Page 67 of The Gathering Storm (Morland Dynasty #36)

The tropas de asalto secured their position and joined up with Basil’s unit.

The Fascists were already regrouping, but they were able to hold out against them for twelve hours, long enough to get the dead and wounded back, before making a controlled retreat, abandoning the redoubt, but taking with them a quantity of ammunition, a few rifles, and some rations.

The machine-gun they never found. The main objective, to draw fire, had been carried out, but the attack on the other side had not succeeded: the road had not been cut.

So was it a success, or wasn’t it? Had it been it worth the cost?

Javier had been hit in the head, neck and chest by a spray of bullets, and never regained consciousness.

He was pronounced dead on arrival at camp.

Only then did Jorge allow his wound to be looked at.

The front half of his foot had been severed by shrapnel, and only the mud and blood had bound foot and boot together.

Even so, neither the camp doctor nor Basil could understand how he had continued to get along on it for so long.

He was taken off with the rest of the wounded to the hospital in Siétamo for treatment and discharge from the militia.

Basil watched him go, so dazed with grief for his brother he had no fears for his own future as a guerra discapacidados .

It was two days later that Basil was wounded, and his own state of shock and grief for his friend probably contributed to it, making him incautious.

He was out on patrol in no man’s land, crawling on his belly through the swampy reed beds.

Longing for a clean breath of air, he had raised himself up, forgetting that the movement of the tall reeds would have given away their position.

He had just put up his hand to wipe the sweat out of his eyes, and before it reached his face, a sniper bullet went through it.

After the initial shock of the blow, he felt no pain at first; when it did arrive, it was terrible.

Morphine was in short supply after the recent action, and reserved for the worst injuries.

Eventually there was space in an ambulance to take him to the hospital.

He was thrown about so violently by the jolting over the ruts that his head bounced from the roof to the side.

He couldn’t use his hand to save himself.

The doctor who cleaned, dressed and plastered his hand was not sympathetic. ‘Serves you right,’ he grumbled. He was well educated, had visited England several times in his student days, and his English was excellent. ‘What are you doing here anyway?’

Basil roused himself from a haze of pain and hopelessness. ‘I volunteered,’ he said. ‘I wanted to help.’

‘Help? How are you helping?’

‘Fighting Fascism. Helping Spain.’

‘Spain does not need your help. We can manage our own affairs without foreigners barging in. You arrogant English think you can teach us poor Spanish peasants about democracy and the rule of law? Spain was an old civilisation when your barbarian king was cutting off his wives’ heads.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Basil said wearily. ‘My friend was killed in the last action.’ It sounded weak, like a plea for compassion – which he supposed it was. ‘We only wanted to help.’

‘And see how it turned out!’ He paused while he finished smoothing the plaster, eyed Basil for a moment, then leaned closer and said in a kinder voice, ‘You don’t want to be here, my friend, do you? You want to go home.’

Home! The word cut through the fog in Basil’s mind like a breath of clean air in a stifling room. He met the doctor’s eyes, hope in his own.

The doctor nodded, as though a question had been answered.

‘This hand will be long healing, and you will never get full use of it again,’ he said clearly, as though someone might be listening.

‘What a pity it is your right hand, your rifle hand. You cannot pull a trigger now. I must certify you medically unfit, and recommend you for discharge.’

‘Discharge?’ Basil repeated.

‘You are no use to us now. You will leave the militia and go home to England.’

It turned out to be a simple process. The doctor gave him a certificate on which he was ‘declared useless’, which he took before the hospital medical board.

They endorsed it, and sent him to the militia headquarters, where his papers were stamped for discharge and he was given a travel warrant.

Then he caught a transport to the station where, after the usual delay and contradictory announcements, he was able to board a train for Paris.

His mood lifted a little as the train travelled slowly north, away from the bleak mountains and into a green and fertile land, away from the sights and smells and concerns of war and into a landscape of agriculture and rural affairs.

He thought of England, and considered where he should go when he got back there.

Not to the office, not yet, not to Aunt Molly’s.

He did not want to be with anyone who would want to talk about the war and what he had achieved – which was absolutely nothing.

People had died, a land had been convulsed, and for what?

He could not believe that it would end well for the Spanish people, whichever side won.

But he could not talk about any of it, not yet.

His hand was injured; and his heart hurt.

There was one person who would welcome him, respect his silence, would always accept him, whatever his worth. He would go home to his mother.

Lineman’s was a well-kept secret in Los Angeles – a small, discreet restaurant just off Wilshire Boulevard where important Hollywood people ate on the rare occasions when they didn’t want the attention of the press.

Lennie went there sometimes for a quick solo lunch, because they did the best Reuben sandwich outside New York.

He had finished and was on his way out one September day when he heard his name called, and turned to see, to his surprise, Al Feinstein beckoning from a corner table.

The surprising thing was that Feinstein was alone.

Lennie couldn’t have imagined him ever being allowed to be alone.

He was as recognisable as the Eiffel Tower or the Leaning Tower of Pisa, as impossible to hide; and there was hardly anyone in Hollywood who wouldn’t have wanted something from him if they’d spotted him.

In that moment Lennie realised fully the awfulness of fame and was glad he was largely unknown.

He changed direction and went across to him. ‘Al! Lunching alone?’

‘They just left,’ Feinstein said, waving a cigar in the direction of the door. ‘Coupla nice gals up from Ohio, wanting an audition.’ His merry eyes gleamed from their nests of wrinkles, challenging Lennie to make something of it.

‘Oh,’ said Lennie. He knew of Al’s reputation.

Though he was probably too fat and too bronchitic now actually to get into the saddle, he did still like a little canoodling when he had the chance, with chorines and eager ingénues who wanted to get into films. It was reprehensible, of course, and Lennie was glad he had not come upon him sooner, and perhaps have felt obliged to warn the girls, risking a scene.

Al waved him to a seat. ‘Siddown, I want to talk to you. What’ll you have? They do a great custard tart here. They call it torta della nonna .’ His Italian accent was surprisingly good for a man who pretended Philistinism.

‘Thanks, I’ve just eaten.’

‘Coffee and brandy, then,’ Al said, waving to a waiter, then again at Lennie. ‘Siddown, you’re making the place untidy.’

Lennie gave in. He wanted to hear what Al had to say, in any case.

Rose’s agent, Forrest Van Kerk, was friendly with David B.

Reznik, ABO’s lead director, who had an interest in Rose’s career and had discovered what he thought was an ideal script for her, a thriller called Into the Night .

He and Van had together taken it to Feinstein and persuaded him to take it on, with Rose as the ordinary Brooklyn housewife who finds herself under attack, first by anonymous telephone calls, and then increasingly sinister and troubling incidents.

Since most of the action happened in one indoor location, with a small cast, production costs would be low, and Lennie would not be required to put a lot of money into it.

And it was a good dramatic part for Rose, not in the mainstream mould of The Falcon and the Rose , but a good way to bridge the gap between the westerns and the big Shakespeare role Al had been promising.

Lennie hadn’t heard any more about that for a while.

‘How’s the Shakespeare project coming along?’ he asked, as the waiter put coffee and brandy in front of him. He refused Al’s silent offer of a cigar. ‘Have you decided yet? Is it Twelfth Night ?’

Al waved it aside. ‘My guys rewrote it a whole bunch, but it still reads like a dog’s breakfast.’

‘It’s a celebrated part of Shakespeare’s canon,’ Lennie said, with slight reproof.

‘Gave me a headache figuring out who knew who was what and when. And if I can’t figure it, what chance the audience will? Romeo and Juliet it ain’t! I wish we’d got to that little honey before Cukor grabbed it. Can’t do it again for five years, minimum.’

‘Well, what about As You Like It ? The Merchant of Venice ? A Midsummer Night’s Dream ?’ Lennie urged.

‘I got my doubts about all of ’em. As You Like It ’s the same mess all over again.

And the Merchant thing? If I wanna do a courtroom drama I’ll set it in present-day New York.

Wait, that could work!’ A costive look indicated the arrival of an idea.

‘Did you see The Witness Chair ? Or Jean Arthur in The Defence Rests ?’

Lennie refused to be distracted. ‘Is that what you’ve got planned for Rose after Into the Night ?’

‘Who said I’m making Into the Night? ’ Al said, narrow-eyed.