemed to shake him from inside. The boy looked frail and tired, a fair simile to the Clive, still weak and recovering that had begun to withdraw from Maurice’s love all those years before.

As the young man sat between Santo and Alec, as Giovanna gave him a plateful of beef stew and began the introductions, Maurice sat, lunch cooling down in his plate, thinking things over, and attentively observing while he mechanically cut the stew into tiny bits and pushed them around. There were the subtlest differences, if he observed carefully. Even during the Cambridge years, Clive had always been a bit of a loner, and never really talkative unless it was on some dry and sterile dispute over some over-intellectualized subject. This young fellow was passionately talking about the Spain he had known, about war and famine, about friendships built and lost, about how even the dry plains had a beauty of their own and though Maurice wasn’t paying attention to the actual words, he could see that the young men were completely taken and the women tremendously moved. Clive would never do that; he had never been that passionate about anything. Leslie might look uncannily like his father, but he was a different man…

****

* El río Guadalquivir va entre naranjos y olivos is the beginning of a poem by Federico García Lorca, «Baladilla de los tres ríos». You can read it here . If you want to know more about the poet, the wikipedia article is rather good.

Chapter Text

1938

LESLIE

It became apparent at some point that he’d have to leave Madrid.

- There’s no food and it is no longer safe for you – one of his Spanish friends had disclosed to him – There’s this English guy who’s taking a few people out, to Barcelona. He says you can tag along and report on the whole thing. I suspect he is an Intelligence Officer, though he insists he’s a journalist just like you… And I know the Government is planning to send the International Brigade men home by the end of the year.

- Why…?

Fermín looked straight into his eyes.

- The war is lost. Or as good as… No country came out to help us, everyone is afraid of Germany… well, except the Soviet Union and by now they’re really doing more harm than good, you know that. Anyway, you really must go. It’s no longer safe for you here, and soon it will be dangerous for you everywhere in Spain. If you can go home, go. If you cannot… You should go to France, even Portugal.

Leslie knew the man was right as soon as he talked. The fight, and the slaughter would, of course, continue, even if only out of inertia, war is like that, but all was lost. He had known it in his heart for some time now, at least since Jeff had been killed, stupidly, senselessly, by a hidden shooter, a few weeks before.

It had been a normal day, and they were walking along the outskirts of the city, close to an abandoned trench were there hadn’t been a single shot fired for over a month. Jeff was preparing to set a tripod for Leslie to shoot some picture and out of the blue a bullet whistled past Leslie’s ear and hit him. Leslie was certain that he’d never forget how Jeff had turned around, a look of surprise and disbelief in his blue eyes, and then had slowly fallen, eyes wide open, a question forever unasked: «Why?»

Automatically, he had thrown himself down on the ground, as a second and a third bullet whizzed over his head, and he’d rolled down the dusty trench and laid there, heart beating like mad, blood pounding in his ears and Jeff’s dead body a couple of steps away, lifeless blue eyes staring into the cloudless blue sky he had loved so much, and the faint ghost of a question in his face.

«Rojos del diablo!» - he’d heard, and then some commotion and a scream - «Son solo periodistas, dejalos…!»

«Damned reds!», «They’re only journalists, leave them…!» and Jeff was dead because some stupid man hadn’t noticed his press ID and the cameras, bloody, bloody war! Leslie hadn’t had the time to be scared, it had all been over in maybe a minute or so, and Jeff was dead. He had kept repeating that in his head «Jeff is dead» but it soon had started to sound senseless and he had stopped. It had changed nothing. Jeff was still dead, and he would be forced to leave his dead body behind.

 For the first time in his life, Leslie had hated a man, the unknown man who had shot Jeff, and hate was ugly and cold. For the first time in his life, Leslie had wished with all his heart he had a gun and knew that if he had had it then and there, he would have killed the fascist sniper or he would have perished trying. Something had died inside him. He had loved Jeff very much and the sheer absurdity of his death was maddening. What was the point of it all? When he returned to the hotel later that night, alone, dirty and feeling years and years older, he had asked Fermín for a gun.

And now this. All was lost. Evil could win. He had never stopped to think about it this way, but that was the sum of it all: evil could actually win. With a heavy heart and feeling lost, he packed his meagre possessions in his old backpack: a change of underwear, a warm jumper, an almost full notebook, two rolls of film, his camera, and the book of Garcia Lorca’s poems he’d inherited from Jeff. He felt broken and almost guilty for being alive and healthy.

February 1939

ALEC

Alec had never been one to beat around the bush. And he knew Maurice at least as well as Maurice knew himself, if not better. After lunch, while Leslie was sleeping – or at least resting – in the room that was now known as «Ralph’s room», just like it had been «Alec’s room» before, he let Maurice help with the dishes and only when they both sat on the wicker chairs in the patio, he asked, very gently:

- Are you feeling well?

Maurice looked at him with an affectionate, absentminded smile before answering:

- It depends on what you mean by «well». If you mean am I feeling in good health, I certainly am, even if I forgot to eat at lunch. If you mean am I feeling my usual self, no I’m not. I’m somewhere between baffled and incredulous, although I’d bet my life that he is Clive’s son.

Alec was ready to agree on that.

- He looks too much like Clive to be anyone but…

- That’s settled then. Now, why is he using a different name? What was Clive’s son doing in Spain? How did Clive bring up a communist son? Seriously, Alec, how did Clive bring up a communist son?

Alec laughed silently, and he could not resist answering in his thickest working-class accent:

- Well, sir, that’s what we’d call poetic justice, ain’t it? Maybe there’s a god up there after all…

-Alec, you’re a heartless blaggard, as Angela would say. Poor Clive!

But Alec was unrepentant. He thought the whole thing rather amusing, a welcome change to how serious life had been lately, with Maurice going to the Continent quite often, to smuggle people in danger out of Germany, leaving him sick with worry for days on end before returning with another blood curdling story to tell. Their talks lately ended unfailingly with Alec muttering «I pray your luck never runs out…» under his breath. This was just plain fun. After all, the boy was in no danger, and it was obvious he knew precious little, if anything at all, of his father’s Cambridge days. And he seemed to have escaped Clive’s worst traits: he was amiable, agreeably passionate, and a nice person altogether. Almost too nice for what Alec would have expected of a Durham person, and certainly nicer than Clive deserved.

- I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound rude nor cruel. Leslie is a fine fellow, finer than I’d be willing to give Clive’s son credit for. But you may grant me that the whole situation is at least slightly amusing. I mean, how are the odds of Clive Durham’s boy joining the Spanish Republic, getting into trouble, and asking you for help, after having made Ralph’s acquaintance, and Ralph having liked him enough to give him your contact? Pretty slim, right?

- Apparently, pretty good actually, given the fact that he is napping in our guest room as we speak… - Maurice answered with an amused grin. He was beginning to see the fun of the situation. – The thing is, what does he know and how are we going to stop him from breaking the interesting news about you and me to Clive as soon as he gets home. Without making a complete mess of it all… How do I break it to him that I know his father without telling him how well I knew his father? He’s a good chap, and I wouldn’t like to carry the burden of hinting to a young man of such immense innocence that his father’s university years were somewhat less saintly than he believes… What a majestic muddle!

Alec seemed to ponder for a while before putting forward a cautious opinion.

- After a couple of years spent reporting a war, and a civil war on top of it, he probably has very little, if any of that immense innocence left. War is a great innocence killer, even when you don’t fight in it, if you well remember… He may know more about the subject than you give him credit for. Men tend to connect very passionately with each other in war time… And from what you yourself told me; it was saintly enough. You can tell him you were great friends but had some disagreement at some point and didn’t part on the best terms. And you may well leave it there. You won’t be lying.

Maurice smiled again. He still worried. He’d have to talk to the boy and quite frankly ask him to lie to his father. And though Alec was, in essence, right about how war washes innocence away, that was a difficult thing to ask and it brought back some unwelcome memories to Maurice’s mind.

***

February 1939

JULIE

This was Julie’s last school term. She had passed School Cert exam last summer and would be sitting for her Cambridge admission exam next summer. She had wanted to stay in Malta after Christmas, but Maurice wouldn’t hear of it.

- You must do your best at the entrance exam, and there’s no one here who can tutor you properly. So, there’s no way you’re staying here, idle for three or four months, when you can be working to perfect both your Maths and your Greek.

And here she was, taking intensive classes in both Mathematics and Greek, reading all the Latin she could lay her hands on and welcoming Gymn class as a blessing when it came on Tuesdays and Fridays, longing for outings and feeling absurdly helpless. And what was the good of it all? There was going to be War soon, everybody said so. At Christmas, in Malta, Da and Maurice had very nearly quarrelled over Prime Minister Chamberlain’s promise of «Peace for our time».

- Peace for our time, indeed! That’s codswallop and you know it, Morrie!

- I’m no diplomat, Alec, and no politician either. If the man says that paper means peace, he must know what he’s talking about!

Alec’s voice sounded affectionate even if what he was saying wasn’t at all nice.

- For a man your age, Morrie, you can sometimes be absurdly gullible! No politician knows what he’s talking about, except for the few ones who know it only too well, and both kinds are dangerous. You’ve been to Germany enough times to know that country is one hell of a loaded cannon about to shoot!

According to Da there was a war lurking just around the corner. According to Maurice, Germany was now governed by a band of madmen – and he ought to know what he was saying since he had been there a few times to help people out of the country. Put the two together and it spelled disaster. If there was going to be a War soon, she sometimes thought, what was the use of sitting in school studying Greek and Maths? Shouldn’t she be doing something else? But neither Maurice nor her Da agreed, and she felt frustrated and divided. And sometimes scared: she was only eighteen and had only ever heard about war, not only from Da and Uncle who had been nurses during the Great War, but from Giovanna. Angela had lost her father in the Great War. War was definitely on the list of bad things. Not that she could do anything about it, but she felt like she ought to be preparing for whatever was about to happen, somehow…

From between her notebook’s pages, she took out the last postcard she had received from Ralph, from St. John Newfoundland. He said nothing about war, but then again, Ralph never wrote more than two or three lines in his postcards, «Hope you are all fine. I’m well, it’s very cold here. Love, Ralph» and variations on that. She missed Ralph.

With a small bang she shut her Greek grammar.

- I hate Greek!

- Hey, Jules, what’s bothering you? – asked Martha

Julie sighed heavily.

- Oh, the usual stuff. Things one hears about, you know, like there’s going to be a War soon and we are cooped up in here studying Latin, Greek and Maths as if everything was fine… It makes me feel so useless!

- I know what you mean, but let’s face it, we’re just children, or little more than children. There’s nothing we can do. Even if there is a War…

Julie caressed the book, asking its forgiveness.

- I know you’re right, but it doesn’t help. What if the War breaks out and we get stranded here, all the family in Malta…? It scares me… Lately, I can only think about this kind of things.

Chapter Text

December 1938/January 1939

LESLIE

The Spanish doctor listened to his wheezing breath with his stethoscope and frowned:

- He’s developing pneumonia. We can’t do anything here, there’s nothing, not even painkillers. He’s young and strong, and he might even survive this, but if he was my friend, I wouldn’t sit here waiting to see if he does…

By now, his Spanish was enough to understand the conversation between his friend and the doctor. Pneumonia, huh? Damned bad luck!

On the next day, Jordi and the others packed his backpack and told him to get ready:

- We’re going to smuggle you to France. It’s still easy if we take care and use secondary roads. I’ve already warned the fellows from the Battalion who are going away tomorrow, they’ll give your people the message.

They had left Barcelona in a car, spent a night in an abandoned hut, then walked for hours, at least it was the idea he had, and it had been devilishly cold. His fever had increased during the night and the next thing he knew he half sat, and half fell on the rear seat of another car. It felt like a nightmare, not the terribly frightening ones but the dull, nagging bad dreams one simply cannot wake up from. There were people with him, speaking in Spanish with each other and in English with him now and then. As the car bounced through pockmarked secondary roads, he still felt cold. He was shivering uncontrollably, but he was hot, his hands were burning hot. Was he ill, then? He tried to piece together the last few days, but he couldn’t, his brain was woolly, and all mixed up.

Someone pulled a woollen rug over him, carefully tucking it around his shoulders.

- Mummy…? – he called – Where am I…?

A voice sounded very close to him, a voice he knew, with an accent he knew as well but couldn’t associate with a face:

- You are ill. You’ve got a high fever; we’re taking you to the hospital in France. Try to drink something, please…

The «something» was coffee, at least it was supposed to be coffee, but it was terrible, tasteless, and somehow bitter at the same time. He swallowed it anyway, it was hot, and he was thirsty.

The hot drink and the rug created some heat, and he let himself go, he was so worn-out… he could hardly open his eyes, and it was pitch dark besides…

He must have slept for some time, he couldn´t say how long, and he was barely conscious when the others helped him out of the car. He had been dreaming he was at the boathouse with Irene and Jerry, the fire was crackling on the grate and there was hot cocoa in a white mug and biscuits on a tin plate. He wanted to eat, but his arms couldn’t move, and it grew hotter and hotter, he could hardly breathe… As his friends half carried him out of the car, he became conscious enough to try to help and at least walk straight, but he still felt unable to move well and very, very hot. Again, he wasn’t completely certain of being totally awake either. He still felt the lumpy divan he’d made from piled cushions…

«Strange», he thought, «we only slept there once, and I could move perfectly well. And it wasn’t lumpy… »

He had a splitting headache and was confused; he had a bad stitch in his side and breathing was increasingly hard and painful. If only he could stop thinking! His head was spinning and burning… And the wounded leg was beginning to hurt like hell again, damn it!

He never noticed he had entered the hospital, but he recognized the smell, ether and carbolic, someone helped him to sit, to change into something lose and soft, pyjamas maybe, and then to lie in a comfortable clean bed, and a woman’s voice spoke softly:

- Tranquille, m’sieur. Oh, le pauvre, vous êtes bien malade, mais on va vous soigner...

Then everything vanished, and he remembered nothing more before waking up in the clean bed, feeling very weak, too weak to take any real interest in anything, falling asleep again, waking up a few more times, and being given pills and warm milk in the middle of the nigh… He couldn’t tell how long it lasted, time had no meaning to him, he just woke, swallowed pills and hot drinks, and slept. One morning he woke up, a bit giddy but alive and not really ill, just absurdly exhausted as if he had been walking for hours. He had no idea where he was, but everyone spoke French, real French with those rolled rs he still found so hard to master, and a pretty nurse had made him swallow something hot and mildly tasty in a cup.

- Bonjour, m’sieur ! Voici votre bouillon. – and after he’d drank it – Vous allez mieux ?

- Where am I? – he asked in a weak, rasping voice.

- Non, non, ne parlez pas, vous êtes encore très faible. Attendez un peu, je vais appeler le docteur…

***

Malta, February 1939

MAURICE, ALEC, AND LESLIE

Maurice had been thinking for the last few days. Leslie was settling in, though still weak and sleeping till rather late in the morning. Giovanna was glad of it:

- At least he doesn’t insist on getting up at sunrise! Remember Ralph? Always the first one up, that boy…

- Well, Ralph was just tired and underfed. This one had a serious illness… Pneumonia is no laughing matter – was Alec’s sensible contribution to the talk.

Maurice’s worries were on a whole different level. He wanted to tell Leslie that he knew his father, but at the same time he wanted to ask the boy not to mention him on returning home. How could he do it without raising suspicions? Wasn’t it fishy to tell a young fellow something along the line of «I’ve been to Cambridge with your father and we were kind of best friends for a while, but please don’t mention that you’ve seen me»?

- Really fishy, yes…

Because he had talked it over with Alec, of course.

And now he was reclining in bed, pillows stacked up behind him, his poetry book forgotten in his hand and his reading spectacles down his nose, thinking for the one hundredth time how could he bring up the subject.

Alec entered the room, carrying a tray with tea and biscuits.

- Still brooding over the Leslie problem, I see…

Maurice looked at him over the gold rimmed specs and smiled.

- I hadn’t even noticed it was so late, sorry. How was your shift?

- Regular. Nothing serious. The appendicitis boy is doing fine and there were no broken bones tonight, nor complicated births. Only a fellow from a yacht that cut his hand opening a can of pineapple and needed a couple of stitches.

- If only one could buy canned solutions to absurd problems… I’d gladly cut my hand on one of those – he winked – especially if you were the one stitching it afterwards.

Tying the sash on his dressing gown and sitting down to have a cup of tea, Alec laughed.

- Canned solutions, hum?

- You know, I haven’t given Clive a thought for more than ten years? And now, every morning I sit at breakfast with a younger version of Clive and I don’t know what to say to him… It’s so unsettling!

- I’ll give you my opinion, if you didn’t ask for it. You know I always do it, anyway… You’re making a mountain out of a molehill, really. Just talk to the boy, one of these days, after tea when you sit by the fire. Tell him you and his father were together at Cambridge, and were good friends, but sometime around… well, whatever event comes to mind, his marriage or right before the War, you had a disagreement you can no longer remember about what, and fell apart. And then, of course, with the War and you moving here right after, you lost contact.

Maurice got up and put on his dressing gown, as he was beginning to feel cold.

- None of those things is a lie, even if none of it is the complete truth either… Pour me a cup, will you?

- The complete truth here makes no difference. So, you let the information sink in for a while. Then, you kindly ask him to refrain from telling his father about meeting you. Since you didn’t part on the best terms and you wouldn’t want to open any long-closed wounds. He’ll understand, if you put it like this.

Maurice put down his cup.

- You are probably right. He seems quite amiable and will want to spare his father, so if I put like that, he’ll most likely agree.

He picked up a biscuit and nibbled at it for a bit, before adding.

- You are a genius, Mr Scudder, a right genius! I only wish I were as sensible as you are.

Alec winked. They had had this conversation so many times. Dear Maurice! So down to earth when it was about business, juggling dodgy men and shady trade as if it all was a cloud of soap bubbles, never a doubt, never a fail; and then, when personal matters were concerned, he always thought himself into a complete maze of questions, most of them beginning with «what if?».

- No, my dear, what I am is practical. You tend to lose yourself in your thoughts and think yourself into a muddle. I, on the other hand, tend to jump to the easiest solution. I mean, why complicate?

***

Leslie liked that house and those people. And the whole place, actually. The small city where you found the sea at the end of the street, the bright sun even when days were cooler, and the deep blue sky. «I could get used to this place», he thought.

The Sunday lunches, with Maurice’s secretary and Angelo and his little family always coming, the full table and all the talk, brought him back to the distant Christmas lunches of his childhood, at Pendersleigh, with Grandmother and the cousins, though they were much less talkative and rather more formal; and Giovanna somehow reminded him of his mother because of her care for everyone’s comfort and her smile. Leslie missed his mother the most.

He still got easily tired and slept a great deal. He was late for breakfast almost every day, sitting at the table when everyone else was already halfway through their own meal, and had caught the habit of dozing in an armchair by the living room fire after lunch. Maurice usually kept him company, and Giovanna frequently joined them with her knitting – another thing that made him think of his mother.

- What possessed you, Leslie, to make you go to Spain? You don’t strike me as the fighting kind… - she asked one day, as she went on knitting something in red wool.

The boy smiled.

- I went as a journalist, don’t forget. Camera and typewriter, not guns.

- It isn’t less dangerous, from what you’ve told us…

- You know, fascism is infectious. And evil. It’s crime evolved to the dimensions of a creed. No matter how you look at it, it’s evil. And then a friend showed me pictures of a bombed Spanish village, all gutted and burnt. And no country was helping! I felt ashamed. I felt I had to do something…

- And your parents? – asked Maurice – What did they say?

Leslie blushed. Maurice remembered how easily Clive blushed, even with little unimportant things.

- Well… I gave them no opportunity to say anything. I eloped and then sent them a letter, when there was no way they could do anything. – he looked around and went on – I know it was wrong. But my father would have stopped me if he had known in advance. He’s an MP, so he had enough power to do it, and incurably cautious, so he’d have stopped me. I couldn’t risk that. I didn’t even tell my sister, she’s so impulsive, she might have let it out.

«Incurably cautious», thought Maurice, half amused by the phrase, half moved by the boy’s youthful impulse to fight for what he believed to be the right thing, even with only a typewriter and a camera «Yes, that’s Clive, the terminally cautious man. The boy must have taken after his mother…»

- I must say that sounds a lot like old Clive. – he said. And at the sight of Leslie’s wide-open eyes, he added – I’ve been meaning to tell you for some time now that I knew your father. Oh, it was ages ago, when we were both about your age. We went to Cambridge together.

Chapter Text

February 1939

LESLIE

For the next week or so, Leslie could do nothing but think. As he lay in the hospital bed, he could do nothing else and even thinking had been a tremendous effort. His thoughts felt woolly and all wrong. Sometimes he followed the walk of a tiny spider on the corner or the path of raindrops on the window glass. He still slept a great deal. Even sitting up for more than a couple of minutes gave him nausea and fits of cough that sounded terrible.

The French doctor had told him he had been delirious for a few days, and then, for about two weeks, too ill to really feel anything. He still had a long period of recovery to go. Convalescing from a dangerous double pneumonia, further complicated by some mild malnourishment and a half-mended bullet wound (a clean shot that had passed through his thigh, missing every important point but tearing the muscle and nicking the bone) was not to be taken lightly. Pneumonia was a serious illness, and the wound was still tender enough to worry about.

He thought of the trouble and the risk his Spanish friends had taken to have him brought to the hospital. He didn’t remember much of it except for the freezing cold on the way to France when he was already too ill to help. The British Battalion had been sent home a few days before, and he had been strongly advised to accompany, but by then he was already feeling poorly. At first one of the Spanish doctors warned it might be contagious, many contagious diseases started the same way, with high temperature, cough, and pains all over, and besides, his bullet wound was not completely healed yet. He still had his Press credentials, he was not a soldier and not only he was too ill to travel, but England in December was not the ideal place to convalesce. Then in a couple of days he’d gotten so feverish and altogether worse that the doctor had had no trouble in diagnosing pneumonia. He had to be taken to a safe place, or he might die. Barcelona was under attack and the hospital lacked the means to treat such a serious illness. That strange trip he had such a little and cloudy recollection of had saved his life.

After those first days, he had been allowed – encouraged even – to get out of bed and walk a little. Not an easy task, as he had discovered on the first try: his legs nearly gave in, and the best he had managed had been a few steps around his bed, always holding to the metal frame. He’d had no idea he was so weak, and he felt frightened, but the nurse had praised his pitiful efforts.

- C’est bien comme ça… Vous essayerez un peu plus demain, et ça ira mieux.

«She knows what she’s doing» - he thought to himself - «Maybe it’s the normal thing to happen when one’s been in bed for almost a whole month. » And of course, after a few days, things had improved dramatically. He had even been allowed to sit on the balcony for half an hour, around lunch time, when it was sunny, wearing a heavy dressing gown and wrapped in a warm blanket, to breathe the mountain air. The wound had closed and left only a couple of scars, but the leg felt weaker and sometimes it still hurt badly.

He had spent Christmas in hospital. There had been a Mass at the hospital’s chapel, and he had attended, just to get out of bed and see people. Quite theatrical, he’d thought, with candles burning, gold embroidered vests, incense, and all the Latin chanting. At dinner, the patients had been given a big bowl of delicious chicken broth, with rice and bits of chicken meat, and a sprig of mint, as a Christmas treat, along with a thick slice of brioche, rich, solid, sweet, and very pleasant to eat. After weeks of bland, insipid hospital food, it had tasted like heaven, the first taste of real food he’d had in quite a while. After the New Year, he had heard from one of the nurses a rumour that Barcelona was about to fall into the Nationalists' hands and certainly, some weeks later he heard on the wireless that Barcelona had fallen, and the French Government had opened the borders to let in the Spanish who wished to flee. It was nearly over, and he had survived. The thought gave him no comfort whatsoever. All was lost.

***

CLIVE

Leslie is safe. I had a message brought to me by a young man from the British Battalion, the day they arrived, who told me he had been taken to France, to a hospital, because he was ill. Six weeks after that I had a postcard from Leslie himself, saying he was in France, still recovering from some wound, but in no danger and well enough to write. So, there’s a bit of a muddle (Was he wounded? Was he taken ill? Was it both?), but he’s alive, he’s out of Spain and he’s well. That will have to do for now.

Clive stopped writing and carefully put his pen’s cap back on. He felt relieved that Leslie was out of Spain. Anne had reacted quite sensibly, just like she always did, and Irene had been overjoyed. He was doing his best to keep calm and collected but even at his best moments he also felt a bit apprehensive not knowing exactly where Leslie was.

And as the war in Spain was about to end, everything was so… He didn’t have a right word to define it. Dangerous? Absurd? Volatile? Unpredictable? Germany was rearming like they meant business and gobbling up country after country on the most frivolous pretexts. Austria, the Rhineland, the Sudetenland and then the whole of Czechoslovakia, and Clive didn’t trust it would stop there. France and England had done nothing. Chamberlain lacked the gut to face the crisis. The man assumed Hitler could be appeased and held at bay, everybody seemed to assume it. Clive did not. War was inevitable, sooner or later. The previous war had been too terrible for words, but the next war would be much worse. And it would hit him hard. Both Leslie and Robert were of military age. Irene had almost finished her nursing training. There might be bombings, though Pendersleigh was probably safe as it wasn’t near any place of military or industrial interest. Clive shivered at the idea of how many might die and how many more could be injured. Before the last War, he’d had little to lose. Now he had such a lot!

***

LESLIE, MAURICE AND ALEC

Leslie sat at the piano, trying the keys in search of a melody he had learned in Madrid. Irene was better than him at that guessing game of searching a song at the piano, but she wasn’t around so his poor skills had to do the trick. But as he searched, his mind wondered to the talk with Maurice the previous day.

Maurice knew his father. They had been together at Cambridge, close friends. The little details Maurice had mentioned about Clive were right and made sense, he wasn’t lying, and why would he? Leslie felt a little bell ringing somewhere in his memories, but, just like the elusive tune he was trying to find on the piano, he couldn’t quite remember what it was.

He struck a couple of keys and the chord sounded right. Yes, that was the right sound. He played a few chords more and he was on the right track. Playing very softly with just one hand, he hummed:

Madrid que bien resistes

Madrid que bien resistes

Madrid que bien resistes

¡Mamita mía! Los bombardeos.

Los bombardeos.

Definitely, this was the tune. He put both hands to the keys and hummed a bit more:

De las bombas se ríen

De las bombas se ríen

De las bombas se ríen

¡Mamita mía! Los madrileños.

Los madrileños.

Though his Spanish was rather shaky, he had trained that particular song to near perfection. He remembered Fermín saying, “We may lose the war in the end, but by God, we have the best songs!”

Maurice entered the room with a book and sat on the armchair.

- That sounds rather jolly!

Leslie smiled and answered still perfecting the tune:

- It’s rather ferocious, really… Listen…

La casa de Velázquez

La casa de Velázquez

La casa de Velázquez

¡Mamita mía! Se cae ardiendo.

Se cae ardiendo.

Con la quinta columna

Con la quinta columna

Con la quinta columna

¡Mamita mía! Metida dentro .

Se cae ardiendo.

He stopped.

- How good is your Spanish?

Maurice laughed.

- Below zero. Can´t make heads nor tails of it…!

- It’s basically “Burn your enemies!”, you know… The house of Velazquez is burning down, with the fifth column locked inside. Really pleasant stuff! But I do agree it sounds rather jolly in Spanish.

For a minute or so, he clenched his hands together, thinking. Sometimes, he wished he could forget what he had seen in Spain. Part of it at least.

- War is always a dirty business, but civil war is worse, because one is fighting one’s neighbours, one’s friends, even one’s family. People know each other, all the little hates and grudges come to the surface.

Again, he turned to the piano.

Puente de los Franceses

Puente de los Franceses

Puente de los Franceses

¡Mamita mía! Nadie te pasa.

Nadie te pasa.

Porque los milicianos

Porque los milicianos

Porque los milicianos

¡Mamita mía! Que bien te guardan.

Que bien te guardan.

- I learned to play the piano when I was very young, but it was your father that actually got me into music, you know? He was very musical, he was very artistic,  and I was a bit of a rustic, he introduced me to the appreciation of beauty, something that has been with me, as an important part of my life, ever since that time. I owe him that.

Leslie played a bit more. Now he had found the correct melody, he was at ease to play it and play with it. And as his fingers struck the keys, he recalled Maurice evoking his Cambridge years and how he and Clive had been friends.

- We met on my first year, quite by coincidence, the fellow who lodged right above my rooms had a pianola, you know what it is, right? A mechanical piano thing… Clive was carrying a stash of pianola records, I helped him, they invited me to stay… We were rather friendly for years, went to concerts together, toured around Italy for one summer… Then, you know how it is, our lives took different paths, we saw less and less of each other, and with the War we lost touch. After the War, I settled here and only went back to England once, when my mother died, for a few days.

Maybe it was the music that helped him connect the dots, he had always liked to think things over with music. But the disperse thoughts inside his head all fell into the correct pattern. The letters he had taken from the drawer in his father’s study and read, long ago, during that warm and long boathouse summer, those letters that had been so difficult to return to the drawer. The letters signed M. The key to the boathouse. Maurice was M. He and Father had been friends and then fallen apart, so the first letter was affectionate and caring and the second was an impersonal and detached note. Alec had the boathouse key. How Alec fitted in the picture was still murky, but everything else was like a puzzle coming together, even if a few pieces would always be missing. And, with an amused smile he tried to evaluate the chances of Ralph’s safety contact being someone who had been to Cambridge with his father. The world was small indeed!