with Spain, had been the last Fascist state of Western Europe – had died in the night at the age of eighty-one.
‘This is incredible,’ I said as the party began to gather for breakfast on the terrace, pulling fruit from great piles set out for our delight, pouring coffee, buttering toast. I had thought the announcement would have stilled the table. Not so.
‘Why?’ asked George Tremayne.
‘Because the last of the dictators, who shaped the middle of the century, who fought the war, who changed the world, is dead. Hitler, Stalin, Mussolini, Primo de Rivera…’
‘Franco’s still alive,’ said Richard Tremayne. ‘So now he’ll be the last of them to die.’
Which was, of course, a point. ‘Nevertheless, it is extraordinary that we should be in Portugal, just outside Lisbon, when he went.’ I was not going to give up easily. ‘The newspapers say he’s going to lie in state in Lisbon Cathedral for a few days. Obviously, we must all queue up and go.’
‘To do what?’ said George.
‘To walk past his body. This is a historic moment.’
I turned to Damian for support, but he just helped himself to some more milk for his cornflakes.
I am not sure quite what it tells us about the battle of the sexes but in the event all the girls came and none of the other men. Naturally, they didn’t have anything suitable to wear, and they borrowed black skirts and shawls and mantillas from the furious women in the kitchen, but they all came, including Alicky, despite her continuing complaints throughout the pilgrimage about her swelling and painful throat, of which we had heard more than enough by this point.
That said, the advantage of having Alicky with us was that she was able to be very stern with the driver, one of John’s perks from the bank, who deposited us on the edge of the huge piazza in front of the cathedral, telling him exactly where he was to wait and, no, she couldn’t give him an idea of how long we were going to be. In the lengthening shadows of the late afternoon we took up our positions in the endless line of shuffling, morose men and weeping women. Apart from anything else, I was impressed, or intrigued, or something, by the sorrow on display. I had been accustomed to think of Salazar as the last of the wicked old buffers who had plunged Europe into bloody turmoil, and here was a wide cross section of the Portuguese, from nobles to peasants (the last constituting the people who might have had the greatest right to complain against his rule), all openly sobbing at his departure. I suppose it’s always hard to give up what you’re used to.
‘Candida?’ The voice cut through me like a bacon slicer. I knew it as well as I knew my own without turning round, and I could not believe I was hearing it, in this ancient sea capital so far from home. ‘Candida, what on earth are you doing here?’ At this we all turned to greet Serena as she walked across the square, dragging a rather hot- looking Lady Claremont and the dreaded Lady Belton in her wake. In their party too the men were not interested in politics. Seeing all our faces, Serena let out a short scream. ‘My God! What is this? I don’t believe it! Why on earth are you all here?’ We then embarked on an explanation and it turned out that, by an unbelievable coincidence, her own parents had taken one of the other villas in the development where ours lay, that they had invited Andrew’s parents, that they’d arrived the day before and they would be staying for the coming week, and… wasn’t it amazing?
I need hardly tell you that, as it turned out, it was not amazing. It was not in the least amazing. It was not even a coincidence. The scheme, which I did not uncover for some time after this and then only because I ran into George Tremayne at a race meeting three or four summers later, had originated with Serena, who wanted to see Damian again. Even when I heard the truth from George I didn’t understand quite why (although I do now), but it was anyway important to her. John had been asking Candida to bring out a group of friends for some time, that bit was true, and they decided that if Candida could get Damian into the group, Serena and Andrew would, by coincidence, take a villa nearby. Obviously, Damian would not come if Serena were to be in the party, nor would Andrew if Damian was, so the subterfuge was necessary, once you accepted the intention. Where the plan might be said to have gone awry was that Serena’s parents, perhaps suspicious in some way, had announced they would bear the cost of the trip and join them. This Andrew would not allow Serena to refuse, since it was such a saving. The final button came when Lady Belton suggested that she and her benighted husband also come along, as she would ‘welcome the chance to know the Claremonts better.’ I never found out what would have happened if Damian had refused when I asked him. I imagine the whole thing would just have been cancelled. However, at the time, I suspected nothing. I thought the chance meeting was genuine chance, a heavensent miracle that Serena Gresham – correction, Serena Summersby – should be standing in a sun-drenched, southern square, also wearing ill-fitting, borrowed black and waiting to pay homage to a dead tyrant alongside me. I allowed myself to wonder at her properly. ‘How are you?’ I asked.
‘Frazzled and worn out. Take my advice. Don’t travel with your parents, your in-laws and your two-month-old baby, in the same party.’
‘I’ll remember that.’ I looked at her. She was quite unchanged. That my golden girl was now a wife and mother seemed more or less impossible to believe. ‘How are you getting on?’
She glanced swiftly across at Lady Belton, but the old trout was busily snubbing some tourist who’d attempted to strike up a conversation and enjoying it too much to notice us. ‘All right.’ Then, sensing that her answer had not sounded like the voice of love’s young dream, she smiled. ‘My life’s terribly grown up now. You wouldn’t believe it was me. I spend the whole time talking to plumbers and having things covered, and asking Andrew whether he’s done the sales tax.’
‘But you’re happy?’
We did not need to exchange a glance to know that, with this question, I was pushing my luck. ‘Of course I am,’ she said.
‘Where is Andrew?’
She shrugged. ‘Back at the villa. He says he’s not interested in history.’ ‘This isn’t history, it’s history in the making.’
‘What can I tell you? He’s not interested.’
To the fury of the people behind us, we stuffed Serena, her mother and her motherin-law into our group, and together we all staggered up the cathedral steps. From there we passed into the cool, shadowed interior of the great church, where the sounds of crying were more audible and, as they echoed through the aisles and cloisters, curiously haunting. Grief is always grief, whether or not the deceased deserves it. At last we walked past the coffin. The head was covered in some sort of scarf, but the hands, waxy and still, were pressed together as if in prayer, raised and resting on the chest of the corpse. ‘I wonder how they do that,’ said Serena. ‘Do you think they’ve got a special thing?’
