Linda was now introduced to Robert Parker and to Randolph Pine, a young writer who, having led a more or less playboy existence in the South of France, had gone to fight in Spain, and was now working in Perpignan from a certain feeling of responsibility towards those who had once been fellow soldiers. They seemed pleased that Linda had arrived, and were most friendly and welcoming, saying that it was nice to see a new face.
‘You must give me some work to do,’ said Linda.
‘Yes, now what can we think of for you?’ said Robert. ‘There’s masses of work, never fear, it’s just a question of finding the right kind. Can you speak Spanish?’
‘No.’
‘Oh, well, you’ll soon pick it up.’
‘I’m quite sure I shan’t,’ said Linda doubtfully.
‘What do you know about welfare work?’
‘Oh, dear, how hopeless I seem to be. Nothing, I’m afraid.’
‘Lavender will find her a job,’ said Christian, who had settled down at his table and was flapping over a card index.
‘Lavender?’
‘A girl called Lavender Davis.’
‘No! I know her quite well, she used to live near us in the country. In fact she was one of my bridesmaids.’
‘That’s it,’ said Robert, ‘she said she knew you, I’d forgotten. She’s wonderful, she really works with the Quakers in the camps, but she helps us a great deal too. There’s absolutely nothing she doesn’t know about calories and babies’ nappies, and expectant mummies, and so on, and she’s the hardest worker I’ve ever come across.’
‘I’ll tell you,’ said Randolph Pine, ‘what you can do. There’s a job simply waiting for you, and that is to arrange the accommodation on this ship that’s going off next week.’
‘Oh, yes, of course,’ said Robert, ‘the very thing. She can have this table and start at once.’
‘Now look,’ said Randolph. ‘I’ll show you. (What delicious scent you have, Après l’Ondée? I thought so.) Now here is a map of the ship – see – best cabins, not such good cabins, lousy cabins, and battened down under the hatches. And here is a list of the families who are going. All you have to do is to allocate each family its cabin – when you have decided which they are to have, you put the number of the cabin against the family – here – you see? And the number of the family on the cabin here, like that. Quite easy, but it takes time, and must be done so that when they arrive on the boat they will know exactly where to go with their things.’
‘But how do I decide who gets the good ones and who is battened? Awfully tricky, isn’t it?’
‘Not really. The point is it’s a strictly democratic ship run on republican principles, class doesn’t enter into it. I should give decent cabins to families where there are small children or babies. Apart from that do it any way you like. Take a pin if you like. The only thing that matters is that it should be done, otherwise there’ll be a wild scramble for the best places when they get on board.’
Linda looked at the list of families. It took the form of a card index, the head of each family having a card on which was written the number and names of his dependants.
‘It doesn’t give their ages,’ said Linda. ‘How am I to know if there are young babies?’
‘That’s a point,’ said Robert. ‘How is she to?’
‘Quite easy,’ said Christian. ‘With Spaniards you can always tell. Before the war they were called either after saints or after episodes in the life of the Virgin – Anunciación, Asunción, Purificación, Concepción, Consuelo, etc. Since the Civil War they are called Carlos after Charlie Marx, Frederigo after Freddie Engels, or Estalina (very popular until the Russians let them down with a wallop), or else nice slogans like Solidaridad-Obrera, Libertad, and so on. Then you know the children are under three. Couldn’t be simpler, really.’
Lavender Davis now appeared. She was indeed the same Lavender, dowdy, healthy, and plain, wearing an English country tweed and brogues. Her short brown hair curled over her head, and she had no make-up. She greeted Linda with enthusiasm, indeed, it had always been a fiction in the Davis family that Lavender and Linda were each other’s greatest friends. Linda was delighted to see her, as one always is delighted to see a familiar face, abroad.
‘Come on,’ said Randolph, ‘now we’re all here let’s go and have a drink at the Palmarium.’
For the next weeks, until her private life began to occupy Linda’s attention, she lived in an atmosphere of alternate fascination and horror. She grew to love Perpignan, a strange little old town, so different from anything she had ever known, with its river and broad quays, its network of narrow streets, its huge wild-looking plane trees, and all around it the bleak vine-growing country of the Roussillon bursting into summery green under her very eyes. Spring came late and slowly, but when it came it was hand-in-hand with summer, and almost at once everything was baking and warm, and in the villages the people danced every night on concrete dancing floors under the plane trees. At week-ends the English, unable to eradicate such a national habit, shut up the office and made for Collioure on the coast, where they bathed and sunbathed and went for Pyrenean picnics.
But all this had nothing to do with the reason for their presence in these charming surroundings – the camps. Linda went to the camps nearly every day, and
