Doctor Who_ History 101 - Mags L. Halliday [24]
We were discussing the likely action the Civil Guard would take when my attention was drawn by overhearing a conversation in English. The girl had a London accent and was flicking through the bar’s newspaper.
‘Look at the date,’ she told her companion, ‘we’re out by months.’
Glancing around I took in their appearance. He looked like a typical member of the Bloomsbury set, about forty years old with long hair and dressed in deliberately archaic clothing. She was, confounding my expectations based on her accent, from the Indian sub-continent. Noticing me looking, the girl frowned and returned to her paper as if she were an office girl commuting on the District line. The man smiled though and introduced them as the Doctor (I did not catch the surname) and Anji Kapoor. They are waiting for the papers that will let them return home to England. I wondered briefly if Miss Kapoor was a wife the Doctor was bringing back from India, but her confident London accent belied that notion.
After some minutes of small talk they joined us at our table for the remainder of the evening. Eleana explained her problem to them, although she was circumspect about many aspects, including the details of the body she believed to be her brother. Anji spoke of a friend of theirs who was travelling alone and her own worry about his safety. This seemed to be a pointed remark to her companion, who looked uncomfortable. The Doctor told us that, while they were waiting to go home, they were preparing a series of articles about the situation here and Eleana offered to introduce all three of us to journalists she knew. We agreed to meet in the foyer of the Hotel Continental tomorrow, where many overseas journalists are staying. Assuming that my centuria is not sent to the front in the meantime.
* * *
‘Come to sunny Spain, my arse,’ Fitz muttered, turning his collar up and trying to hold it closed. He’d been mooching about the port for a day now, trying to find a lift out to Guernica. He’d also tried to find a map, see if it was walkable. It had to be, he thought, as Bilbao had a steady trickle of refugees from the east, arriving on foot with bundles of belongings and weary postures. There wasn’t a shop he could find with a map for sale, though, so he had gone back to searching for a ride. The light drizzle had been almost constant since he had left the Doctor and Anji and his heavy coat was growing prickly as the wool absorbed the moisture. He was damp, footsore and convinced he’d got the worst of the plan.
He set off towards one of the cafés that some of the firemen attending the blaze on the docks had recommended he try, wondering just what would pass for breakfast here. The town was practically blockaded, with no merchant ships braving the mines to dock. The thin coffee and almost grey colour of the bread reminded him, again, uncomfortably of his youth. Ten years down the line and a few hundred miles north, where rationing had continued long after the bombs had stopped. He was starting to seriously dislike the whole situation again.
The envelope the Doctor had given him had contained a bundle of pesetas along with his identity papers, but Fitz was cautious about using them too quickly. He needed accommodation and the train fare down to Barcelona, and possibly a few bribes to drivers to get him places, so he was spending as little as possible. He had found a cheap hostel for a few pesetas last night: the dorm had slept twenty on creaky wire bunk beds and the blanket had been thinner – and more full