Page 80 of The Gathering Storm

‘Mr Dickins says you get on well.’

‘Yes, sir. I like him,’ Basil said, beginning to think of questions.

‘And you’ve worked together before on stories. Very good. Run along now, and Mr Dickins will talk to you later with more details.’

Dismissed, Basil went straight to find Bob Zennor, who looked rather the way Basil felt, as though he had been smacked on the head and wasn’t sure what had happened to him.

‘What’s this about your going to Spain?’ Basil demanded.

‘Have you volunteered? I hoped you would,’ said Zennor. ‘I must say, I’m relieved there’ll be two of us.’

‘But – but Miranda Byrne only suggested it last night, and I went straight in this morning to volunteer. How did you hear about it?’ Basil said, bewildered.

Zennor shook his head, as if shaking water out of his ears. ‘They’ve been planning it for days – the editor and Mr Dickins. They asked me yesterday morning if I’d go. Apparently, they think I’m the right man for the job because I was in OTC, and I’m not married or anything. And Miss Byrne—’

‘Miss Byrne?’

‘Well, she knew about it, because of the editor being her uncle. She hinted you might be the other bod. I can see why – you’re the adventurous type. It’s much more in your line than mine. I don’t know, really, how I came to say yes, but she talked and talked and made it all sound so marvellous. Well, you know how she is.’

‘I thought I did,’ Basil said.

‘Am I right in thinking the whole thing was your idea?’ Basil demanded. ‘That you put your uncle up to it?’

‘Of course not. He was already thinking about it. I just helped him make up his mind.’

‘They’d already recruited Bob Zennor. You pretended to me that it was a new idea, that nothing had been settled.’

Miranda was unrepentant. ‘I didn’t pretend anything. You drew your own conclusions. But what does it matter who thought of what, when? You’ve volunteered for an exciting expedition, something that will change your whole life. Most men your age would give their eye teeth to go.’ She gave him a sharp look. ‘You’re not going to back out?’

‘No,’ he said, ‘but—’

‘I knew I wasn’t mistaken in you. My hero!’ She laughed as she said the word, as though it was ironic, but he thought there was a new warmth in her look.

She had manipulated him, Basil thought. But as she smiled at him, he decided it didn’t really matter after all. He was going to Spain. It was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to him. And when he got back, she would see him in a different light. He would be a hero then.

Nothing in Barcelona surprised Basil as much as finding himself there. It was the first time he had been abroad, and he was glad of Bob Zennor’s large, solid presence. Zennor didn’t have any warlike qualities, as far as Basil could tell, but he seemed unflappable, and he had the inestimable value of speaking some Spanish. ‘Learned it as a nipper,’ he said, when Basil asked why. ‘Had a Spanish nanny.’ He anticipated another question and added, ‘M’ father was in mining, spent a lot of time in Bolivia. I was actually born out there. Don’t remember it, though. We came home when I was still a baby. But we brought the nanny with us.’

On the long journey to Barcelona, Basil learned as many words and phrases from him as he could. He found it not dissimilar to Italian, of which he had a smattering from schooldays; he thought he’d pick it up quickly.

As the train pulled into Barcelona station, he had one of those moments of suddenly seeing himself clearly, and a wash of shock went over him. What on earth am I doing here? I’m not a soldier. I don’t know anything about soldiering. I don’t really care about this war – why should I? I don’t even know what they’re fighting for. I don’t want to get shot at. I don’t want to get killed.

Zennor was up and collecting their bags; Basil was rigid, gripping the edge of the seat. ‘This is us,’ Zennor said, seeing he hadn’t moved.

‘Aren’t you scared?’ Basil heard himself ask.

Zennor only looked mildly puzzled. ‘What of?’

Basil was comforted. He wasn’t going to be outdone by a feather mattress like Bob Zennor. He was Basil Compton, the scamp, the outlaw, the dare-devil, the scorner of rules. If anyone was going to be a hero, it had to be him.

Barcelona looked rather shabby. Boarded-up shops; some windows broken, others mended with brown paper; peeling paint, damaged stonework, missing cobbles; rubbish lying in the street. And – the most noticeable thing to Basil, having come from London – a complete absence of well-dressed people. Everyone looked poor, and was dressed either in coarse peasant clothes or workers’ blue overalls.

‘Bit of a dreary place,’ he commented.

Zennor said, ‘I was here five years ago with my parents, and this street was full of expensive shops and rich people. It’s called Las Ramblas, and it was the main street for strolling about and being seen. But now everything belongs to the people.’

‘Well, the flags are jolly,’ Basil said doubtfully. All the big buildings were draped in red or red-and-black flags; red and blue posters were plastered on every surface. There were no private motor-cars, but the trams had been painted red-and-black. And loudspeakers along the street bellowed out songs with simple, catchy tunes. Revolutionary songs, Zennor told him, about the brotherhood of man and the newly won freedom of the proletariat from oppression. A man in a uniform of some kind thrust a leaflet at him, and he folded it into his pocket for future reference, remembering that he was supposed to be taking notes for his first report to the Messenger.

‘Where are we going, anyway?’ he asked Zennor.