Isaac came racing up to the finca. Harold was out – in Malaga, of course. ‘Get the pistol,’ he was calling, and they had spilled out of the house on hearing him.
Later, Teresa would think about the Schloss women’s conflicting expressions, as they heard Isaac’s voice from the bottom of the slope. Olive looked relieved, believing that Isaac clearly still cared about her – so much so that he had run all the way because some silly soldiers were throwing their weight around – and had come to check that she was all right. And Teresa remembered Sarah’s smile of pleasure, her steady hand as she poured him a glass of water.
Seville was the nearest city to Arazuelo to fall to the army rebels. Its conquering general was a man called Queipo de Llano, who used the radio at ten o’clock that night to broadcast his intentions. Isaac and the three women sat listening in Harold’s study, the fear they felt mirrored in each other’s faces as Queipo de Llano’s haranguing crackled through the speaker:
‘-People of Seville: to arms!’ he bellowed. ‘The Fatherland is in danger and in order to save it a few men of courage, a few generals, have assumed the responsibility of placing ourselves at the forefront of a Movement of National Salvation that is triumphing everywhere. The Army of Africa hastens to cross to Spain to join in the task of crushing that unworthy Government that had taken upon itself to destroy Spain in order to convert it into a colony of Moscow.’
‘A colony of Moscow?’ uttered Sarah. ‘What the hell is he talking about?’
‘Shut up!’ hissed Olive.
‘All the troops of Andalusia, with whom I have communicated by telephone, obey my orders and are now in the streets . . . all the authorities of Seville, and all who sympathize with them and with the so--called Government in Madrid, are under arrest and at my disposal.’
‘Isaac,’ Olive whispered. ‘He’s talking about you. Isaac, you have to run.’
He looked up at her, and she saw the hollows under his eyes. ‘Run? I am not going anywhere,’ he said. ‘You think I am going to hide from a man like him? You think because Queipo de Llano has telephoned some -people they will do as he says? We have already mobilized. We will fight back. They did not succeed in Madrid or Barcelona, and they will not succeed here.’
‘-People of Seville!’ the general bawled on. ‘The die is cast and decided in our favour, and it is useless for the rabble to resist and produce that racket of shouts and gunshots you hear everywhere. Troops of Legionnaires and Moroccans are now en route to Seville, and as soon as they arrive, those troublemakers will be hunted down like vermin. Long live Spain!’
‘Isaac,’ Olive said, her voice rising in panic. ‘They’ve got troops, and weapons. Trained soldiers. What would men like that do to you?’
They could hear the sound of Harold’s motor car, fast and loud, crashing up the hill. A car door slammed. ‘Are you there, are you there? Have you heard?’ he shouted through the hallway.
Teresa pulled away from the desk, stumbling along the unlit corridor, bashing into the walls as she fought her way through the kitchen and onto the veranda, as far away as possible from everybody else. She ran down into the darkness of the orchard and felt the bile come, her body retching the words she could not find to spell out the terror inside – that this was it, the wave was here, the land would be ripped, her brother would be taken, and Olive – Olive would leave. She kept shaking her head, willing herself to get a grip, that she’d got this far – but in her heart she could hear the soldiers’ footsteps, stomping jackboots along dark routes, thump thump thump, butt of a gun, split head; no place to hide.
‘Tere? Tere!’ It was Olive, calling for her. ‘Tere, don’t be scared. Where are you?’
But this was how she would end, Teresa knew. Here, on her knees, in the dark, in the company of those Spanish wolves.
PART IV
The Swallowed Century
November 1967
XII
When the telephone rang in the hallway two days after I was locked out of Quick’s house, I ran downstairs, still in my dressing gown, to pick it up. When I heard the person on the line say, ‘Wham now, Delly?’ I was so glad, I nearly cried. It wasn’t Quick I wanted, nor Lawrie. Her voice was permission to live.
‘Cynth!’
‘You still alive, girl?’
‘Just about.’
‘I – I free today. You wanna meet?’
IT HAD BEEN JUST OVER two months. I saw her before she saw me. Cynthia was immaculate as ever, leaning on one of the lions in Trafalgar Square, wearing a thick sheepskin coat which I’d never seen before, and a new pair of denim flared trousers. She looked . . . cool. She’d let her hair out of its French plait, and it was cut in a new shape; the beginning of a rounded Afro. I felt frumpy in comparison, in my thick tights and sensible heels, my woollen scarf and hat clamped round my ears like something out of a Blyton book. But still. A cold November morning in London; you do not mess.
My heart surged at how wonderful Cynth was. The realization of how far I’d travelled alone swamped me, as I saw her face, my friend, my oldest friend. Cynth caught my eye as I moved towards her, her arms wide open like a flightless bird trying to flap her wings.
‘I sorry, Cynth,’ I said. ‘So sorry. I was dotish, I was mess up—-’
‘Hey, Delly,’ she said. ‘Me marry and lef you. I sorry too. What me thinking?’ But there was a twinkle in her eye. ‘I miss you real bad, girl.’
‘Me too. Me too. Me too.’