'No chance for you to go back to medical school?'

She shook her head. 'With Mama and Paquito to look after? And Enrique now too?'

'With treatment perhaps he could work again.'

'Yes, and a different job this time.' She flicked ash angrily into a saucer. 'I told him he should not take that work.' She looked at him acutely again. 'How did you come to learn Spanish so well?'

'I'm a teacher, a lecturer, in England; at least, I was before the war came. Our war,' he added. 'I visited Spain in 1931, I told you, I suppose that's when my interest started.'

She smiled sadly. 'Our time of hope.'

'The friend I came here with in 1931, he came back to fight in the Civil War. He was killed at the Jarama.'

'Did you support the Republic too?'

'Bernie did. He was the idealist. I believed in neutrality.'

'And now?'

Harry didn't answer. Sofia smiled. 'You remind me of the boy from Leeds in a way, he had the same puzzlement in the face of Spain.' She rose. 'And now I should arrange for the doctor.'

Harry followed her back to the salon. 'Enrique,' she said. 'I have been talking to Senor Brett, I am going to get you a doctor. I will go now.'

Enrique gave a sigh of relief. 'Thank goodness. My leg is not a pretty sight. Thank you, senor. My sister is obstinate.'

The old woman tried to heave herself up. 'You are kind to us.'

'De nada,' Harry said awkwardly. The little boy stared at him with fearful eyes. Harry looked round the room again, taking in the musty smell, the stains of damp under the window. He felt ashamed of his own wealth and security.

'Senora Avila was hovering about again when Senor Brett arrived,' Sofia told her mother.

'That beata,' the old woman slurred. 'She thinks if she tells enough tales to the priests, God will make her a saint.'

Sofia reddened. 'Would you mind leaving first, Senor Brett? If we are seen leaving together there will be talk.'

'Of course,' Harry said, uncomfortably.

Enrique heaved himself up. 'Thank you again, senor.'

Harry said his goodbyes and walked slowly back to the tram stop in the Puerta de Toledo. He watched the ground for potholes and the coverless drains that sent a sickly stench up into the street. If you did not watch out, you could break a leg. He felt sad that now he might just get a doctor's bill, and that would be the end of it. They would not expect him to come back. But somehow, he decided, he would see Sofia again.

Chapter Twenty-Three.

THE FOLLOWING MONDAY was a busy day at the embassy. Harry had arranged to meet Milagros Maestre at the Prado at four but a press release from the embassy about British victories in North Africa needed translating into Spanish and he was a quarter of an hour late.

He had rung her at the weekend. He hadn't wanted to but he couldn't just leave it, it would be rude; Tolhurst had said it might annoy Maestre and they couldn't afford that. Milagros sounded delighted and immediately accepted his invitation.

He had visited the Prado before, with Bernie one afternoon in 1931. It had been bustling with activity then but now the huge building was quiet. He bought his ticket and passed through into the main hall. There were hardly any visitors, fewer than the attendants who paced slowly round, keys clinking at their belts and footsteps echoing hollowly. The light was poor and in the dull winter afternoon the building had a gloomy, abandoned feel.

He half ran down the steps to the cafe where he had arranged to meet Milagros. She was sitting at the only occupied table, at the far end of the cafe. He was surprised to see a man sitting opposite her. The man turned and Harry recognized Maestre's companion from the ball, Lieutenant Gomez. There was a frown on his hard square face. Milagros smiled, looking relieved.

'Ah, Senor Brett,' Gomez said reprovingly. 'We were beginning to wonder if you were coming.'

'I'm so sorry, I was held up at the embassy.' He turned to Milagros. 'Please forgive me.'

'It is nothing,' she said. 'Please, Alfonso, it is nothing.' She was wearing an expensive fur coat and her brown hair was freshly set in a permanent wave. She was dressed as a grown woman but Harry thought again how child-like her plump face was.

Gomez grunted. He stubbed out a cigarette and rose. 'I will leave you. Milagros, I will see you in the entrance at half past five. Good afternoon, Senor Brett.' His look was cold as he shook hands. Harry remembered the basket of roses Maestre was supposed to have presented to the nuns, with the Moroccan heads in the middle. He wondered if Gomez had been there.

He sat opposite Milagros. 'I'm afraid I've offended him.'

She shook her head. 'Don Alfonso is too protective. He takes me everywhere, he is my chaperone. Do girls still have chaperones in England?'

'No. Not really.'

She pulled a packet of cigarettes from her pocket. Good cigarettes, Lucky Strike, not the poisonous things Sofia had been smoking. He had found himself thinking of Sofia all over the weekend.

'Would you like one, Senor Brett?'

He smiled. 'No thanks. And call me Harry.'

Milagros blew out a long draught of smoke. 'Ah, that is better. They don't like me smoking, they think I am too young.' She blushed. 'They think it is a sign of bad morals.'

'All the women I know smoke.'

'Would you like a coffee?'

'Not just now, thanks, maybe after we've seen the pictures?'

'That would be nice. I will finish this then.' She smiled nervously. 'It is a treat for me to smoke in public.' She blew out a blue cloud of smoke, angling her face away from him.

Harry didn't mind visiting art galleries if he didn't have to stay too long, but he wasn't really an enthusiast. The sense of the Prado's cavernous emptiness grew as they walked through the echoing galleries. Most of them were largely bare, empty spaces on the wall where the pictures had been lost or stolen during the Civil War. Black-uniformed guards sat on chairs in the corners, reading Arriba.

Milagros was even more ignorant of art than Harry. They would stop before one and he or she would make some stilted remark and move on.

In the Goya room the dark horror of the 'Pinturas Negras' seemed to make her uneasy. 'He paints cruel things,' she said quietly, looking at the 'Witches Sabbath'.

'He saw a lot of war. I think we've done nearly everything now would you like a coffee?'

She smiled at him gratefully. 'Oh yes. Thank you.'

The galleries had been cold but the cafeteria was overheated. When he brought two cups of bad coffee over to their table she had taken off her coat, releasing an overpowering musk of expensive perfume. She had put on far too much. He felt suddenly sorry for her.

'I should like to see the galleries in London,' Milagros said. 'I should like to see all of London. My mother says it is a great city.'

'Has she been there?'

'No, but she knows all about it. My parents love England.'

Spaniards didn't like their daughters going out with foreigners, Harry knew, but in these times a place in England would be a desirable destination in the eyes of someone like Maestre. He looked into her plump earnest face.

'Every country looks better from a distance.'

'Perhaps.' Milagros looked downcast. 'But it must be better than Spain, here everything is so poor and dirty, so inculto.'

Harry thought of Sofia and her maimed family in that flat. 'Your father has a fine house.'

'But it is all so insecure. We had to flee Madrid during the war, you know. Now there is this new war hanging over us, what if we lose everything again?' She looked sad for a moment, then smiled again. 'Tell me more about England. I have heard the countryside is pretty.'

'Yes, it is very green.'

'Even in summer?'

'Especially then. Green grass, lots of big, broad trees.'

'Madrid used to be full of trees. When we came back the Reds had cut them all down for firewood.' She sighed. 'I was happier in Burgos.'

'Things are pretty insecure in England too now. It was different before the war.' He smiled. 'I remember at school, there was nothing nicer than a long game of cricket on a summer afternoon.' He had a vision of the green playing fields, the boys in cricket whites, the clop of bat and ball. It was like a dream, as far away as the world his parents' photograph had been taken in.

'I have heard of cricket.' Milagros laughed nervously, looking more like a plump schoolgirl than ever. 'But I do not know how it is played.' She lowered her eyes. 'I am sorry, this afternoon I do not know anything about paintings, either.'

'Neither do I, really,' he replied awkwardly.

'It was just, I had to think of somewhere we might go. But if you like we could go out to the country some time, I could show you the Guadarrama mountains in winter. Alfonso could take us in the car.'

'Yes, yes perhaps.' She was blushing, there was no doubt about it, she was soft on him. Oh hell, Harry thought. He looked at the wall clock. 'It's time to go,' he said. 'Alfonso will be waiting. Mustn't annoy him again.'

Her mouth quivered slightly. 'Yes.'

The old soldier was standing on the steps of the Prado, smoking and staring across the road at the Ritz. It was starting to get dark. He turned and this time he smiled at Harry.

'Ah, right on time. Bueno. Did you have a good time, Milagros?'

'Yes, Alfonso.'

'You must tell your Mama all about the pictures you saw. The car is round the corner.' He took Harry's hand. 'Perhaps I shall see you again, Senor Brett.'

'Yes, Lieutenant Gomez.' Harry shook hands with Milagros. She looked at him expectantly but he said nothing about meeting again. Her face fell and he felt guilty but he wasn't going to string her along. He watched as they walked away. Why did she like him, they'd nothing in common at all. 'Oh, hell,' he said again, aloud.

HARRY WAS MEETING Tolhurst for a drink at the Cafe Gijon. He passed the ministry where he had met Maestre, the street patrolled by civiles with sub-machine guns. He pulled his coat collar up. It was cold again; after the baking summer and the failed harvest, it looked like a cold winter was coming.

Paseo de Recoletos was a broad, tree-lined avenue. The shops were reopening after the siesta, yellow light spilling on to the pavement. Even here the window displays were sparse. He had heard of the Gijon but never been there. Walking into the mirrored bar he saw people scattered about the tables. There were artistic types with beards and extravagant moustaches but no doubt they were regime supporters, like Dali. 'Fascism is the dream made real,' a young man was saying enthusiastically to his companion; 'the surreal made real.' You can say that again, Harry thought.

Tolhurst was sitting with his bulk squeezed in behind a table against the wall. Harry raised a hand, then fetched a brandy from the bar and joined him.

'How was the date?' Tolhurst asked.

Harry took a slug of the brandy. 'That's better. Pretty awful actually. She's nice enough but she's well just a kid. She had a chaperone. Maestre's ex-batman or whatever he is.'

'They've got very old-fashioned ideas about women.' Tolhurst looked at him. 'Try and keep in with her if you can, it's a link to Maestre.'

'She wants to go for a drive in the Guadarrama.'

'Ah.' Tolhurst smiled. 'Get you on her own, eh?'

'With Gomez driving.'

'Ah well.' Tolhurst blew out his plump cheeks. 'Oh God, I wish I was back home sometimes. I get homesick.'

'Missing your family?'

Tolhurst lit a cigarette and watched the smoke curl up to the ceiling. 'Not really. My father's in the army, haven't seen him for ages.' He sighed. 'I've always wanted to live in London, enjoy the high life. Never managed to first it was school and then the diplomatic service.' He sighed again. 'It's probably too late now. With the bombing and the blackout, all that sort of life must be over.' He shook his head. 'Have you seen the papers? They're still saying how well Franco got on with Hitler at Hendaye. And Sam's in appeasement mode; he's told Franco Britain would be happy to see Spain take Morocco and Algeria from the French.'

'What? As Spanish colonies?'

'Yes. He's playing up to Franco's dreams of empire. Can see his reasoning, I suppose. The French are finished as a power.'

Tolhurst spoke of what 'Sam' was doing as though he was the ambassador's confidant, as he often did, though Harry knew he was probably just repeating embassy gossip.

'We've got the blockade,' Harry said. 'We could turn off their food and oil supplies like a tap. Maybe it's time we did. Warn them off Hitler.'

'It's not that simple. If we left them with nothing to lose they could join the Germans, march in and take Gibraltar.'

Harry took another swig of brandy. 'D'you remember that night at the Ritz? I overheard Hoare saying there mustn't be any British support for special operations here. I remember a speech Churchill made just before I came out. Britain's survival kindling sparks of hope in occupied Europe. We could help the people here instead of sucking up to the leaders.'

'Steady on.' Tolhurst laughed nervously. 'The brandy's going to your head. The Reds would come back if Franco fell. They'd be even worse.'

'What does Captain Hillgarth think? He seemed to be agreeing with Sir Sam that night at the Ritz.'

Tolhurst shifted uncomfortably. 'Actually, Harry, he'd be a bit annoyed if he knew he'd been overheard.'

'It wasn't deliberate.'

'Anyway, I don't know anything,' he added wearily. 'I'm just the dogsbody. I arrange things, debrief sources and query their expenses.'

'Tell me,' Harry asked, 'have you ever heard the expression, "The Knights of St George"?'

Tolhurst's eyes narrowed. 'Where did you hear that?' he asked quietly.

'Maestre used the phrase when he was talking to Captain Hillgarth, the first day I went with Hillgarth to do some translating. It means sovereigns, Tolly, doesn't it?' Tolhurst didn't answer, just pursed his lips. Harry went on, not caring any more what protocols he might be breaking. 'Hillgarth talked about Juan March as well. Are we involved in bribing the Monarchists? Is that the horse we're backing to keep Spain out of the war? Is that why Hoare doesn't want anything to do with the opposition?'

'You know, Harry, it doesn't do to be too curious.' Tolhurst's voice was still quiet. 'It's not our job to think about well policy. And for fuck's sake, keep your voice down.'