‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But there’s a well-financed Catholic lobby, led by a millionaire called Joseph Kennedy, opposing any help to the Spanish government. And a Democratic president needs Catholic support. Roosevelt won’t do anything to jeopardize his New Deal.’

‘Well, there’s something we can do,’ said Lenny Griffiths, and a look of adolescent defiance came over his face.

‘What’s that, Len boy?’ said Billy.

‘We can go to Spain and fight.’

His father said: ‘Don’t talk daft, Lenny.’

‘Lots of people are talking about going, all over the world, even in America. They want to form volunteer units to fight alongside the regular army.’

Lloyd sat upright. ‘Do they?’ This was the first he had heard of it. ‘How do you know?’

‘I read about it in the Daily Herald.’

Lloyd was electrified. Volunteers going to Spain to fight the Fascists!

Tom Griffiths said to Lenny: ‘Well, you’re not going, and that’s that.’

Billy said: ‘Remember those boys who lied about their age to fight in the Great War? Thousands of them.’

‘And totally useless, most of them,’ Tom said. ‘I recall that kid who cried before the Somme. What was his name, Billy?’

‘Owen Bevin. He ran away, didn’t he?’

‘Aye – to a firing squad. The bastards shot him for desertion. Fifteen, he was, poor little tyke.’

Lenny said: ‘I’m sixteen.’

‘Aye,’ said his father. ‘Big difference, that.’

Granda said: ‘Lloyd here is going to miss the train to London in about ten minutes.’

Lloyd had been so struck by Lenny’s revelation that he had not kept an eye on the clock. He jumped up, kissed his grandmother, and picked up his small suitcase.

Lenny said: ‘I’ll walk with you to the station.’

Lloyd said his goodbyes and hurried down the hill. Lenny said nothing, seeming preoccupied. Lloyd was glad not to have to talk: his mind was in turmoil.

The train was in. Lloyd bought a third-class ticket to London. As he was about to board, Lenny said: ‘Tell me, now, Lloyd, how do you get a passport?’

‘You’re serious about going to Spain, aren’t you?’

‘Come on, man, don’t muck about, I want to know.’

The whistle blew. Lloyd climbed aboard, closed the door, and let down the window. ‘You go to the Post Office and ask for a form,’ he said.

Lenny said despondently: ‘If I went to the Aberowen post office and asked for a passport form, my mother would hear of it about thirty seconds later.’

‘Then go to Cardiff,’ said Lloyd; and the train pulled away.

He settled in his seat and took from his pocket a copy of Le Rouge et le Noir by Stendhal in French. He stared at the page without taking anything in. He could think of only one idea: going to Spain.

He knew he should be scared, but all he felt was excitement at the prospect of fighting – really fighting, not just holding meetings – against the kind of men who had set the dogs on Jörg. No doubt fear would come later. Before a boxing match he was not scared in the dressing room. But when he entered the ring and saw the man who wanted to beat him unconscious, looked at the muscular shoulders and the hard fists and the vicious face, then his mouth went dry and his heart pounded and he had to suppress the impulse to turn and run away.