wearing his hat, had his legs trapped. Only later did he notice Florence kneeling by a little girl, who lay as still as a doll.
Perhaps it was because the people of Madrid themselves returned to normal so quickly – the shops lifting their shutters within a few hours, the elderly couples strolling once more in the late afternoon – that somehow these events did not obliterate all other memories of their time together. Despite everything, James thought of those final months of 1936 as among the happiest times of his life. ‘It’s not despite the war, it’s because of it,’ Florence had said once as she gazed out of the window of their hotel room, watching the blue beams thrown into the sky by machines that a few months earlier had lit up the local cinema screen with Fred and Ginger, dancing together cheek-to-cheek.
‘Because of it?’ he had asked from the bed.
‘Yes, because. Fear of death makes love more intense: isn’t that what it says in your psychology books?’
‘“Make love”? Did someone say “make love”?’ And he dragged her back under the covers so that he could touch her skin and taste her mouth all over again.
On Christmas Eve, after less than two months together, they went to the
ayuntamiento
, the town hall on the Plaza de la Villa, to be married by a grandly-moustached socialist councillor, who hailed theirs as a ‘revolutionary wedding’, a civil ceremony conducted in defiance of the Catholic church, now fatally identified with Franco. The ceremony was brief and chaotic, punctuated by rowdy cheers from the crowd of well-wishers that had gathered all but spontaneously. Harry was best man and held the ring, bought from a jeweller whose shop window had been blown out in that afternoon bombing raid but who had reopened for business the very next day. Sister Marjorie was there as Florence’s witness. They had had to utter their vows in Spanish, so that James would forever cherish the words,
Sí, quiero
, the Spanish equivalent of ‘I do’, seeing them as somehow belonging to him and Florence alone – their private language.
Now, he considered pouring himself another glass of Scotch, but thought better of it: he drank straight from the bottle instead. That had all been less than four years ago, but it might as well have happened in another age. To another man. Florence had left him because she had grown to despise him. He had been a good, loving husband and father, but it had not been enough. She would now shower that exceptional vigour, energy and beauty on another man. He felt the anger rise in him once more, his old sparring partner back for another round.
He got up, not wanting to be in the same room as that framed newspaper clipping, and walked into the kitchen, stumbling in the hallway on a chair he couldn’t remember knocking over, and saw it straight away, wondering instantly how he could have missed it.
On the table, resting against the conical flask Florence had brought home from the lab and converted into a vase, was a small envelope – quarter-sized, the kind that would usually contain a florist’s card accompanying a bouquet. No name on it.
He tore it open and recognized her handwriting instantly.
She had written just three words:
I love you
.
James felt a pricking sensation behind his eyes. He blinked and then read it again. Was this some kind of trick?
She had left him, taking Harry with her, and yet she still loved him? What sense did that make? It was insincere, a fake greeting card, ‘I love you’, scribbled to offset the cruelty of her actions. That must be it.
And yet he did not believe that either. Florence was only ever sincere about love. She did not use the word lightly; they had been together a long time before she told him that she loved him. He knew, too, that he was the first man ever to hear those words from her lips. If she had written it, she meant it. That there was no other message made it truer still. That she loved him was her entire
Perhaps it was because the people of Madrid themselves returned to normal so quickly – the shops lifting their shutters within a few hours, the elderly couples strolling once more in the late afternoon – that somehow these events did not obliterate all other memories of their time together. Despite everything, James thought of those final months of 1936 as among the happiest times of his life. ‘It’s not despite the war, it’s because of it,’ Florence had said once as she gazed out of the window of their hotel room, watching the blue beams thrown into the sky by machines that a few months earlier had lit up the local cinema screen with Fred and Ginger, dancing together cheek-to-cheek.
‘Because of it?’ he had asked from the bed.
‘Yes, because. Fear of death makes love more intense: isn’t that what it says in your psychology books?’
‘“Make love”? Did someone say “make love”?’ And he dragged her back under the covers so that he could touch her skin and taste her mouth all over again.
On Christmas Eve, after less than two months together, they went to the
ayuntamiento
, the town hall on the Plaza de la Villa, to be married by a grandly-moustached socialist councillor, who hailed theirs as a ‘revolutionary wedding’, a civil ceremony conducted in defiance of the Catholic church, now fatally identified with Franco. The ceremony was brief and chaotic, punctuated by rowdy cheers from the crowd of well-wishers that had gathered all but spontaneously. Harry was best man and held the ring, bought from a jeweller whose shop window had been blown out in that afternoon bombing raid but who had reopened for business the very next day. Sister Marjorie was there as Florence’s witness. They had had to utter their vows in Spanish, so that James would forever cherish the words,
Sí, quiero
, the Spanish equivalent of ‘I do’, seeing them as somehow belonging to him and Florence alone – their private language.
Now, he considered pouring himself another glass of Scotch, but thought better of it: he drank straight from the bottle instead. That had all been less than four years ago, but it might as well have happened in another age. To another man. Florence had left him because she had grown to despise him. He had been a good, loving husband and father, but it had not been enough. She would now shower that exceptional vigour, energy and beauty on another man. He felt the anger rise in him once more, his old sparring partner back for another round.
He got up, not wanting to be in the same room as that framed newspaper clipping, and walked into the kitchen, stumbling in the hallway on a chair he couldn’t remember knocking over, and saw it straight away, wondering instantly how he could have missed it.
On the table, resting against the conical flask Florence had brought home from the lab and converted into a vase, was a small envelope – quarter-sized, the kind that would usually contain a florist’s card accompanying a bouquet. No name on it.
He tore it open and recognized her handwriting instantly.
She had written just three words:
I love you
.
James felt a pricking sensation behind his eyes. He blinked and then read it again. Was this some kind of trick?
She had left him, taking Harry with her, and yet she still loved him? What sense did that make? It was insincere, a fake greeting card, ‘I love you’, scribbled to offset the cruelty of her actions. That must be it.
And yet he did not believe that either. Florence was only ever sincere about love. She did not use the word lightly; they had been together a long time before she told him that she loved him. He knew, too, that he was the first man ever to hear those words from her lips. If she had written it, she meant it. That there was no other message made it truer still. That she loved him was her entire
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