a small group of stone buildings. Teresa whistled then opened the door to a barn, and two men came out.
‘We always use false names,’ she said in English. ‘I am Maria and these two are Fred and Tom. Our new friend is Leandro.’ The men shook hands. She went on: ‘No talking, no smoking, and anyone who falls behind will be left. Are we ready?’
From here the path was steeper. Lloyd found himself slipping on stones. Now and again he clutched at stunted bushes of heather beside the path and pulled himself upwards with their aid. The petite Teresa set a pace that soon had the three men puffing and blowing. She was carrying a flashlight, but she refused to use it while the stars were bright, saying she had to conserve the battery.
The air got colder. They waded across an icy stream, and Lloyd’s feet did not get warm again afterwards.
An hour later, Teresa said: ‘Take care to stay in the middle of the path here.’ Lloyd looked down and realized he was on a ridge between steep slopes. When he saw how far he could fall, he felt a little giddy, and quickly looked up and ahead at Teresa’s swiftly moving silhouette. In normal circumstances he would have enjoyed every minute of walking behind a figure like that, but now he was so tired and cold he did not have the energy even to ogle.
The mountains were not uninhabited. At one point a distant dog barked; at another they heard a tinkling of eerie bells, which spooked the men until Teresa explained that mountain shepherds hung bells on their sheep so that they could find their flocks.
Lloyd thought about Daisy. Was she still at Ty Gwyn? Or had she gone back to her husband? Lloyd hoped she had not returned to London, for London was being bombed every night, the French newspapers said. Was she alive or dead? Would he ever see her again? If he did, how would she feel about him?
They stopped every two hours to rest, drink water, and take a few mouthfuls from a bottle of wine Teresa was carrying.
It started to rain around dawn. The ground underfoot instantly became treacherous, and they all stumbled and slipped, but Teresa did not slow down. ‘Be glad it’s not snow,’ she said.
Daylight revealed a landscape of scrubby vegetation in which rocky outcrops stuck up like tombstones. The rain continued, and a cold mist obscured the distance.
After a while, Lloyd realized they were walking downhill. At the next rest stop, Teresa announced: ‘We are now in Spain.’ Lloyd should have been relieved, but he just felt exhausted.
Gradually the landscape softened, rocks giving way to coarse grass and shrubs.
Suddenly Teresa dropped to the ground and lay flat.
The three men instantly did the same, not needing to be prompted. Following Teresa’s gaze, Lloyd saw two men in green uniforms and peculiar hats: Spanish border guards, presumably. He realized that being in Spain did not mean he was out of trouble. If he was caught entering the country illegally he might just be sent back. Worse, he could disappear into one of Franco’s prison camps.
The border guards were walking along a mountain track towards the fugitives. Lloyd prepared himself for a fight. He would have to move fast, in order to overcome them before they could draw their guns. He wondered how good the other two men would be in a fracas.
But his trepidation was unnecessary. The two guards reached some unmarked boundary and then turned back. Teresa acted as if she had known this would happen. When the guards disappeared from sight, she stood up and the four of them walked on.
Soon afterwards the mist lifted. Lloyd saw a fishing village around a sandy bay. He had been here before, when he came to Spain in 1936. He even remembered that there was a railway station.
They walked into the village. It was a sleepy place, with no signs of officialdom: no police, no town hall, no soldiers, no checkpoints. Doubtless that was why Teresa had chosen it.
They went to the station and Teresa bought tickets, flirting with the vendor as if they were old friends.
Lloyd sat on a bench on the shady platform, footsore, weary, grateful and happy.
An hour later they caught a train to Barcelona.
Daisy had never before understood the meaning of work.
Or tiredness.
Or tragedy.
She sat in a school classroom, drinking sweet English tea out of a cup with no saucer. She wore a steel helmet and rubber boots. It was five o’clock in the afternoon, and she was still weary from the night before.
She was part of the Aldgate district Air Raid Precautions sector. Theoretically, she worked an eight-hour shift followed by eight hours on standby and eight hours off duty. In practice, she worked as long as the air raid continued and there were wounded people to be driven to hospital.
London was bombed every single night of October 1940.
Daisy always worked with one other woman, the driver’s attendant, and four men forming a first-aid party. Their headquarters was in a school, and now they were sitting at the children’s desks, waiting for the planes to come and the sirens to wail and the bombs to fall.
The ambulance she drove was a converted American Buick. They also had a normal car and driver to transport what they called sitting cases – injured people who could nevertheless sit upright without assistance while being transported to hospital.
