Pied Piper

The dust they made was very trying to the children. With the heat and the long road they soon began to flag; Ronnie complained that the case he was carrying hurt his arm, and Sheila wanted a drink, but all the milk was gone. Rose said her feet were hurting her. Only the limp little boy in grey walked on without complaint.

Howard did what he could to cheer them on, but they were obviously tiring. There was a farm not very far ahead; he turned into it, and asked the haggard old woman at the door if she would sell some milk. She said there was none, on which he asked for water for the children. She led them to the well in the court-yard, not very distant from the midden, and pulled up a bucket for them; Howard conquered his scruples and his apprehensions and they all had a drink.

They rested a little by the well. In a barn, open to the court-yard, was an old farm cart with a broken wheel, evidently long disused. Piled into this was a miscellaneous assortment of odd rubbish, and amongst this rubbish was what looked like a perambulator.

He strolled across to look more closely, the old woman watching him, hawk-eyed. It was a perambulator in fact, forty or fifty years old, covered in filth, and with one broken spring. But it was a perambulator, all the same. He went back to the old lady and commenced to haggle for it.

Ten minutes later it was his, for a hundred and fifty francs. She threw in with that a frayed piece of old rope with which he made shift to lash the broken spring. Hens had been roosting on it, covering it with their droppings; he set Ronnie and Rose to pull up handfuls of grass to wipe it down with. When they had finished he surveyed it with some satisfaction. It was a filthy object still, and grossly expensive, but it solved a great many of his problems.

He bought a little bread from the old woman and put it with the cases in the pram. Rather to his surprise nobody wanted to ride, but they all wanted to push it; he found it necessary to arrange turns. 'The youngest first,' he said. 'Sheila can push it first.'

Rose said: 'May I take off my shoes? They hurt my feet.'

He was uncertain, revolving this idea in his head. 'I don't think that's a good idea,' he said. 'The road will not be nice to walk on.'

She said: 'But monsieur, one does not wear shoes at all, except in Dijon.'

It seemed that she was genuinely used to going without shoes. After some hesitation he agreed to let her try it, and found that she moved freely and easily over the roughest parts of the road. He put her shoes and stockings in the pram, and spent the next quarter of an hour refusing urgent applications from the English children to copy her example.

Presently Sheila tired of pushing. Rose said: 'Now it is the turn of Pierre.' In motherly fashion she turned to the little boy in grey. 'Now, Pierre. Like this.' She brought him to the pram, still white-faced and listless, put his hands on the cracked china handles and began to push it with him.

Howard said to her: 'How do you know his name is Pierre?'

She stared at him. 'He said so - at the farm.'

The old man had not heard a word from the little boy; indeed, he had been secretly afraid that he had lost the power of speech. Not for the first time he was reminded of the gulf that separated him from the children, the great gulf that stretches between youth and age. It was better to leave the little boy to the care of the other children, rather than to terrify him with awkward, foreign sympathy and questions.

He watched the two children carefully as they pushed the pram. Rose seemed to have made some contact with the little fellow already, sufficient to encourage her. She chatted to him as they pushed the pram together, having fun with him in childish, baby French. When she trotted with the pram he trotted with her; when she walked he walked, but otherwise he seemed completely unresponsive. The blank look never left his face.

Ronnie said: 'Why doesn't he say anything, Mr Howard? He is funny.'

Sheik echoed: 'Why doesn't he say anything?'

Howard said: 'He's been very unhappy. You must be as nice and as kind to him as ever you can.'

They digested this in silence for a minute. Then Sheila said: 'Have you got to be nice to him, too, Monsieur Howard?'

'Of course,' he said. 'Everybody's got to be as nice as ever they can be to him.'

She said directly, in French: 'Then why don't you make him a whistle, like you did for us?'

Rose looked up. 'Un sifflet?'

Ronnie said in French: 'He can make whistles ever so well out of a bit of wood. He made some for us at Cidoton.'

She jumped up and down with pleasure. 'Ecoute Pierre,' she said. 'Monsieur va te fabriquer un sifflet!'

They all beamed up at him in expectation. It was clear that in their minds a whistle was the panacea for all ills, the cure for all diseases of the spirit. They seemed to be completely in agreement on that point.

'I don't mind making him a whistle,' he said placidly. He doubted if it would be any good to Pierre, but it would please the other children, 'We'll have to find the right sort of bush. A hazel bush.'

'Un coudrier,' said Ronnie. 'Cherchons un coudrier.'

They strolled along the road in the warm evening, pushing the pram and looking for a hazel bush. Presently Howard saw one. They had been walking for three-quarters of an hour since they had left the farm, and it was time the children had a rest; he crossed to the bush and cut a straight twig with his pocket-knife. Then he took them into the field a little way back from the traffic of the road and made them sit down on the grass, and gave them an orange to eat between them. The three children sat watching him entranced as he began his work on the twig, hardly attending to the orange. Rose sat with her arm round the little boy in grey; he did not seem to be capable of concentrating on anything. Even the sections of the orange had to be put into his mouth.

The old man finished cutting, bound the bark back into place and lifted the whistle to his lips. It blew a little low note, pure and clear.

'There you are,' he said. 'That's for Pierre.'

Rose took it. 'Regarde, Pierre,' she said, 'ce que monsieur fa fait.' She blew a note on it for him.

Then, gently, she put it to his lips. 'Siffle, Pierre,' she said.

There was a little woody note above the rumble of the lorries on the road.

Chapter 5

Presently they got back to the road and went on towards Montargis.

Evening was coming on them; out of a cloudless sky the sun was dropping down to the horizon. It was the tune of evening when in England birds begin to sing after a long, hot day. In the middle of France there are few birds because the peasant Frenchman sees to that on Sundays, but instinctively the old man listened for their song. He heard a different sort of song. He heard the distant hum of aeroplanes; in the far distance he heard the sharp crack of gunfire and some heavier explosions that perhaps were bombs. On the road the lorries of French troops, all making for the west, were thicker than ever.

Clearly it was impossible for them to reach Montargis. The road went on and on; by his reckoning they had come about five miles from where they had left the bus. There were still ten miles or so ahead of them, and night was coming on. The children were weary. Ronnie and Sheila were inclined to quarrel with each other; the old man felt that Sheila would burst into tears of temper and fatigue before so very long. Rose was not so buoyant as she had been and her flow of chatter to the little boy had ceased; she slipped along on her bare feet in silence, leading him by the hand. The little boy, Pierre, went on with her, white-faced and silent, stumbling a little now and then, the whistle held tight in his little hand.

It was time for them to find a lodging for the night.

The choice was limited. There was a farm on the right of the road, and half a mile farther on he could see a farm on the left of the road; farther than that the children could not walk. He turned into the first one. A placard nailed on a post, CHIEN MECHANT, warned him, but did not warn the children. The dog, an enormous brindled creature, leaped out at them to the limit of his chain, raising a terrific clamour. The children scattered back, Sheila let out a roar of fright and tears, and Rose began to whimper. It was in the din of dog and children competing with each other that Howard presented himself at the door of the farm and asked for a bed for the children.

The gnarled old woman said: 'There are no beds here. Do you take this for a hotel?'

A buxom, younger woman behind her said: 'They could sleep in the barn, ma mère.'

The old dame said: 'Eh? the barn?' She looked Howard up and down. 'The soldiers sleep in the barn when we billet them. Have you any money?'

He said: 'I have enough to pay for a good bed for these children, madame.'

'Ten francs.'

'I have ten francs. May I see the barn?'

She led him through the cow-house to the barn behind. It was a large, bare apartment with a threshing floor at one end, empty and comfortless. The younger woman followed behind them.

He shook his head. 'I am desolated, madame, but the children must have a bed. I must look somewhere else.'

He heard the younger woman whisper something about the hay-loft. He heard the older woman protest angrily. He heard the young one say: 'Ils sont fatigués, les petits...' Then they turned aside and conferred together.

The hay-loft proved to be quite possible. It was a shelter, anyway, and somewhere where the children could sleep. He made a bargain for them to sleep there for fifteen francs. He found that the women had milk to spare, but little food. He left the children in the loft and went and brought the pram in past the dog; he broke his bread in two and gave half of it to the younger woman, who would make bread and milk for the children.

Half an hour later he was doing what he could to make the children comfortable on the hay. The younger woman came in and stood watching for a moment. 'You have no blankets, then?' she said.

He shook his head, bitterly regretful that he had left his blanket in the bus. 'It was necessary to leave everything, madame,' he said quietly.

She did not speak, but presently she went away. Ten minutes later she returned with two coarse blankets of the sort used for horses. 'Do not tell ma mère,' she said gruffly.

He thanked her, and busied himself making a bed for the children. She stood there watching him, silent and bovine. Presently the children were comfortable and settled for the night. He left them and walked to the door of the barn and stood looking out.

The woman by him said: 'You are tired yourself, monsieur.'

He was deadly tired. Now that his responsibilities were over for a while, he had suddenly become slack and faint. 'A little tired,' he said. 'I shall have supper and then I shall sleep with the children. Bonne nuit, madame.'

She went back to the farmhouse, and he turned to the pram, to find the other portion of the loaf of bread. Behind him the old woman called sharply from the door across the yard.

'You can come and have a bowl of soup with us, if you like.'

He went into the kitchen gratefully. They had a stock-pot simmering on a charcoal stove; the old woman helped him to a large bowl of steaming broth and gave him a spoon. He sat down gratefully at the bare, scrubbed table to consume it with his bread.

The woman said suddenly: 'Are you from Alsace? You speak like a German.'

He shook his head. 'I'm an Englishman.'

'Ah - an Englishman!' They looked at him with renewed interest. 'But the children, they are not English.'

The younger woman said: 'The bigger boy and the smaller girl are English. They were not talking French.'

With some difficulty he explained the position to them. They listened to him in silence, only half believing what he said. In all her life the old woman had never had a holiday; only very occasionally had she been beyond the market town. It was difficult for them to comprehend a world where people travelled to another country, far away from home, merely to catch fish. And as for an old man who took care of other people's children for them, it simply did not make sense at all.

Presently they stopped bothering him with their questions, and he finished the soup in silence.

He felt better after that, much better. He thanked them with grave courtesy and went out into the yard. Already it was dusk. On the road the lorries still rumbled past at intervals, but firing seemed to have ceased altogether.

The old woman followed him to the door. 'They do not stop tonight,' she said, indicating the road. 'The night before last the barn was full. Twenty-two francs for sleeping soldiers - all in one night.' She turned and went indoors again.

He went up to the loft. The children were all asleep, curled up together in odd attitudes; the little boy Pierre twitched and whimpered in his sleep.. He still had the whistle clutched in one hand. Howard withdrew it gently and put it on the chopping machine, then spread the blanket more evenly over the sleeping forms. Finally he trod down a little of the hay into a bed and lay down himself, pulling his jacket round him.

Before sleep came to him he suffered a bad quarter of an hour. Here was a pretty kettle offish, indeed. It had been a mistake ever to have left Joigny, but it had not seemed so at the time. He should have gone straight back to Dijon when he found he could not get to Paris, back to Switzerland, even. His effort to get through by bus to Chartres had failed most dismally, and here he was! Sleeping in a hay-loft, with four children utterly dependent on him, straight in the path of the invading German Army!

He turned uneasily in the hay. Things might not be so bad. The Germans, after all, could hardly get past Paris; that lay to the north of him, a sure shield the farther west he got. Tomorrow he would reach Montargis, even if it meant walking the whole way; the children could do ten miles in a day if they went at a slow pace and if the younger two had rides occasionally in the pram. At Montargis he would hand the little boy in grey over to the sisters, and report the death of his parents to the police. At Montargis, at a town like that, there would be a bus to Pithiviers, perhaps even all the way to Chartres.

All night these matters rolled round in his mind, in the intervals of cold, uneasy slumber. He did not sleep well. Dawn came at about four, a thin grey light that stole into the loft, pointing the cobwebs strung between the rafters. He dozed and slept again; at about six he got up and went down the ladder and sluiced his face under the pump. The growth of thin stubble on his chin offended him, but he shrank from trying to shave beneath the pump. In Montargis there would be a hotel; he would wait till then.

The women were already busy about the work of the farm. He spoke to the older one, and asked if she would make some coffee for the children. Three francs, for the four of them, she said. He reassured her on that point, and went to get the children up.

He found them already running about; they had seen him go downstairs. He sent them down to wash their faces at the pump. The little boy in grey hung back. From the ladder Rose called to him, but he would not go.

Howard, folding up the blankets, glanced at him. 'Go on and wash your face,' he said in French. 'Rose is calling you.'

The little boy put his right hand on his stomach and bowed to him. 'Monsieur,' he whispered.

The old man stood looking at him nonplussed. It was the first time he had heard him speak. The child stood looking up at him imploringly, his hand still on his stomach.

'What's the matter, old boy?' Howard said in French. Silence. He dropped stiffly down on one knee, till their heads were level. 'What is it?'

He whispered: 'J'ai perdu le sifflet.'

The old man got up and gave it to him. 'Here it is,' he said. 'Quite safe. Now go on down and let Rose wash your face.' He watched him thoughtfully as he clambered backwards down the steps. 'Rose, wash his face for him.'

He gave the children their coffee in the kitchen of the farm with the remainder of the bread, attended to their more personal requirements, paid the old lady twenty francs for food and lodging. At about quarter past seven he led them one by one past the chien mechant and out on to the road again, pushing the pram before him.

High overhead a few aeroplanes passed on a pale blue, cloudless sky; he could not tell if they were French or German. It was another glorious summer morning. On the road the military lorries, were thicker than ever, and once or twice in the first hour a team of guns passed by them, drawn by tired, sweating horses flogged westwards by dirty, unshaven men in horizon blue. That day there did not seem to be so many refugees on the road. The cyclists and the walkers and the families in decrepit, overloaded pony-carts were just as numerous, but there were few private cars in evidence on the road. For the first hour Howard walked continually looking backwards for a bus, but no bus came.

The children were very merry. They ran about and chattered to each other and to Howard, playing little games that now and then threatened their lives under the wheels of dusty lorries driven by tired men, and which had then to be checked. As the day grew warmer he let them take off their coats and jerseys and put them in the pram. Rose went barefoot as a matter of course; as a concession to the English children presently Howard let them take off stockings, though he made them keep their shoes on. He took off Pierre's stockings too.

The little boy seemed a trifle more natural, though he was still white and dumb. He had the whistle clutched tight in his hand and it still worked; now and again Sheila tried to get it away from him, but Howard had his eye on her and put a stop to that.

'If you don't stop bothering him for it,' he said, 'you'll have to put your stockings on again.' He frowned at her; she eyed him covertly, and decided that he meant it.

From time to time Rose bent towards the little boy in grey. 'Siffle, Pierre,' she would say. 'Siffle pour Rose.' At that he would put the whistle to his lips and blow a little thin note. 'Ah, c'est chic, ça.' She jollied him along all morning, smiling shyly up at Howard every now and then.

They went very slowly, making not more than a mile and a half in each hour. It was no good hurrying the children, Howard thought. They would reach Montargis by evening, but only if the children took their own pace.

At about ten in the morning firing broke out to the north of them. It was very heavy firing, as of guns and howitzers; it puzzled the old man. It was distant, possibly ten miles away or more, but definitely to the north, between them and Paris. He was worried and perplexed. Surely it could not be that the Germans were surrounding Paris to the south? Was that the reason that the train had stopped at Joigny?

They reached a tiny hamlet at about ten o'clock, a place that seemed to be called La Croix. There was one small estaminet which sold a few poor groceries in a side room that was a little shop. The children had been walking for three hours and were beginning to tire; it was high time they had a rest. He led them in and bought them two long orange drinks between the four of them.

There were other refugees there, sitting glum and silent. One old man said presently, to no one in particular: 'On dit que les Boches ont pris Paris.'

The wizened old woman of the house said that it was true. It had said so on the radio. A soldier had told her.

Howard listened, shaken to the core. It was incredible that such a thing could happen. Silence fell on the room again; it seemed that no one had any more to say. Only the children wriggled on their chairs and discussed their drink. A dog sat in the middle of the floor scratching industriously; snapping now and then at flies.

The old man left them and went through into the shop. He had hoped to find some oranges, but no oranges were left, and no fresh bread. He explained his need to the woman, and examined the little stock of food she had; he bought from her hah0 a dozen thick, hard biscuits each nine or ten inches in diameter and grey in colour, rather like dog-biscuits. He also bought some butter and a long, brown doubtful-looking sausage. For his own weariness of the flesh, he bought a bottle of cheap brandy. That, with four bottles of the orange drink, completed his purchases. As he was turning away, however, he saw a single box of chocolate bars, and bought a dozen for the children.

Their rest finished, he led them out on the road again. To encourage them on the way he broke one of the chocolate bars accurately into four pieces and gave it to them. Three of the children took their portion avidly. The fourth shook his head dumbly and refused.

'Merci, monsieur,' he whispered.

The old man said gently in French: 'Don't you like chocolate, Pierre? It's so good.'

The child shook his head.

'Try a little bit.' The other children looked on curiously.

The little boy whispered: 'Merci, monsieur. Maman dit que non. Settlement apres déjeuner.'

For a moment the old man's mind went back to the torn bodies left behind them by the roadside covered roughly with a rug; he forced his mind away from that. 'All right,' he said in French, 'we'll keep it, and you shall have it after déjeuner.' He put the morsel carefully in a corner of the pram seat, the little boy in grey watched with grave interest. 'It will be quite safe there.'

Pierre trotted on beside him, quite content.

The two younger children tired again before long; in four hours they had walked six miles, and it was now very hot. He put them both into the pram and pushed them down the road, the other two walking by his side. Mysteriously now the lorry traffic was all gone; there was nothing on the road but refugees.

The road was full of refugees. Farm carts, drawn by great Flemish horses, lumbered down the middle of the road at walking pace, loaded with furniture and bedding and sacks of food and people. Between them and around them seethed the motor traffic; big cars and little cars, occasional ambulances and motor-bicycles, all going to the west. There were innumerable cyclists and long trails of people pushing hand-carts and perambulators in the torrid July heat. All were choked with dust, all sweating and distressed, all pressing on to Montargis. From time to time an aeroplane flew near the road; then there was panic and an accident or two. But no bombs were dropped that day, nor was the road to Montargis machine-gunned.

The heat was intense. At about a quarter to twelve they came to a place where a little stream ran beside the road, and here there was another block of many traffic blocks caused by the drivers of the farm wagons who stopped to water their horses. Howard decided to make a halt; he pushed the perambulator a little way over the field away from the road to where a little sandy spit ran out into the stream beneath the trees.

'We'll stop here for déjeuner,' he said to the children. 'Go and wash your hands and faces in the water.' He took the food and sat down in the shade; he was very tired, but there was still five miles or more to Montargis. Surely there would be a motor-bus there?

Ronnie said: 'May I paddle, Mr Howard?'

He roused himself. 'Bathe if you want to,' he said. 'It's hot enough.'

'May I really bathe?'

Sheila echoed: 'May I really bathe, too?'

He got up from the grass. 'I don't see why not,' he said slowly. 'Take your things off and have a bathe before déjeuner, if you want to.'

The English children needed no further encouragement. Ronnie was out of his few clothes and splashing in the water in a few seconds; Sheila got into a tangle with her Liberty bodice and had to be helped. Howard watched them for a minute, amused. Then he turned to Rose. 'Would you like to go in, too?' he said in French.

She shook her head in scandalised amazement. 'It is not nice, that, monsieur. Not at all.'

He glanced at the little naked bodies gleaming in the sun. 'No,' he said reflectively, 'I suppose it's not. Still, they may as well go on now they've started.' He turned to Pierre. 'Would you like to bathe, Pierre?'

The little boy in grey stared round-eyed at the English children. Won, merci, monsieur,' he said.

Howard said: 'Wouldn't you like to take your shoes off and have a paddle, then? In the water?' The child looked doubtfully at him, and then at Rose. 'It's nice in the water.' He turned to Rose. 'Take him and let him put his feet in the water, Rose.'

She took the little boy's shoes and socks off and they went down and paddled at the very edge of the water. Howard went back to the shade of the trees and sat down again where he could see the children. Presently Sheila splashed a little water at the paddlers; he heard la petite Rose scolding. He saw the little boy in grey, standing in an inch of water, stoop and put his hand in and splash a little back. And then, among the chatter, he heard a shrill little sound that was quite new to him.

It was Pierre laughing.

Behind his back he heard a man say: 'God love a duck! Look at them bleeding kids - just like Brighton.'

Another said: 'Never mind about the muckin' kids. Look at the mud they've stirred up. We can't put that stuff in the radiator. Better go on up-stream a bit. And get a move on or we'll be here all the muckin' night.'

Howard swung round and there, before him in the field, were two men, dirty and unshaven, in British Royal Air Force uniform. One was a corporal and one a driver.

He started up. 'I'm English,' he burst out. 'Have you got a car?'

The corporal stared at him, amazed. 'And who the muckin' hell might you be?'

'I'm English. These children are English, two of them. We're trying to get through to Chartres.'

'Chartres?' The corporal was puzzled.

'Chartres, 'e means,' the driver said. 'I see that oh the map.'

Howard said: 'You've got a car?'

'Workshop lorry,' said the corporal. He swung round on the driver. 'Get the muckin' water and start filling up, Bert.' The driver went off up-stream swinging his can.

The old man said: 'Can you give us a lift?'

'What, you and all them kids? I dunno about that, mate. How far do you want to go?'

'I'm trying to get back to England.'

'You ain't the only one.'

'I only want a lift to Chartres. They say that trains are running from there to St Malo.'

'You don't want to believe all these Froggies say. Tried to tell us it was all right goin' through a place called Susan yesterday, and when we got there it was full of muckin' Jerries! All loosing off their hipes at Ben and me like we was Aunt Sally! Ever drive a ten-ton Leyland, mate?'

The old man shook his head.

'Well, she don't handle like an Austin Seven. Bert stuck 'is foot down and I got the old Bren going over the windshield and we went round the roundabout like it was the banking at Brooklands, and out the way we come, and all we got was two bullets in the motor generator what makes the juice for lighting and that, and a little chip out of the aft leg of the Herbert, what won't make any odds if the officer don't notice it. But fancy saying we could go through there! Susan the name was, or something of that.'

The old man blinked at him. 'Where are you making for?'

The corporal said: 'Place called Brest. Not the kind of name I'd like to call a town, myself, but that's the way these Froggies are. Officer said to go there if we got cut off, and we'd get the lorry shipped back home from there.'

Howard said: 'Take us with you.'

The other looked uncertainly at the children. 'I dunno what to say. I dunno if there'd be room. Them kids ain't English.'

'Two of them are. They're speaking French now, but that's because they've been brought up in France.'

The driver passed them with his dripping can, going towards the road.

'What are the other two?'

They're French.'

'I ain't taking no Froggie kids along,' the corporal said. 'I ain't got no room, for one thing, and they're just as well left in their own place, to my way of thinking. I don't mind obliging you and the two English ones.'

Howard said: 'You don't understand. The two French ones are in my care.' He explained the situation to the man.

'It's no good, mate,' he said. 'I ain't got room for all of you.'

Howard said slowly: 'I see...'He stared for a moment absently at the traffic on the road. 'If it's a matter of room,' he said, 'will you take the four children through to Brest with you? They won't take up much room. I'll give you a letter for the RTO at Brest, and a letter to my solicitor in England. And I can give you money for anything they'll want.'

The other wrinkled his brows. 'Leaving you here?'

'I'll be all right. In fact, I'll get along quicker without them.'

'You mean take them two Froggie kids along 'stead of you? Is that what you're getting at?

'I'll be all right. I know France very well.'

'Don't talk so bloody soft. What 'Id I do with four muckin' kids and only Bert along o' me?' He swung round on his heel. 'Come on, then. Get them kids dressed toot and sweet - I ain't going to wait all night. And if I finds them messing with the Herbert I'll tan their little bottoms for them, straight I will.'

He swung off back towards his lorry. Howard hurried down to the sand pit and called the children to him. 'Come on and get your clothes on, quickly,' he said. 'We're going in a motor-lorry.'

Ronnie faced him, stark naked. 'Really? What sort is it? May I sit by the driver, Mr Howard?'

Sheila, similarly nude, echoed: 'May I sit by the driver too?'

'Come on and get your clothes on,' he repeated. He turned to Rose and said in French: 'Put your stockings on, Rose, and help Pierre. We've got to be very quick.'

He hurried the children all he could, but they were wet and the clothes stuck to them; he had no towel. Before he was finished the two Air Force men were back with him, worrying with their urgency to start. At last he had the children ready. 'Will you be able to take my perambulator?' he asked, a little timidly.

The corporal said: 'We can't take that muckin' thing, mate. It's not worth a dollar.'

The old man said: 'I know it's not. But if we have to walk again, it's all I've got to put the little ones in.'

The driver chipped in: 'Let 'im take it on the roof. It'll ride there all right, corp. We'll all be walking if we don't get hold of juice.'

'My muckin' Christ,' the corporal said. 'Call this a workshop lorry! Perishing Christmas tree, I call it. All right, stick it on the roof.'

He hustled them towards the road. The lorry stood gigantic by the roadside, the traffic eddying round it. Inside it was stuffed full of machinery. An enormous Herbert lathe stood in the middle. A grinding-wheel and valve-facing machine stood at one end, a little filing and sawing machine at the other. Beneath the lathe a motor-generator set was housed; above it was a long electric switchboard. The men's kitbags occupied what little room there was.

Howard hastily removed their lunch from the pram, and watched it heaved up on the roof of the van. Then he helped the children up among the machinery. The corporal refused point-blank to let them ride beside the driver. 'I got the Bren there, see?' he said. 'I don't want no perishing kids around if we runs into Jerries.'

Howard said: 'I see that.' He consoled Ronnie and climbed in himself into the lorry. The corporal saw them settled, then went round and got up by the driver; with a low purr and a lurch the lorry moved out into the traffic stream.

It was half an hour later that the old man realised that they had left Sheila's pants beside the stream in their hurry.

They settled down to the journey. The interior of the van was awkward and uncomfortable for Howard, with no place to sit down and rest; he had to stoop, half kneeling, on a kitbag. The children being smaller, were more comfortable. The old man got out their déjeuner and gave them food in moderation, with a little of the orange drink; on his advice Rose ate very little, and remained well. He had rescued Pierre's chocolate from the perambulator and gave it to him, as a matter of course, when they had finished eating. The little boy received it solemnly and put it into his mouth; the old man watched him with grave amusement.

Rose said: 'It is good, that, Pierre.' She bent down and smiled at him.

He nodded gravely. 'Very good,' he whispered.

Very soon they came to Montargis. Through a little trap-door in the partition between the workshop and the driver's seat the corporal said to Howard: 'Ever been here before, mate?'

The old man said: 'I've only passed it in the train, a great many years ago.'

'You don't know where the muckin' petrol dump would be? We got to get some juice from somewhere.'

Howard shook his head. 'I'm afraid I don't. I'll ask someone for you, if you like.'

'Christ. Do you speak French that good?'

The driver said: 'They all speak it, corp. Even the bloody kids.'

The corporal turned back to Howard. 'Just keep them kids down close along the floor, mate, case we find the Jerries like in that place Susan.'

The old man was startled. 'I don't think there are any Germans so far west as this,' he said. But he made the children lie down on the floor, which they took as a fine joke. So, with the little squeals of laughter from the body of the lorry, they rolled into Montargis and pulled up at the crossroads in the middle of the town.

At the corporal's request the old man got down and asked the way to the military petrol dump. A baker directed him to the north of the town; he got up into the driver's compartment and directed them through the town. They found the French transport park without great difficulty, and Howard went with the corporal to speak to the officer in charge, a lieutenant. They got a brusque refusal. The town was being evacuated, they were told. If they had no petrol they must leave their lorry and go south.

The corporal swore luridly, so luridly that Howard was quite glad that the English children, who might possibly have understood, were in the lorry.

'I got to get this muckin' lot to Brest,' he said. 'I don't leave it here and hop it, like he said.' He tinned to Howard, suddenly earnest. 'Look, mate,' he said. 'Maybe you better beat it with the kids. You don't want to get mixed up with the bloody Jerries.'

The old man said: 'If there's no petrol, you may as well come with us.'

The Air Force man said: 'You don't savvy, mate. I got to get this lot to Brest. That big Herbert. You don't know lathes, maybe, but that's a treat. Straight it is. Machine tools is wanted back home. I got to get that Herbert home - I got to let the Jerries have it for the taking, I suppose! Not bloody likely.'

He ran his eye around the park. It was filled with decrepit, dirty French lorries; rapidly the few remaining soldiers were leaving. The lieutenant that had refused them drove out in a little Citroën car. 'I bet there's juice somewhere about,' the corporal muttered.

He swung round and hailed the driver. 'Hey, Bert,' he said: 'Come on along.'

The men went ferreting about among the cars. They found no dump or store of petrol, but presently Howard saw them working at the deserted lorries, emptying the tanks into a bidon. Gleaning a gallon here and a gallon there, they collected in all about eight gallons and transferred it to the enormous tank of the Leyland. That was all that they could find. 'It ain't much,' said the corporal. 'Forty miles, maybe. Still, that's better 'n a sock in the jaw. Let's see the bloody map, Bert.'

The bloody map showed them Pithiviers, twenty-five miles farther on. 'Let's get goin'.' They moved out on the westward road again.

It was terribly hot. The van body of the lorry had sides made of wood, which folded outwards to enlarge the floor space when the lathe was in use. Little light entered round these wooden sides; it was dim and stuffy and very smelly in amongst the machinery. The children did not seem to suffer much, but it was a trying journey for the old man. In a short time he had a splitting headache, and was aching in every limb from the cramped positions he was constrained to take up.

The road was ominously clear to Pithiviers, and they made good speed. From time to time an aeroplane flew low above the road, and once there was a sharp burst of machine-gun fire very near at hand. Howard leaned over to the little window at the driver's elbow. 'Jerry bomber,' said the corporal. One o' them Stukas, as they call them.'

'Was he firing at us?'

'Aye. Miles off, he was.' The corporal did not seem especially perturbed.

In an hour they were near Pithiviers, five and twenty miles from Montargis. They drew up by the roadside half a mile from the town and held a consultation. The road stretched before them to the houses with no soul in sight. There was no movement in the town. It seemed to be deserted in the blazing sunlight of the afternoon.

They stared at it, irresolute. 'I dunno as I fancy it,' the corporal said. 'It don't look right to me.'

The driver said: Bloody funny nobody's about. You don't think its full of Jerries, corp? Hiding, like?'

'I dunno...'

Howard, leaning forward with his face to the trap in the partition, said over their shoulders: 'I don't mind walking in ahead to have a look, if you wait here.'

'Walk in ahead of us?'

'I don't see that there'd be much risk in that. With all these refugees about I can't see that there'd be much risk in it. I'd rather do that than drive in with you if there's any chance of being fired on.'

'Something in what he says,' the driver said. 'If the Jerries are there, we mightn't find another roundabout this time.'

They discussed it for a minute or two. There was no road alternative to going through the town that did not mean a ten-mile journey back towards Montargis. 'An' that's not so bloody funny, either,' said the corporal. 'Meet the Jerries coming up behind us, like as not.'

He hesitated, irresolute. 'Okay,' he said at last. 'Nip in and have a look, mate. Give us the wire if it's all okey-doke. Wave something if it's all right to come on.'

The old man said: 'I'll have to take the children with me.'

'My muckin' Christ! I don't want to sit here all the bloody day, mate.'

The old man said: 'I'm not going to be separated from the children.' He paused. 'You see, they're in my charge. Just like your lathe.'

The driver burst out laughing. 'That's a good one, corp! Just like your muckin' lathe,' he said.

The corporal said: 'Well, put a jerk in it, anyway.'

The old man got down from the lorry and lifted the children one by one down into the hot sunlight on the dusty, deserted road. He started off with them down the road towards the town, leading the two little ones by the hand, thinking uneasily that if he were to become separated from the lorry he would inevitably lose his perambulator. He made all speed possible, but it was twenty minutes before he led them into the town.

There were no Germans to be seen. The town was virtually deserted; only one or two very old women peered at him from behind curtains or around the half-closed doors of shops. In the gutter of the road that led towards the north a tattered, dirty child that might have been of either sex in its short smock, was chewing something horrible. A few yards up the road a dead horse had been dragged half up on to the pavement and left there, distended and stinking. A dog was tearing at it.

It was a beastly, sordid little town, the old man felt. He caught one of the old women at a door. 'Are the Germans here?' he said.

'They are coming from the north,' she quavered. 'They will ravish everyone, and shoot us.'

The old man felt instinctively that this was nonsense. 'Have you seen any Germans in the town yet?'

'There is one there.'

He looked round, startled. 'Where?'

'There.' She pointed a trembling, withered hand at the child in the gutter.

'There?' The woman must be mad, distraught with terror of the invaders.

'It speaks only German. It is the child of spies.' She caught his arm with senile urgency. 'Throw a stone and chase it away. It will bring the Germans to this house if it stays there.'

Howard shook her off. 'Are any German soldiers here yet?'

She did not answer, but shouted a shrill scream of dirty imprecations at the child in the gutter. The child, a little boy, Howard thought, lifted his head and looked at her with infantile disdain. Then he resumed his disgusting meal.

There was nothing more to be learned from the old hag; it was now clear to him there were no Germans in the town. He turned away; as he did so there was a sharp crack, and a fair-sized stone rolled down the pavement near the German spy. The child slunk off fifty yards down the street and squatted down again on the kerb.

The old man was very angry, but he had other things to do. He said to Rose: 'Look after the children for a minute, Rose. Don't let them go away or speak to anyone.'

He hurried back along the road that they had entered the town by. He had to go a couple of hundred yards before he came in- sight of the lorry, parked by the roadside half a mile away. He waved his hat at it, and saw it move towards him; then he turned and walked back to where he had left the children.

It overtook him near the cross-roads in the middle of the town. The corporal leaned down from the cab. 'Any juice here, do you think?' The old man looked at him uncomprehending. 'Petrol, mate.'

'Oh - I don't know. I wouldn't hang about here very long.'

That's right,' the driver muttered. 'Let's get on out of it. It don't look so good to me.'

'We got to get juice.'

'We got close on five gallons left. Get us to Angerville.'

'Okay,' the corporal said to Howard. 'Get the kids into the back and we'll 'op it.'

Howard looked round for his children. They were not where he had left them; he looked round, and they were up the road with the German spy, who was crying miserably.

'Rose,' he shouted. 'Come on. Bring the children.'

She called in a thin, piping voice: 'Il est blessé.'

'Come on,' he cried. The children looked at him, but did not stir. He hurried over to them. 'Why don't you come when I call you?'

Rose faced the old man, her little face crimson with anger. 'Somebody threw a stone at him and hit him. I saw them do it. It is not right, that.'

True enough, a sticky stream of blood was running down the back of the child's neck into his filthy clothes. A sudden loathing for the town enveloped the old man. He took his handkerchief and mopped at the wound.

La petite Rose said: 'It is not right to throw a stone at him, and a big woman, too, m'sieur. This is a bad, dirty place to do a thing like that.'

Ronnie said: 'He's coming with us, Mr Howard. He can sit on the other end of Bert's kitbag by the 'lectric motor.'

The old man said: 'He belongs here. We can't take him away with us.' But in his mind came the thought that it might be kind to do so.

'He doesn't belong here,' said Rose. 'Two days only he has been here. The woman said so.'

There was a hurried, heavy step behind them. 'For Christ's sake,' said the corporal.

Howard turned to him. 'They're throwing stones at this child,' he said. He showed the man the cut on his neck.

'Who's throwing stones?'

'All the people in the village. They think he's a German spy.'

'Who - 'im?' The corporal stared. 'He ain't more'n seven years old!'

'I saw the woman do it,' said Ronnie. 'That house there. She threw a stone and did that.'

'My muckin' aunt,' the corporal said. He turned to Howard. 'Anyway, we got to beat it.'

'I know.' The old man hesitated. 'What'll we do? Leave him here in this disgusting place? Or bring him along with us?'

'Bring him along, mate, if you feel like it. I ain't worried over the amount of spying that he'll do.'

The old man bent and spoke to the child. 'Would you like to come with us?' he said in French.

The little boy said something in another language.

Howard said: 'Sprechen sie Deutsch?' That was the limit of the German that he could recall at the moment, but it drew no response.

He straightened up, heavy with new responsibility. 'We'll take him with us,' he said quietly. 'If we leave him here they'll probably end by killing him.'

'If we don't get a move on,' said the corporal, 'the bloody Jerries will be here and kill the lot of us.'

Howard picked up the spy, who suffered that in silence; they hurried to the lorry. The child smelt and was plainly verminous; the old man turned his face away in nausea. Perhaps in Angerville there would be nuns who would take charge of him. They might take Pierre, too, though Pierre was so little bother that the old man didn't mind about him much.

They put the children in the workshop; Howard got in with them and the corporal got into the front seat by the driver. The big truck moved across the road from Paris and out on the road to Angerville, seventeen miles away.

'If we don't get some juice at Angerville,' the driver said, 'we'll be bloody well sunk.'

In the van, crouched down beside the lathe with the children huddled round him, the old man pulled out a sticky bundle of his chocolate. He broke off five pieces for the children; as soon as the German spy realised what it was he stretched out a filthy paw and said something unintelligible. He ate it greedily and stretched out his hand for more.

'You wait a bit.' The old man gave the chocolate to the other children. Pierre whispered: 'Merci, monsieur.'

La petite Rose leaned down to him. 'After supper, Pierre?' she said. 'Shall monsieur keep it for you to have after supper?

The little boy whispered: 'Only on Sunday. On Sunday I may have chocolate after supper. Is today Sunday?'

The old man said: 'I'm not quite sure what day it is. But I don't think your mother will mind if you have chocolate after supper tonight. I'll put it away and you can have it then.'

He rummaged round and produced one of the thick, hard biscuits that he had bought in the morning, and with some difficulty broke it in two; he offered one half to the dirty little boy in the smock. The child took it and ate it ravenously.

Rose scolded at him in French: 'Is that the way to eat? A little pig would eat more delicately - yes, truly, I say -a little pig. You should thank monsieur, too.'

The child stared at her, not understanding why she was scolding him.

She said: 'Have you not been taught how to behave? You should say like this' - she swung round and bowed to Howard - 'Je vous remercie, monsieur.'

Her words passed him by, but the pantomime was evident. He looked confused. 'Dank, Mijnheer,' he said awkwardly. 'Dank u wel.'

Howard stared at him, perplexed. It was a northern language, but not German. It might, he thought, be Flemish or Walloon, or even Dutch. In any case, it mattered very little; he himself knew no word of any of those languages.

They drove on at a good pace through the hot afternoon. The hatch to the driver's compartment was open; from time to time the old man leaned forward and looked through between the two men at the road ahead of them. It was suspiciously clear. They passed only a very few refugees, and very occasionally a farm cart going on its ordinary business. There were no soldiers to be seen, and of the seething refugee traffic between Joigny and Montargis there was no sign at all. The whole countryside seemed empty, dead.

Three miles from Angerville the corporal turned and spoke to Howard through the hatch. 'Getting near that next town now,' he said. 'We got to get some juice there, or we're done.'

The old man said: 'If you see anyone likely on the road I'll ask them where the depot is.'

'Okay.'

In a few minutes they came to a farm. A car stood outside it, and a man was carrying sacks of grain or fodder from the car into the farm. 'Stop here,' the old man said, 'I'll ask that chap.'

They drew up by the roadside, immediately switching off the engine to save petrol. 'Only about a gallon left now,' said the driver. 'We run it bloody fine, an' no mistake.'

Howard got down and walked back to the farm. The man, a grey-beard of about fifty without a collar, came out towards the car. 'We want petrol,' said Howard. 'There is, without doubt, a depot for military transport in Angerville?'

The man stared at him. 'There are Germans in Angerville.'

There was a momentary silence. The old Englishman stared across the farmyard at the lean pig rooting on the midden, at the scraggy fowls scratching in the dust. So it was closing in on him.

'How long have they been there?' he asked quietly.

'Since early morning. They have come from the north.'

There was no more to be said about that. 'Have you petrol? I will buy any that you have, at your own price.'

The peasant's eyes glowed. 'A hundred francs a litre.'

'How much have you got?'

The man looked at the gauge on the battered dashboard of his car. 'Seven litres. Seven hundred francs.'

Less than a gallon and a half of petrol would not take the ten-ton Leyland very far. Howard went back to the corporal.

'Not very good news, I'm afraid,' he said. 'The Germans are in Angerville.'

There was a pause. 'Bloody 'ell,' the corporal said at last. He said it very quietly, as if he were suddenly tired. 'How many are there there?'

Howard called back the enquiry to the peasant. 'A regiment,' he said. 'I suppose he means about a thousand men.'

'Come down from the north, like,' said the driver.

There was nothing much more to be said. The old man told them about the petrol. 'That's not much good,' the corporal said. 'With what we've got, that wouldn't take us more'n ten miles.' He turned to the driver. 'Let's 'ave the muckin' map.'

Together they pored over the sheet; the old man got up into the cab and studied it with them. There was no side road between them and the town; behind them there was no road leading to the south for nearly seven miles. 'That's right," the driver said. 'I didn't see no road on that side when we came along.'

The. corporal said quietly: 'An' if we did go back, we'd meet the Jerries coming along after us from that other muckin' place. Where he picked up the nipper what they told him was a spy.'

'That's right,' the driver said.

The corporal said: 'Got a fag?'

The driver produced a cigarette; the corporal lit it and blew a long cloud. 'Well,' he said presently, 'this puts the lid on it.'

The other two were silent.

'I wanted to get home with that big Herbert,' the corporal said. 'I wanted to get that through okay, as much as I ever wanted anything in all my life.' He turned to Howard: 'Straight, I did. But I ain't going to.'

The old man said gently: 'I am very sorry.'

The other shook himself. 'You can't always do them things you want to most.' He stirred. 'Well, this won't buy baby a new frock.'

He got down from the cab on to the ground. 'What are you going to do?' asked Howard.

'I'll show you what I'm going to do.' He led the old man to the side of the great lorry, about half-way down its length. There was a little handle sticking out through the side chassis member, painted bright red. 'I'm going to pull that tit, and run like bloody 'ell.'

'Demolition,' said the driver at his elbow. 'Pull that out an' up she goes.'

The corporal said: 'Come on, now. Get them muckin' kids out of the back. I'm sorry we can't take you any farther, mate, but that's the way it is.'

Howard said: 'What will you do, yourselves?'

The corporal said: 'Mugger off cross-country to the south an' hope to keep in front of the Jerries.' He hesitated. 'You'll be all right,' he said, a little awkwardly. 'They won't do nothin' to you, with all them kids.'

The old man said: 'We'll be all right. Don't worry about us. You've got to get back home to fight again.'

'We got to dodge the muckin' Jerries first.'

Together they got the children down on to the road; then they lifted the pram from the top of the van. Howard collected his few possessions and stowed them in the pram, took the corporal's address in England, and gave his own.

There was nothing then to wait for.

'So long, mate,' said the corporal. 'See you one day.'

The old man said: 'So long.'

He gathered the children round him and set off with them slowly down the road in the direction of Angerville. There was a minor squabble as to who should push the pram, which finished up by Sheila pushing it with Ronnie to assist and advise. Rose walked beside them leading Pierre by the hand; the dirty little stranger in his queer frock followed along behind. Howard thought ruefully that somehow, somewhere, he must get him washed. Not only was he verminous and filthy, but the back of his neck and his clothes were clotted with dried blood from the cut.

They went slowly, as they always did. From time to time Howard glanced back over his shoulder; the men by the lorry seemed to be sorting out their personal belongings. Then one of them, the driver, started off across the field towards the south, carrying a small bundle. The other bent to some task at the lorry.

Then he was up and running from the road towards the driver. He ran clumsily, stumbling; when he had gone about two hundred yards there was a sharp, crackling explosion.

A sheet of flame shot outwards from the lorry. Parts of it sailed up into the air and fell on the road and into the fields; then it sunk lower on the road. A little tongue of fire appeared, and it was in flames. Ronnie said: 'Coo, Mr Howard. Did it blow up?' Sheila echoed: 'Did it blow up itself, Mr Howard?'

'Yes,' he said heavily, 'that's what happened.' A column of thick black smoke rose from it on the road. He turned away. 'Don't bother about it any more.'

Two miles ahead of him he saw the roofs of Angerville. The net was practically closed on him now. With a heavy heart he led the children down the road towards the town.

Chapter 6

I broke into his story and said, a little breathlessly: 'This one's not far off.'

We sat tense in our chairs before the fire, listening to the rising whine of the bomb. It burst somewhere very near, and in the rumble of the falling debris we heard another falling, closer still. We sat absolutely motionless as the club rocked to the explosion and the glass crashed from the windows, and the whine of the third bomb grew shrill. It burst on the other side of us.

'Straddled,' said old Howard, breaking the tension. That's all right.'

The fourth bomb of the stick fell farther away; then there was a pause, but for a burst of machine-gun fire. I got up from my chair and walked out to the corridor. It was in darkness. A window leading out on to a little balcony had been blown open. I went out and looked round.

Over towards the city the sky was a deep, cherry red with the glow of the fires. Around us there was a bright, yellow light from three parachute-flares suspended in the sky; Bren guns and Lewis guns were rattling away at these things in an attempt to shoot them down. Close at hand, down the street, another fire was getting under way.

I turned, and Howard was at my side. 'Pretty hot tonight,' he said.

I nodded. 'Would you like to go down into the shelter?'

'Are you going?'

'I don't believe it's any safer there than here,' I said.

We went down to the hall to see if there was anything we could do to help. But there was nothing to be done, and presently we went up to our chairs again beside the fire and poured another glass of the Marsala. I said: 'Go on with your story.'

He said diffidently: 'I hope I'm not boring you with all this?'

Angerville is a little town on the Paris-Orleans road. It was about five o'clock when Howard started to walk towards it with the children, a hot, dusty afternoon.

He told me that that was one of the most difficult moments of his life. Since he had left Cidoton he had been travelling towards England; as he had gone on fear had grown on him. Up to the last it had seemed incredible that he should not get through, hard though the way might be. But now he realised that he would not get through. The Germans were between him and the sea. In marching on to Angerville he was marching to disaster, to internment, probably to his death.

That did not worry him so much. He was old and tired; if an end came now he would be missing nothing very much. A few more days of fishing, a few more summers pottering in his garden. But the children - they were another matter. Somehow he must make them secure. Rose and Pierre might be turned over to the French police; sooner or later they would be returned to their relations. But Sheila and Ronnie - what arrangements could he possibly make for them? What would become of them? And what about the dirty little boy who now was with them, who had been stoned by old women mad with terror and blind hate? What would become of him?

The old man suffered a good deal.

There was nothing to be done but to walk straight into Angerville. The Germans were behind them, to the north, to the east, and to the west. He felt that it was hopeless to attempt a dash across the country to the south as the Air Force men had done; he could not possibly out-distance the advance of the invader. Better to go ahead and meet what lay before him bravely, conserving his strength that he might help the children best.

Ronnie said: 'Listen to the band.'

They were about half a mile from the town. Rose exclaimed with pleasure. 'Ecoute, Pierre,' she said, bending down to him. 'Ecoute!'

'Eh,' said Howard, waking from his reverie. 'What's that?'

Ronnie said: 'There's a band playing in the town. May we go and listen to it?' But his ears were keener than the old man's, and Howard could hear nothing.

Presently, as they walked into the town, he picked out the strains of Liebestraum.

On the way into the town they passed a train of very dirty lorries halted by the road, drawing in turn up to a garage and filling their tanks at the pump. The soldiers moving round them appeared strange at first; with a shock the old man realised that he was seeing what he had expected for the last hour to see; the men were German soldiers. They wore field-grey uniforms with open collars and patch pockets, with a winged eagle broidered on the right breast. Some of them were bare-headed; others wore the characteristic German steel hehnet. They had sad, tired, expressionless faces; they moved about their work like so many machines.

Sheila said: 'Are those Swiss soldiers, Mr Howard?'

'No,' he said, 'they're not Swiss.'

Ronnie said: 'They wear the same kind of hat.'

Rose said: 'What are they?'

He gathered them around him. 'Look,' he said in French, 'you mustn't be afraid. They are German, but they won't hurt you.'

They were passing a little group of them. From the crowd an Unterfeldwebel came up to them; he wore long black boots and breeches stained with oil. 'That is the proper spirit,' he said in harsh, guttural French. 'We Germans are your friends. We bring you peace. Very soon you will be able to go home again.'

The children stared at him, as if they did not understand what he had said. Very likely this was so, because his French was very bad.

Howard said in French: 'It will be good when we have peace again.' There was no point in giving up before he was found out.

The man smiled, a set, expressionless grin. 'How far have you come?'

'From Pithiviers.'

'Have you walked so far?'

'No. We got a lift in a lorry which broke down a few miles back.'

The German said: 'So. Then you will want supper. In the Place there is a soup-kitchen which you may go to.'

Howard said: lje vous remercie.' There was nothing else to say.

The man was pleased. He ran his eye over them and frowned at the little boy in the smock. He stepped up and took him by the head, not ungently, and examined the wound on his neck. Then he looked at his own hands, and wiped them with disgust, having handled the child's head.

'So!' he said, 'By the church there is a field hospital. Take him to the Sanitätsunterojfizier.' He dismissed them curtly and turned back to his men.

One or two of the men looked at them woodenly, listlessly, but no one else spoke to them. They went on to the centre of the town. At the cross-roads in the middle, where the road to Orleans turned off to the left and the road to Paris to the right, there was a market square before a large grey church. In the centre of the square the band was playing.

It was a band of German soldiers. They stood there, about twenty of them, playing doggedly, methodically; doing their duty for their Führer. They wore soft field caps and silver tassels on their shoulders. A Feldwebel conducted them. He stood above them on a little rostrum, the baton held lovingly between his finger-tips. He was a heavy, middle-aged man; as he waved he turned from side to side and smile benignly on his audience. Behind the band a row of tanks and armoured cars were parked.

The audience was mostly French. A few grey-faced, listless German soldiers stood around, seemingly tired to death; the remainder of the audience were men and women of the town. They stood round gaping curiously at the intruder, peering at the tanks and furtively studying the uniforms and accoutrements of the men.

Ronnie said in English, 'There's the band, Mr Howard. May we go and listen to it?'

The old man looked quickly round. Nobody seemed to have heard him. 'Not now,' he said in French. 'We must go with this little boy to have his neck dressed.'

He led the children away from the crowd. 'Try not to speak English while we're here,' he said quietly to Ronnie.

'Why not, Mr Howard?'

Sheila said: 'May I speak English, Mr Howard?'

'No,' he said. The Germans don't like to hear people speaking English.'

The little girl said in English: 'Would the Germans mind if Rose spoke English?'

A passing Frenchwoman looked at them curiously. The old man beat down his irritation; they were only children. He said in French: 'If you speak English I'll find a little frog to put into your mouth.'

Rose said: 'Oo - to hear what monsieur has said! A little frog! It would be horrible, that.'

In mixed laughter and apprehension they went on talking in French.

The field hospital was on the far side of the church. As they went towards it every German soldier that they passed smiled at them mechanically, a set, expressionless grin. When the first one did it the children stopped to stare, and had to be herded on. After the first half-dozen they got used to it.

One of the men said: 'Bonjour, mes enfants.'

Howard muttered quietly. 'Bonjour, m'sieur,' and passed on. It was only a few steps to the hospital tent; the net was very close around him now.

The hospital consisted of a large marquee extending from a lorry. At the entrance a lance-corporal of the medical service, a Sanitätsgefreiter, stood idle and bored, picking his teeth.

Howard said to Rose: 'Stay here and keep the children with you.' He led the little boy up to the tent. He said to the man in French: 'The little boy is wounded. A little piece of plaster or a bandage, perhaps?'

The man smiled, that same fixed, mirthless smile. He examined the child deftly. 'So!' he said. 'Kommen Sie - entrez.'

The old man followed with the child into the tent. A dresser was tending a German soldier with a burnt hand; apart from them the only other occupant was a doctor wearing a white overall. His rank was not apparent. The orderly led the child to him and showed him the wound.

The doctor nodded briefly. Then he turned the child's head to the light and looked at it, expressionless. Then he opened the child's soiled clothes and looked at his chest. Then, rather ostentatiously, he rinsed his hands.

He crossed the tent to Howard. 'You will come again,' he said in thick French. 'In one hour,' he held up one finger. 'One hour.' Fearing that he had not made himself understood he pulled out his watch and pointed to the hands. 'Six hours.'

'Bien compris,' said the old man. 'A six heures.' He left the tent, wondering what dark trouble lay in store for him. It could not take an hour to put a dressing on a little cut.

Still there was nothing he could do. He did not dare even to enter into any long conversation with the German; sooner or later his British accent must betray him. He went back to the children and led them away from the tent.

Earlier in the day - how long ago it seemed! - Sheila had suffered a sartorial disaster, in that she had lost her knickers. It had not worried her or any of the children, but it had weighed on Howard's mind. Now was the time to rectify that omission. To ease Ronnie's longings they went and had a look at the German tanks in the Place; then, ten minutes later, he led them to a draper's shop not far from the field hospital.

He pushed open the door of the shop, and a German soldier was at the counter. It was too late to draw back, and to do so would have raised suspicion; he stood aside and waited till the German had finished his purchases. Then, as he stood there in the background, he saw that the German was the orderly from the hospital.

A little bundle of clothes lay on the counter before him, a yellow jersey, a pair of brown children's shorts, socks, and a vest. 'Cinquante quatre, quatre vingt dix,' said the stout old woman at the counter.

The German did not understand her rapid way of speech. She repeated it several times; then he pushed a little pad of paper towards her, and she wrote the sum on the pad for him. He took it and studied it. Then he wrote his own name and the unit carefully beneath. He tore off the sheet and gave it to her.

'You will be paid later,' he said, in difficult French. He gathered up the garments.

She protested. 'I cannot let you take away the clothes unless I have the money. My husband - he would be very much annoyed. He would be furious. Truly, monsieur - that is not possible at all.'

The German said stolidly: 'It is good. You will be paid. That is a good requisition.'

She said angrily: 'It is not good at all, that. It is necessary that you should pay with money.'

The man said: 'That is money, good German money. If you do not believe it, I will call the Military Police. As for your husband, he had better take our German money and be thankful. Perhaps he is a Jew? We have a way with Jews.'

The woman stared at him, dumb. There was a momentary silence in the shop; then the hospital orderly gathered up his purchases and swaggered out. The woman remained staring after him, uncertainly fingering the piece of paper.

Howard went forward and distracted her. She roused herself and showed him children's pants. With much advice from Rose on the colour and design he chose a pair for Sheila, paid three francs fifty for them, and put them on her in the shop.

The woman stood fingering the money. 'You are not German, monsieur?' she said heavily. She glanced down at the money in her hand.

He shook his head.

'I thought perhaps you were. Flemish?'

It would never do to admit his nationality, but at any moment one of the children might betray him. He moved towards the door. 'Norwegian,' he said at random. 'My country has also suffered.'

'I thought you were not French,' she said. 'I do not know what will become of us.'

He left the shop and went a little way up the Paris road, hoping to avoid the people. German soldiers were still pouring into the town. He walked about for a time in the increasing crowd, tense and fearful of betrayal every moment. At last it was six o'clock; he went back to the hospital.

He left the children by the church. 'Keep them beside you,' he said to Rose. 'I shall only be at the hospital a little while. Stay here till I come back.'

He went into the tent, tired and worn with apprehension. The orderly saw him coming. 'Wait here,' he said. 'I will tell the Herr Oberstabsarzt.'

The man vanished into the tent. The old man stood waiting at the entrance patiently. The warm sun was pleasant now, in the cool of the evening. It would have been pleasant to stay free, to get back to England. But he was tired now, very, very tired. If only he could see the children right, then he could rest.

There was a movement in the tent, and the doctor was there, leading a child by the hand. It was a strange, new child, sucking a sweet. It was spotlessly clean, with short cropped hair trimmed close to its head with clippers. It was a little boy. He wore a yellow jersey and a pair of brown shorts, socks, and new shoes. The clothes were all brand new, and all seemed vaguely familiar to the old man. The little boy smelt very strong of yellow soap and disinfectant.

He wore a clean white dressing on his neck. He smiled at the old man.

Howard stared at him, dumbfounded. The doctor said genially; 'So! My orderly has given him a bath. That is better?'

The old man said: 'It is wonderful, Herr Doktor. And the clothes, too. And the dressing on his neck. I do not know how to thank you.'

The doctor swelled visibly. 'It is not me that you must thank, my friend,' he said with heavy geniality. 'It is Germany! We Germans have come to bring you peace, and cleanliness, and the ordered life that is true happiness. There will be no more war, no more wandering for you now. We Germans are your friends.'

'Indeed,' the old man said faintly, 'we realise that, Herr Doktor.'

'So,' said the man, 'what Germany has done for this boy, she will do for France, for all Europe. A new Order has begun.'

There was rather an awkward silence. Howard was about to say something suitable, but the yellow jersey caught his eye, and the image of the woman in the shop came into his mind and drove the words from his head. He stood hesitant for a minute.

The doctor gave the child a little push towards him. 'What Germany has done for this one little Dutchman she will do for all the children of the world,' he said. 'Take him away. You are his father?'

Fear lent speed to the old man's thoughts. A half-truth was best. 'He is not mine,' he said. 'He was lost and quite alone in Pithiviers. I shall take hun to the convent.'

The man nodded, satisfied with that. 'I thought you might be Dutch yourself,' he said. 'You do not speak like these French.'

It would not do to say he was Norwegian again; it was too near to Germany. 'I am from the south,' he said. 'From Toulouse. But I am staying with my son in Montmirail. Then we got separated in Montargis; I do not know what has become of him. The children I was with are my grandchildren. They are now in the Place. They have been very good children, m'sieur, but it will be good when we can go home.'

He rambled on, getting into the stride of his tale, easily falling into the garrulity of an old man. The doctor turned away rudely. 'Well, take your brat,' he said. 'You can go home now. There will be no more fighting.'

He went back into the tent.

The old man took the little boy by the hand and led him round the church, passing on the other side of the shop that had sold children's clothes. He found Rose standing more or less where he had left her, with Sheila and Pierre. There was no sign of Ronnie.

He said anxiously to her: 'Rose, what has become of Ronnie? Where is he?'

She said: 'M'sieur, he has been so naughty. He wanted to see the tanks, but I told him it was wrong that he should go. I told him, m'sieur, that he was a very, very naughty little boy and that you would be very cross with him, m'sieur. But he ran off, all alone.'

Sheila piped up, loud and clear, in English: 'May I go and see the tanks, too, Mr Howard?'

Mechanically, he said in French: 'Not this evening. I told you that you were all to stay here.'

He looked around, irresolute. He did not know whether to leave the children where they were and go and look for Ronnie, or to take them with him. Either course might bring the other children into danger. If he left them they might get into further trouble. He took hold of the pram and pushed it ahead of him. 'Come this way,' he said.

Pierre edged up to him and whispered: 'May I push?'

It was the first time that the old man had heard the little boy volunteer a remark. He surrendered the handle of the pram. 'Of course,' he said. 'Rose, help him push.'

He walked beside them towards the parked tanks and lorries, anxiously scanning the crowd. There were German soldiers all about the transport, grey, weary men, consciously endeavouring to fraternise with a suspicious population. Some of them were cleaning up their clothes, some tending their machines. Others had little phrase books in their hands, and these were trying to make conversation with the crowd. The French peasants seemed sullen and uncommunicative.

Sheila said suddenly: 'There's Ronnie, over there!'

The old man turned, but could not see him. 'Where is he?'

Rose said: 'I see him - oh, m'sieur, what a naughty little boy. There, m'sieur, right inside the tank, there - with the German soldiers!'

A cold fear entered Howard's heart. His eyesight for long distances was not too good. He screwed his eyes up and peered in the direction Rose was pointing. True enough, there he was. Howard could see his little head just sticking out of a steel hatch at the top of the gun-turret as he chattered eagerly to the German soldier with him. The man seemed to be holding Ronnie in his arms, lifting him up to show him how the captain conned his tank. It was a pretty little picture of fraternisation.

The old man thought very quickly. He knew that Ronnie would most probably be talking French; there would be nothing to impel him to break into English. But he knew also that he himself must not go near the little boy nor must his sister; in his excited state he would at once break out in English to tell them all about the tank. Yet, he must be got away immediately, while he was still thinking of nothing but the tank. Once he began to think of other things, of their journey, or of Howard himself, he would inevitably betray them all in boyish chatter. Within five minutes of him losing interest in the tank the Germans would be told that he was English, that an old Englishman was strolling round the town.

Sheila plucked his sleeve. 'I want my supper,' she said. 'May I have my supper now? Please, Mr Howard, may I have my supper now?'

'In a minute,' he said absently. 'We'll all go and have our supper in a minute.' But that was an idea. If Sheila was hungry, Ronnie would be hungry too - unless the Germans had given him sweets. He must risk that. There was that soup kitchen that the German at the entrance to the town had spoken of; Howard could see the field-cookers a hundred yards down the Place.

He showed them to Rose. 'I am taking the little children down there, where the smoke is, for our supper,' he said casually. 'Go and fetch Ronnie, and bring him to us there. Are you hungry?'

'Oui, m'sieur.' She said that she was very hungry indeed.

'We shall have a fine hot supper, with hot soup and bread,' the old man said, drawing on his imagination. 'Go and tell Ronnie and bring him along with you. I will walk on with the little ones.'

He sent her off, and watched her running through the crowd, her bare legs twinkling. He steered the other children rather away from the tank; it would not do for Ronnie to be able to hail him. He saw the little girl come to the tank and speak urgently to the Germans; then she was lost to sight.

The old man sent up an urgent, personal prayer for the success of her unwitting errand, as he helped Pierre push the pram towards the field-cookers. There was nothing now that he could do. Their future lay in the small hands of two children, and in the hands of God.

There was a trestle table, with benches. He parked the pram and sat Pierre and Sheila and the nameless little Dutch boy at the table. Soup was dispensed in thick bowls, with a hunk of bread; he went and drew four bowls for the lot of them and brought them to the table.

He turned and Rose was at his elbow with Ronnie. The little boy was flushed and ecstatic. They took me right inside!' he said in English.

The old man said gently in French: 'If you tell us in French, then Pierre can understand too.' He did not think that anyone had noticed. But the town was terribly dangerous for them; at any moment the children might break into English and betray them.

Ronnie said in French: 'There was a great big gun, and two little guns, m'sieur, and you steer with two handles and it goes seventy kilos an hour!'

Howard said: 'Come on and eat your supper.' He gave him a bowl of soup and a piece of bread.

Sheila said enviously. 'Did you go for a ride, Ronnie?'

The adventurer hesitated. 'Not exactly,' he said. 'But they said I might go with them for a ride tomorrow or one day. They did speak funnily. I could hardly understand what they wanted to say. May I go for a ride with them tomorrow, m'sieur? They say I might.'

The old man said: 'We'll have to see about that. We may not be here tomorrow.'

Sheila said: 'Why did they talk funny, Ronnie?'

Rose said suddenly: 'They are dirty Germans, who come here to murder people.'

The old man coughed loudly. 'Go on and eat your supper,' he said, 'all of you. That's enough talking for the present.' More than enough, he thought; if the German dishing out the soup had overheard they would all have been in trouble.

Angerville was no place for them; at all costs he must get the children out. It was only a matter of an hour or two before exposure came. He meditated for a moment; there were still some hours of daylight. The children were tired, he knew, yet it would be better to move on, out of the town.

Chartres was the next town on his list; Chartres, where he was to have taken train for St Malo. He could not get to Chartres that night; it was the best part of thirty miles farther to the west. There was little hope now that he would escape the territory occupied by Germans, yet for want of an alternative he would carry on to Chartres. Indeed, it never really occurred to him to do otherwise.

The children were very slow eaters. It was nearly an hour before Pierre and Sheila, the two smallest, had finished their meal. The old man waited, with the patience of old age. It would do no good to hurry them. When they had finished he wiped their mouths, thanked the German cook politely, collected the pram, and led them out on to the road to Chartres.

The children walked very slowly, languidly. It was after eight o'clock, long past their ordinary bed-time; moreover, they had eaten a full meal. The sun was still warm, though it was dropping towards the horizon; manifestly, they could not go very far. Yet he kept them at it, anxious to get as far as possible from the town.

The problem of the little Dutch boy engaged his attention. He had not left him with the Sisters, as he had been minded to; it had not seemed practical when he was in the town to search out a convent. Nor had he yet got rid of Pierre, as he had promised himself that he would do. Pierre was no trouble, but this new little boy was quite a serious responsibility. He could not speak one word of any language that they spoke. Howard did not even know his name. Perhaps it would be marked on his clothes.

Then, with a shock of dismay, the old man realised that the clothes were gone for ever. They had been taken by the Germans when the little chap had been de-loused; by this time they were probably burnt. It might well be that his identity was lost now till the war was over, and enquiries could be made. It might be lost for ever.

The thought distressed old Howard very much. It was one thing to hand over to the Sisters a child who could be traced; it seemed to him to be a different matter altogether when the little boy was practically untraceable. As he walked along the old man revolved this new trouble in his mind. The only link now with his past lay in the -fact that he had been found abandoned in Pithiviers on a certain day in June - lay in the evidence which Howard alone could give. With that evidence, it might one day be possible to find his parents or his relatives. If now he were abandoned to a convent, that evidence might well be lost.

They walked on down the dusty road.

Sheila said fretfully: 'My feet hurt.'

She was obviously tired out. He picked her up and put her in the pram, and put Pierre in with her. To Pierre he gave the chocolate that had been promised to him earlier in the day, and then all the other children had to have a piece of chocolate too. That refreshed them and made them cheerful for a while, and the old man pushed the pram wearily ahead. It was essential that they should stop soon for the night.

He stopped at the next farm, left the pram with the children in the road, and went into the court-yard to see if it was possible for them to find a bed. There was a strange stillness in the place. No dog sprang out to bark at him. He called out, and stood expectant in the evening light, but no one answered him. He tried the door to the farmhouse, and it was locked. He went into the cowhouse, but no animals were there. Two hens scratched on the midden; otherwise there was no sign of life.

The place was deserted.

As on the previous night, they slept in the hay loft. There were no blankets to be had this time, but Howard, searching round for some sort of coverlet, discovered a large, sail-like cover, used possibly to thatch a rick. He dragged this into the loft and arranged it double on the hay, laying the children down between its folds. He had expected trouble with them, excitement and fretfulness, but they were too tired for that. All five of them were glad to lie down and rest; in a short time they were all asleep.

Howard lay resting on the hay near them, tired to death. In the last hour he had taken several nips of brandy for the weariness and weakness that he was enduring; now as he lay on the hay in the deserted farm fatigue came soaking out of him in great waves. He felt that they were in a desperate position. There could be no hope now of getting through to England, as he once had hoped. The German front was far ahead of them; by now it might have reached to Brittany itself. All France was overrun.

Exposure might come at any time, must come before so very long. It was inevitable. His own French, though good enough, was spoken with an English accent, as he knew well. The only hope of escaping detection would be to hide for a while until some plan presented itself, to lie up with the children in the house of some French citizen. But he knew no one in this part of France that he could go to.

And any way, no family would take them in. If he did know anybody, it would hardly be fair to plant himself on them.

He lay musing bitterly on the future, only half-awake.

It was not quite correct to say that he knew nobody. He did know, very slightly, one family at Chartres. They were people called Rouget - no, Rougand - Rougeron; that was it, Rougeron. They came from Chartres. He had met them at Cidoton eighteen months before, when he had been there with John for the skiing. The father was a colonel in the army; Howard wondered vaguely what had become of him. The mother had been typically fat and French, pleasant enough in a very quiet way. The daughter had ski'd well; closing his eyes in the doze of oncoming sleep the old man could see her flying down the slopes behind John, in a flurry of snow. She had had fair hair which she wore short and rather elaborately dressed, in the French style.

He had seen a good deal of the father. They had played draughts together in the evening over a Pernod, and had pondered together whether war would come. The old man began to consider Rougeron seriously. If by some freak of chance he should be in Chartres, there might yet be hope for them. He thought that Rougeron might help.

At any rate, they would get good advice from him. Howard became aware at this point of how much, how very much he wanted to talk to some adult, to discuss their difficulties and make plans. The more he thought of Rougeron, the more he yearned to talk to someone of that sort, frankly and without reserve.

Chartres was not far away, not much more than twenty-five miles. With luck they might get there tomorrow. Probably, Rougeron would be away from home, but - it was worth trying.

Presently he slept.

He woke several times in the night, gasping and breathless, with a very tired heart. Each time he sat upright for half an hour and drank a little brandy, presently slipping down again to an uneasy doze. The children also slept uneasily, but did not wake. At five o'clock the old man woke for good, and sitting up against a heap of hay, resigned himself to wait till it was time to wake the children.

He would go to Chartres, and look up Rougeron. The bad night that he had suffered was a warning; it might well be that his strength was giving out. If that should happen, he must get the children safe with someone else. With Rougeron, if he were there, the children would be safe; Howard could leave money for their keep, English money it was true, but probably negotiable. Rougeron might give him a bed, and let him rest a little till this deathly feeling of fatigue went away.

Pierre woke at about half-past six, and lay awake with him. 'You must stay quiet,' the old man said. 'It's not time to get up yet. Go to sleep again.'

At seven o'clock Sheila woke up, wriggled about, and climbed out of her bed. Her movements woke the other children. Howard got up stiffly and got them all up. He herded them before him down the ladder to the farmyard, and one by one made them sluice their faces beneath the pump.

There was a step behind him, and he turned to meet a formidable woman, who was the farmer's wife. She demanded crossly what he was doing there.

He said mildly: 'I have slept in your hay, madame, with these children. A thousand pardons, but there was no other place where we could go.'

She rated him soundly for a few minutes. Then she said: 'Who are you? You are not a Frenchman. No doubt, you are English, and these children also?'

He said: 'These children are of all nationalities, madame. Two are French and two are Swiss, from Geneva. One is Dutch.' He smiled: 'I assure you, we are a little mixed.'

She eyed him keenly. 'But you,' she said, 'you are English.'

He said: 'If I were English, madame, what of that?'

'They are saving in Angerville that the English have betrayed us, that they have run away, from Dunkirk.'

He felt himself to be in peril. This woman was quite capable of giving them all up to the Germans.

He faced her boldly and looked her in the eyes. 'Do you believe that England has abandoned France?' he asked. 'Or do you think that is a German lie?'

She hesitated. 'These filthy politics,' she said at last. 'I only know that this farm is ruined. I do not know how we shall live.'

He said simply: 'By Grace of God, madame.'

She was silent for a minute. Then she said: 'You are English, aren't you?'

He nodded without speaking.

She said: 'You had better go away, before anybody sees you.'

He turned and called the children to him, and walked over to the pram. Then, pushing it in front of hun, he went towards the gate.

She called after him: 'Where are you going to?'

He stopped and said: 'To Chartres.' And then he could have bitten out his tongue for his indiscretion.

She said: 'By the tram?'

He repeated uncertainly: 'The tram?'

'It passes at ten minutes past eight. There is still half an hour.'

He had forgotten the light railway, running by the road. Hope of a lift to Chartres surged up in him. 'Is it still running, madame?'

'Why not? These Germans say that they have brought us Peace. Well then, the tram will run.'

He thanked her and went out on to the road. A quarter of a mile farther on he came to a place where the track crossed the road; here he waited, and fed the children on the biscuits he had bought the day before, with a little of the chocolate. Presently, a little puff of steam announced the little narrow-gauge train, the so-called tram.

Three hours later they walked out into the streets of Chartres, still pushing the pram. It was as easy as that; a completely uneventful journey.

Chartres, like Angerville, was full of Germans. They swarmed everywhere, particularly in the luxury shops, buying with paper money silk stockings, underclothes, and all sorts of imported food. The whole town seemed to be on holiday. The troops were clean and well disciplined; all day Howard saw nothing in their behaviour to complain of, apart from their very presence. They were constrained in their behaviour, scrupulously correct, uncertain, doubtful of their welcome. But in the shops there was no doubt about it; they were spending genuine French paper money and spending it like water. If there were any doubts in Chartres, they stayed behind the locked doors of the banks.

In a telephone-booth the old man found the name of Rougeron in the directory; they lived in an apartment in the Rue Vaugiraud. He did not ring up, feeling the matter to be a little difficult for the telephone. Instead, he asked the way, and walked round to the place, still pushing the pram, the children trailing after him.

Rue Vaugiraud was a narrow street of tall, grey shuttered houses. He rang the bell of the house, and the door opened silently before him, disclosing the common staircase. Rougeron lived on the second floor. He went upstairs slowly, for he was rather short of breath, the children following him. He rang the bell of the apartment.

There was the sound of women's voices from behind the door. There was a step and the door opened before him. It was the daughter; the one that he remembered eighteen months before at Cidoton.

She said: 'What is it?'

In the passage it was a little dark. 'Mademoiselle,' he said, 'I have come to see your father, monsieur le colonel. I do not know if you will remember me; we have met before. At Cidoton.'

She did not answer for a moment. The old man blinked his eyes; in his fatigue it seemed to him that she was holding tight on to the door. He recognised her very well. She wore her hair in the same close curled French manner; she wore a grey cloth skirt and a dark blue jumper, with a black scarf at the neck.

She said at last. 'My father is away from home. I - I remember you very well, monsieur.'

He said easily in French: 'It is very charming of you to say so, mademoiselle. My name is Howard.'

'I know that.'

'Will monsieur le colonel be back today?'

She said: 'He has been gone for three months, Monsieur Howard. He was near Metz. That is the last we have heard.'

He had expected as much, but the disappointment was no less keen. He hesitated and then drew back.

'I am so sorry,' he said. 'I had hoped to see monsieur le colonel, as I was in Chartres. You have my sympathy, mademoiselle. I will not intrude any further on your anxiety.'

She said: 'Is it - is it anything that I could discuss with you, Monsieur Howard?' He got a queer impression from her manner that she was pleading, trying to detain him at the door.

He could not burden a girl and her mother with his troubles; they had troubles of their own to face. 'It is nothing, mademoiselle,' he said. 'Merely a little personal matter that I wanted to talk over with your father."

She drew herself up and faced him, looking him in the eyes. 'I understand that you wish to see my father, Monsieur Howard,' she said quietly. 'But he is away - we do not know where. And I... I am not a child. I know very well what you have come to talk about. We can talk of this together, you and I.'

She drew back from the door. 'Will you not come in and sit down?' she said.

Chapter 7

He turned and motioned to the children. Then he glanced at the girl, and caught an expression of surprise, bewilderment, on her face. There are rather a lot of us, I'm afraid,' he said apologetically.

She said: 'But... I do not understand, Monsieur Howard. Are these your children?'

He smiled. 'I'm looking after them. They aren't really mine.' He hesitated and then said: 'I am in a position of some difficulty, mademoiselle.'

'Oh...'

'I wished to talk it over with your father.' He wrinkled his brows in perplexity. 'Did you think that it was something different?'

She said, hastily: 'No, monsieur - not at all.' And then she swung round arid called: 'Maman! Come quickly; here is Monsieur Howard, from Cidoton!'

The little woman that Howard remembered came bustling out; the old man greeted her ceremoniously. Then for a few minutes he stood with the children pressed close round him in the little salon of the flat, trying to make the two women understand his presence with them. It was not an easy task.

The mother gave it up. 'Well, here they are,' she said, content to let the why and wherefore pass. 'Have they had déjeuner? Are they hungry?'

The children smiled shyly. Howard said: 'Madame, they are always hungry. But do not derange yourself; we can get déjeuner in the town perhaps?'

She said that that was not to be thought of. 'Nicole, stay with m'sieur for a little, while I make arrangements.' She bustled off into the kitchen.

The girl turned to the old man. 'Will you sit down and rest a little,' she said. 'You seem to be very tired.' She turned to the children. 'And you, too, you sit down and stay quiet; déjeuner will be ready before long.'

The old man looked down at his hands, grimed with dirt. He had not washed properly, or shaved, since leaving Dijon. 'I am desolated that I should appear so dirty,' he said. 'Presently, perhaps I could wash?'

She smiled at him and he found comfort in her smile. 'It is not easy to keep clean in times like these,' she said. 'Tell me from the beginning, monsieur - how did you come to be in France at all?'

He lay back in the chair. It would be better to tell her the whole thing; indeed, he was aching to tell somebody, to talk over his position. 'You must understand, mademoiselle,' he began, 'that I was in great trouble early in the year. My only son was killed. He was in the Royal Air Force, you know. He was killed on a bombing raid.'

She said: 'I know, monsieur. I have the deepest sympathy for you.'

He hesitated, not quite sure if he had understood her correctly. Some idiom had probably misled him. He went on: 'It was intolerable to stay in England. I wanted a change of scene, to see new faces.'

He plunged into his story. He told her about the Cavanaghs at Cidoton. He told her of Sheila's illness, of their delay at Dijon. He told her about the chambermaid, about la petite Rose. He told her how they had become stranded at Joigny, and touched lightly on the horror of the Montargis road, because Pierre was with them in the room. He told her about the Royal Air Force men, and about the little Dutch boy they had found in Pithiviers. Then he sketched briefly how they had reached Chartres.

It took about a quarter of an hour tb tell, in the slow, measured, easy tones of an old man. In the end she turned to him in wonder.

'So really, monsieur, none of these little ones have anything to do with you at all?'

'I suppose not,' he said, 'if you like to look at it that way.'

She pressed the point. 'But you could have left the two in Dijon for their parents to fetch from Geneva? You would have been able then, yourself, to have reached England in good time.'

He smiled slowly. 'I suppose so.'

She stared at him. 'We French people will never understand the English,' she said softly. And then she turned aside.

He was a little puzzled. 'I beg your pardon?'

She got to her feet. 'You will wish to wash,' she said. 'Come, I will show you. And then, I will see that the little ones also wash.'

She led him to an untidy bathroom; manifestly, they kept no servant in the flat. He looked around for a man's gear, hoping for a razor, but the colonel had been away too long. Howard contented himself with a wash, resolved at the first opportunity to see if he could get a shave.

The girl took the children to a bedroom, and washed them one by one quite thoroughly. Then it was time for déjeuner. By padding out the midday meal with rice, Madame Rougeron had produced a risotto; they sat down to it round the table in the salon and had the first civilised meal that Howard had eaten since Dijon.

And after lunch, sitting round the littered table over coffee, while the children played together in a corner of the salon, he discussed his future with them.

'I wanted to get back to England, of course,' he said. 'I still want to. But at the moment it seems difficult.'

Madame Rougeron said: 'There are no boats to England now, m'sieur. The Germans have stopped everything.'

He nodded. 'I was afraid so,' he said quietly. 'It would have been better if I had gone back to Switzerland.'

The girl shrugged her shoulders. 'It is always easy to be wise later,' she said. 'At the time, a week ago, we all thought that Switzerland would be invaded. I think so still. I do not think that Switzerland would be at all a good place for you to go.'

There was a silence.

Madame said: 'These other children, monsieur. The one called Pierre and the other little Dutchman. Would you have taken them to England?'

Sheila, bored with playing on the floor, came up and pulled his sleeve, distracting hun. 'I want to go out for a walk, M'sieur Howard, may we go out for a walk and see some tanks?'

He put his arm round her absently. 'Not just now,' he said. 'Stay quiet for a little. We'll go out presently.' He turned to Madame Rougeron. 'I don't see that I can leave them, unless with their relations,' he said. 'I have been thinking about this a good deal. It might be very difficult to find their relations at this time.'

The mother said: 'That is very true.'

Pursuing his train of thought, he said: 'If I could get them to England, I think I'd send them over to America until the war is over. They would be quite safe there.' He explained. 'My daughter, who lives in the United States, has a big house on Long Island. She would make a home for them till the war ends, and then we could try and find their parents.'

The girl said: 'That would be Madame Costello?'

He turned to her faintly surprised. 'Yes, that is her married name. She has a little boy herself, about their age. She would be very good to them.'

'I am sure of that, m'sieur.'

For the moment the difficulty of getting them to England escaped him. He said: 'It's going to be practically impossible to find the little Dutchman's parents, I'm afraid. We don't even know his name.'

Beneath his arm, Sheila said: 'I know his name.'

He stared down at her. 'You do?' And then, remembering Pierre, he said, 'What do you think he's called?'

She said: 'Willem. Not William, just Willem.'

Howard said: 'Has he got another name?'

'I don't think so. Just Willem.'

Ronnie looked up from the floor. 'You are a story,' he said without heat. 'He has got another name, Mr Howard. He's called Eybe.' He explained. 'Just like I'm called Ronnie Cavanagh, so he's called Willem Eybe.'

'Oh...' said Sheila.

Madame said: 'But if he can't speak any French or English, how did you find that out?'

The children stared at her, uncomprehending, a little impatient of adult density. 'He told us,' they explained.

Howard said: 'Did he tell you anything more about himself?' There was a silence. 'Did he say who his daddy or his mummy were, or where he came from?'

The children stared at him, awkward and embarrassed. The old man said: 'Suppose you ask him where his daddy is?'

Sheila said: 'But we can't understand what he says.' The others stayed silent.

Howard said: 'Never mind, then.' He turned to the two women. 'They'll probably know all about him in a day or two,' he said. 'It takes a little time.'

The girl nodded. 'Perhaps we can find somebody who speaks Dutch.'

Her mother said: 'That might be dangerous. It is not a thing to be decided lightly, that. One must think of the Germans.'

She turned to Howard: 'So, monsieur,' she said, 'it is clear that you are in a difficulty. What is it that you want to do?'

He smiled slowly. 'I want to get to England with these children, madame,' he said. 'Only that.'

He thought for a minute. 'Also,' he said gently, 'I do not wish to get my friends into trouble.' He rose from his chair. 'It has been most kind of you to give us déjeuner,' he said. 'I am indeed sorry to have missed seeing monsieur le colonel. I hope very much that when we meet again you will be reunited.'

The girl sprang up. 'You must not go,' she said. 'It is not possible at all, that.' She swung round on her mother. 'We must devise something, Mother.'

The older woman shrugged her shoulders. 'It is impossible. The Germans are everywhere.'

The girl said: 'If father were here, he would devise something.'

There was a silence in the room, broken only by Ronnie and Rose chanting in a low tone their little song about the numerals. Faintly, from the town, came the air of a band playing in the main square.

Howard said: 'You must not put yourselves to inconvenience on our account. I assure you, we can get along very well.'

The girl said: 'But monsieur - your clothes alone - they are not in the French fashion. One would say at once that you are an Englishman, to look at you.'

He glanced down ruefully; it was very true. He had been proud of his taste in Harris tweeds, but now they were quite undeniably unsuitable for the occasion. 'I suppose so,' he said. 'It would be better if I got some French clothes, for a start.'

She said: 'My father would be glad to lend you an old suit, if he were here.' She turned to her mother. 'The brown suit, Mother.'

Madame shook her head. 'The grey is better. It is less conspicuous.' She turned to the old man. 'Sit down again,' she said quietly. 'Nicole is right. We must devise something. Perhaps it will be better if you stay here for the night.'

He sat down again. 'That would be too much trouble for you,' he said. 'But I should be grateful for the clothes.'

Sheila came up to him again, fretful. 'Can't we go out now and look at the tanks, Mr Howard?' she said in English, complaining, 'I do want to go out.'

'Presently,' he said. He turned to the two women, speaking in French. 'They want to go out.'

The girl got to her feet. 'I will take them for a walk,' she said. 'You stay here and rest.'

After a little demur he agreed to this; he was very tired. 'One thing,' he said. 'Perhaps while you are out it would be possible for me to borrow an old razor?'

The girl led him to the bathroom and produced all that he needed. 'Have no fear for the little ones,' she said. 'I will not let them get into trouble.'

He turned to her, razor in hand. 'You must be very careful not to speak English, mademoiselle,' he said. 'The two English children understand and speak French very well. Sometimes they speak English, but that is dangerous now. Speak to them in French all the time.'

She laughed up at him. 'Have no fear, cher Monsieur Howard,' she said. 'I do not know any English. Only a phrase or two.' She thought for a minute, and said carefully, in English, 'A little bit of what you fancy does you good.' And then, in French again, 'That is what one says about the apéritif?'

'Yes,' he said. He stared at her, puzzled again.

She did not notice. 'And to rebuke anybody,' she said, 'you "tear him off a strip". That is all I know of English, monsieur. The children will be safe with me.'

He said quietly, suddenly numb with an old pain: 'Who told you those phrases, mademoiselle? They are quite up to date.'

She turned away. 'I do not know,' she said awkwardly. 'It is possible that I have read them in a book.'

He went back with her to the salon and helped her to get the children ready to go out, and saw them off together down the stairs. Then he went back into the little flat; madame had disappeared, and he resorted to the bathroom for his shave. Then, in the corner of the settee in the salon he fell asleep, and slept uneasily for about two hours.

The children woke him as they came back into the flat. Ronnie rushed up to him. 'We saw bombers,' he said ecstatically. 'Real German ones, ever so big, and they showed me the bombs and they let me go and touch them, too!'

Sheila said: 'I went and touched them, too!'

Ronnie said: 'And we saw the bombers flying, and taking off and landing, and going out to bomb the ships on the sea! It was fun, Mr Howard.'

He said, mildly: 'I hope you said "Thank you" very nicely to Mademoiselle Rougeron for taking you for such a lovely walk.'

They rushed up to her. Thank you ever so much, Mademoiselle Rougeron,' they said.

He turned to her. 'You've given them a very happy afternoon,' he said. 'Where did you take them to?'

She said: To the aerodrome, monsieur.' She hesitated. 'I would not have gone there if I had realised... But they do not understand, the little ones.'

'No,' he said. 'It's all great fun to them.'

He glanced at her. 'Were there many bombers there?'

'Sixty or seventy. More, perhaps.'

'And going out to bomb the ships of my country?' he said gently.

She inclined her head. 'I would not have taken them there,' she said again. 'I did not know.'

He smiled. 'Well,' he said, 'there's not much we can do to stop them, so it's no good worrying about it.'

Madame appeared again; it was nearly six o'clock. She had made soup for the children's supper and she had prepared a bed in her own room for the two little girls. The three little boys were to sleep in a bed which she had made up on the floor of the corridor; Howard had been given a bedroom to himself. He thanked her for the trouble she had taken.

'One must first get the little ones to bed,' she said. Then we will talk, and devise something.'

In an hour they were all fed, washed, and in bed, settling for the night. Howard sat down with the two women to a supper of a thick meat broth and bread and cheese, with a little red wine mixed with water. He helped them to clear the table, and accepted a curious, thin, dry, black cigar from a box left by his absent host.

Presently he said: 'I have been thinking quietly this afternoon, madame,' he said. 'I do not think I shall go back to Switzerland. I think it would be better to try and get into Spain.'

The woman said: 'It is a very long way to go.' They discussed the matter for a little time. The difficulties were obvious; when he had made the journey there was no sort of guarantee that he could ever get across the frontier.

The girl said: 'I also have been thinking, but in quite the opposite direction.' She turned to her mother. 'Jean Henri Guinevec,' she said, and she ran the two Christian names together to pronounce them Jenri.

Madame said placidly: 'Jean Henri may have gone already, ma petite.'

Howard said: 'Who is he?'

The girl said: 'He is a fisherman, of Le Conquet. In Finisterre. He has a very good boat. He is a great friend of my father, monsieur.'

They told him about this man. For thirty years it had been the colonel's habit to go to Brittany each summer. In that he had been unusual for a Frenchman. The sparse, rocky country, the stone cottages, and the wild coast attracted him, and the strong sea winds of the Atlantic refreshed him. Morgat, Le Conquet, Brest, Douarnenez, Audierne, Concarneau - these were his haunts, the places that he loved to visit in the summer. He used to dress the part. For going in the fishing-boats he had the local costume, faded rust and rose coloured sailcloth overalls and a large, floppy black Breton casque.

'He used to wear the sabots, too, when we were married first,' his wife said placidly. 'But then, when he got corns on his feet, he had to give them up.'

His wife and daughter had gone with him, every year. They had stayed in some little pension and had gone for little, bored walks, while the colonel went out in the boats with the fishermen, or sat yarning with them in the café.

'It was not very gay,' the girl said. 'One year we went to Paris-Plage, but next year we went back to Brittany.'

She had come to know his fishermen friends through the years. 'Jenri would help us to help Monsieur Howard,' she said confidently. 'He has a fine big boat that could cross easily to England.'

Howard gave this serious attention. He knew a little of the Breton fishermen; when he had practised as a solicitor in Exeter there had been occasional legal cases that involved them, cases of fishing inside the three-mile limit. Sometimes, they came into Torbay for shelter in bad weather. Apart from their fishing peccadilloes they were popular in Devon; big burly men with boats as big and burly as they were themselves; fine seamen, speaking a language very similar to Gaelic, that a Welshman could sometimes understand.

They discussed this for some time; it certainly seemed more hopeful than any attempt to get back through Spain. 'It's a long way to go,' he said a little ruefully. It was; Brest is two hundred miles or so from Chartres. 'Perhaps I could go by train.' He would be going away from Paris.

They discussed it in all aspects. Obviously, it was impossible to find out how Guinevec was placed; the only thing to do would be to go there and find out. 'But if Jenri should have gone away,' the mother said, 'there are all the others. One or other of them will help you, when they know that you are friendly with my husband.' She spoke with simple faith.

The girl confirmed this: 'One or other of them will help.'

The old man said presently: 'It really is most kind of you to suggest this. If you would give me a few addresses, then - I would go tomorrow, with the children.' He hesitated. 'It will be better to go soon,' he said. 'Later, the Germans may become more vigilant.'

'That we can do,' said madame.

Presently, as it was getting late, she got up and went out of the room. After a few minutes the girl followed her; from the salon Howard could hear the mutter of their voices in the kitchen, talking in low tones. He could not hear what they were saying, nor did he try. He was deeply grateful for the help and encouragement that he had had from them. Since he had parted from the two Air Force men he had rather lost heart; now he felt again that there was a good prospect that he would get through to England. True, he had still to get to Brittany. That might be difficult in itself; he had no papers of identification other than a British passport, and none of the children had anything at all. If he were stopped and questioned by the Germans the game would be up, but so far he had not been stopped. So long as nobody became suspicious of him, he might be all right.

Nicole came back alone from the kitchen. 'Maman has gone to bed,' she said. 'She gets up so early in the morning. She has asked me to wish you a very good night on her behalf.'

He said something conventionally polite. 'I think I should be better in bed, myself,' he said. 'These last days have been tiring for a man as old as I am.'

She said: 'I know, monsieur.' She hesitated and then said a little awkwardly: 'I have been talking with my mother. We both think that it would be better that I should come with you to Brittany, Monsieur Howard.'

There was a momentary silence; the old man was taken by surprise. 'That is a very kind offer,' he said. 'Most generous of you, mademoiselle. But I do not think I should accept it.'

He smiled at her. 'You must understand,' he said, 'I may get into trouble with the Germans. I should not like to think that I had involved you in my difficulties.'

She said: 'I thought you might feel that, monsieur. But I assure you, I have discussed the matter with maman, and it is better that I should go with you. It is quite decided.'

He said: 'I cannot deny that you would be an enormous help to me, mademoiselle. But one does not decide a point like that all in one moment. One weighs it carefully and one sleeps on it.'

It was growing dusk. In the half-light of the salon it seemed to him that her eyes were very bright, and that she was blinking a little. 'Do not refuse me, Monsieur Howard," she said at last. 'I want so very much to help you.'

He was touched. 'I was only thinking of your safety, mademoiselle,' he said gently. 'You have done a very great deal for me already. Why should you do any more?'

She said: 'Because of our old friendship.'

He made one last effort to dissuade her. 'But mademoiselle,' he said, 'that friendship, which I value, was never more than a slight thing - a mere hotel acquaintance. You have already done more for me than I could have hoped for.'

She said: 'Perhaps you did not know, monsieur. Your son and I... John... we were good friends.' There was an awkward pause.

'So it is quite decided,' she said, turning away. 'We are quite of one mind, my mother and I. Now, monsieur, I will show you your room.'

She took him down the corridor and showed him the room. Her mother had been before her, and had laid out on the bed a long, linen nightgown, the slumber-wear of Monsieur le Colonel. On the dressing-table she had put his cut-throat razor, and a strop, and his much-squeezed tube of shaving-paste, and a bottle of scent called FLEURS DE ALPES.

The girl looked round. 'I think that there is everything you will want,' she said. 'If there is anything we have forgotten, I am close by. You will call?'

He said: 'Mademoiselle, I shall be most comfortable.'

'In the morning,' she said, 'do not hurry. There are arrangements to be made before we can start for Brittany, and one must make enquiries - on the quiet, you will understand, monsieur. That we can best do alone, my mother and I. So it will be better if you stay in bed, and rest.'

He said: 'Oh, but there are the children. I shall have to see to them.'

She smiled: 'In England, do the men look after children when there are two women in the house?'

'Er - well,' he said. 'I mean, I didn't want to bother you with them.'

She smiled again. 'Stay in bed,' she said. 'I will bring coffee to you at about eight o'clock.'

She went out and closed the door behind her; he remained for a tune staring thoughtfully after her. She was, he thought, a very peculiar young woman. He could not understand her at all. At Cidoton, as he remembered her, she had been an athletic young creature, very shy and reserved, as most middle-class French girls are. He remembered her chiefly for the incongruity of her close-curled, carefully-tended head, her daintily-trimmed eyebrows and her carefully-manicured hands, in contrast with the terrific speed with which she took the steepest slopes when sliding on a pair of skis. John, who himself was a fine skier, had told his father that he had his work cut out to keep ahead of her on a run. She took things straight that he made traverse on and never seemed to come to any harm. But she had a poor eye for ground, and frequently ran slowly on a piece of flat while he went sailing on ahead of her.

That was, literally, about all the old man could remember of her. He turned from the door and began slowly to undress. She had changed very much, it seemed to him. It had been nice of her to tell him in her queer, French way that she had been good friends with John; his heart wanned to her for that. Both she and her mother were being infinitely kind to him, and this proposal that Nicole should come with him to Brittany was so kind as to verge on the quixotic. He could not refuse the offer; already he had come near to giving pain by doing so. He would not press a refusal any more; to have her help might make the whole difference to his success in getting the children to England.

He put on the long nightgown and got into bed; the soft mattress and the smooth sheets were infinitely soothing after two nights spent in haylofts. He had not slept properly in bed since leaving Cidoton.

She had changed very much, that girl. She still had the carefully-tended curly head; the trimmed eyebrows and the manicured hands were just the same. But her whole expression was different. She looked ten years older; the dark shadows beneath her eyes matched the black scarf she wore about her neck. Quite suddenly the thought came into his mind that she looked like a widow. She was a young, unmarried girl, but that was what she reminded him of, a young widow. He wondered if she had lost a fiance' in the war. He must ask her mother, delicately, before he left the flat; it would be as well to know in order that he might avoid any topic that was painful to her.

With all that, she seemed very odd to him. He did not understand her at all. But presently the tired limbs relaxed, his active mind moved more slowly, and he drifted into sleep.

He slept all through the night, an unusual feat for a man of his age. He was still sleeping when she came in with his coffee and rolls on a tray at about a quarter past eight. He woke easily and sat up in bed, and thanked her.

She was fully dressed. Beyond her, in the corridor, the children stood, dressed and washed, peeping in at the door. Pierre ventured in a little way.

'Good morning, Pierre,' said the old man gravely. The little boy placed his hand on his stomach and bowed to him from the waist. 'Bon jour, M'sieur Howard.'

The girl laughed and ran her hand through his hair. 'It is a little boy bien élevé, this one,' she said. 'Not like the other ones that you have collected.'

He said a little anxiously: 'I do hope that they have not been a trouble to you, mademoiselle.'

She said: 'Children will never trouble me, monsieur.'

He thought again, a very odd young woman with a very odd way of expressing herself.

She told him that her mother was already out marketing in the town, and making certain enquiries. She would be back in half an hour or so; then they would make their plans.

The girl brought him the grey suit of her father's, rather worn and shabby, with a pair of old brown canvas shoes, a horrible violet shirt, a celluloid collar rather yellow with age, and an unpleasant tie. These clothes are not very chic,' she said apologetically. 'But it will be better for you to wear them, Monsieur Howard, because then you will appear like one of the little bourgeoisie. I assure you, we will keep your own clothes for you very carefully. My mother will put them in the cedar chest with the blankets, because of the moths, you understand.'

Three-quarters of an hour later he was up and dressed, and standing in the salon while the girl viewed him critically. 'You should not have shaved again so soon,' she said. 'It makes the wrong effect, that.'

He said that he was sorry. Then he took note of her appearance. 'You have made yourself look shabby to come with me, mademoiselle,' he said. That is a very kind thing to have done.'

She said: 'Marie, the servant, lent me this dress.'

She wore a very plain, black dress to her ankles, without adornment of any kind. On her feet she wore low-heeled, clumsy shoes and coarse black stockings.

Madame Rougeron came in and put down her basket on the table in the salon. There is a train for Rennes at noon,' she said unemotionally. There is a German soldier at the guichet who asks why you must travel, but they do not look at papers. They are very courteous and correct.' She paused. 'But there is another thing.'

She took from the pocket of her gown a folded handbill. 'A German soldier left this paper with the concierge this morning. There was one for each apartment.'

They spread it out on the table. It was in French, and it read: CITIZENS OF THE REPUBLIC!

The treacherous English, who have forced this unnecessary war on us, have been driven into disorderly flight from our country. Now is the time to rise and root out these plutocratic warmongers wherever they may be hiding, before they have time to plot fresh trouble for France.

These scoundrels who are roaming the country and living in secret in our homes like disgusting parasites, will commit acts of sabotage and espionage and make trouble for all of us with the Germans, who are only anxious to build up a peaceful regime in our country. If these cowardly fugitives should commit such acts, the Germans will keep our fathers, our husbands, and our sons in long captivity. Help to bring back your men by driving out these pests!

It is your duty if you know of an Englishman in hiding to tell the gendarmerie, or tell the nearest German soldier. This is a simple thing that anyone can do, which will bring peace and freedom to our beloved land.

Severe penalties await those who shield these rats.

VIVE LA FRANCE!

Howard read it through quietly twice. Then he said: 'It seems that I am one of the rats, madame. After this, I think it would be better that I should go alone, with the children.'

She said that it was not to be thought of. And then she said, Nicole would never agree.

The girl said: That is very true. It would be impossible for you to go alone, as things are now. I do not think you would get very far before the Germans found that you were not a Frenchman, even in those clothes.' She flipped the paper with disgust. This is a German thing,' she said. 'You must not think that French people talk like this, Monsieur Howard.'

'It is very nearly the truth,' he said ruefully.

'It is an enormous lie,' she said.

She went out of the room. The old man, grasping the opportunity, turned to her mother. 'Your daughter has changed greatly since we were at Cidoton, madame,' he said.

The woman looked at him. 'She has suffered a great deal, monsieur.'

He said: 'I am most sorry to hear that. If you could tell me something about it - perhaps I could avoid hurling her in conversation.'

She stared at him. 'You do not know, then?'

'How should I know anything about her trouble, madame?' he said gently. 'It is something that has happened since we met at Cidoton.'

She hesitated for a minute. Then she said: 'She was in love with a young man. We did not arrange the affair and she tells me nothing.'

'All young people are like that,' he said, quietly. 'My son was the same. The young man is a prisoner in German hands, perhaps?'

Madame said: 'No, monsieur. He is dead.'

Nicole came bursting into the room, a little fibre case in her hand. 'This we will carry in your perambulator,' she said. 'Now, monsieur, I am ready to go.'

There was no time for any more conversation with Madame Rougeron, but Howard felt he had the gist of it; indeed, it was just what he had expected. It was hard on the girl, terribly hard; perhaps this journey, dangerous though it might be, would not be altogether a bad thing for her. It might distract her mind, serve as an anodyne.

There was a great bustle of getting under way. They all went downstairs; Madame Rougeron had many bundles of food, which they put in the perambulator. The children clustered round them and impeded them.

Ronnie said: 'Will we be going where there are tanks, Mr Howard?' He spoke in English. 'You said that I might go with the Germans for a ride.'

Howard said, in French: 'Not today. Try and talk French while Mademoiselle Rougeron is with us, Ronnie; it is not very nice to say what other people cannot understand.'

Rose said: That is very true, m'sieur. Often I have told Ronnie that it was not polite to speak in English.'

Madame Rougeron said to her daughter in a low tone: 'It is clever that.' The girl nodded.

Pierre said suddenly: 'I do not speak English, m'sieur.'

'No, Pierre,' the old man said. 'You are always polite.'

Sheila said: 'Is Willem polite, too?' She spoke in French.

Nicole said: 'All of you are polite, all tres bien eleves. Now we are quite ready.' She turned and kissed her mother.

'Do not fret,' she said gently. 'Five days - perhaps a week, and I will be home again. Be happy for me, Maman.'

The old woman stood trembling, suddenly aged. 'Prenez bien garde,' she said tremulously. 'These Germans - they are wicked, cruel people.'

The girl said gently: 'Be tranquil. I shall come to no harm.' She turned to Howard. 'En route, donc, Monsieur Howard,' she said. 'It is time for us to go.'

They left the apartment and started down the street, Howard pushing the loaded pram and Nicole shepherding the children. She had produced a rather shabby black Homburg hat for the old man, and this, with his grey suit and brown canvas shoes, made hun look very French. They went slowly for the sake of the children; the girl strolled beside him with a shawl over her shoulders.

Presently she said: 'Give me the pram, monsieur. That is more fitting for a woman to push, in the class that we represent.'

He surrendered it to her; they must play up to their disguise. 'When we come to the station,' she said, 'say nothing at all. I will do all the talking. Do you think you could behave as a much older man? As one who could hardly talk at all?'

He said: 'I would do my best. You want me to behave as a very old man indeed.'

She nodded. 'We have come from Arras,' she said. 'You are my uncle, you understand? Our house in Arras was destroyed by the British. You have a brother, my other uncle, who lives in Landerneau.'

'Landerneau,' he said. 'Where is that, mademoiselle?'

She said: 'It is a little country town twenty kilometres this side of Brest, monsieur. If we can get there we can then walk to the coast. And it is inland, forty kilometres from the sea. I think they may allow us to go there, when it would be impossible for us to travel directly to the coast.'

They approached the station. 'Stay with the children,' she said quietly. 'If anyone asks you anything, be very stupid.'

The approach to the station was crowded with German transport lorries; German officers and soldiers thronged around. It was clear that a considerable detachment of troops had just arrived by train; apart from them the station was crowded with refugees. Nicole pushed the pram through into the booking-hall, followed by Howard and the children. The old man, mindful of his part, walked with a shambling tread; his mouth hung open a little, and his head shook rhythmically.

Nicole shot a glance at him. 'It is good, that,' she said. 'Be careful you do not forget your role.'

She left the pram with him and pressed forward to the booking-office. A German Feldwebel, smart and efficient in his grey-green uniform, stopped her and asked a question. Howard, peering through the throng with sagging head and half-closed eyes, saw her launch out into a long, rambling peasant explanation.

She motioned towards him and the children. The Feldwebel glanced over them, shabby and inoffensive, 172 their only luggage in an ancient pram. Then he cut short the torrent of her talk and motioned her to the booking-office. Another woman claimed his attention.

Nicole came back to Howard and the children with the tickets: 'Only as far as Rennes,' she said, in coarse peasant tones. 'That is as far as this train goes.'

The old man said: 'Eh?' and wagged his sagging head.

She shouted in his ear. 'Only to Rennes.'

He mumbled thickly: 'We do not want to go to Rennes.'

She made a gesture of irritation and pushed him ahead of her to the barrier. A German soldier stood by the ticket-puncher; the old man checked and turned back to the girl in senile bewilderment. She said something cross and pushed him through.

Then she apologised to the ticket-puncher. 'He is my uncle,' she said. 'He is a good old man, but he is more trouble to me than all these children.'

The man said: 'Rennes. On the right,' and passed them through. The German stared at them indifferently; one set of refugees was very like another. So they passed through on to the platform and climbed into a very old compartment with hard wooden seats.

Ronnie said: 'Is this the train we're going to sleep in, M'sieur Howard?' He spoke in French, however.

Howard said: 'Not tonight. We shan't be in this train for very long.'

But he was wrong.

From Chartres to Rennes is about two hundred and sixty kilometres; it took them six hours. In the hot summer afternoon the train stopped at every station, and many times between. The body of the train was full of German soldiers travelling to the west; three coaches at the end were reserved for French civilians and they travelled in one of these. Sometimes the compartment was shared with other travellers for a few stations, but no one travelled with them continuously.

It was an anxious journey, full of fears and subterfuges.

When there were other people with them in the carriage the old man lapsed into senility, and Nicole would explain their story once again, how they were travelling to Landerneau from their house in Arras, which had been destroyed by the British. At first there was difficulty with the children, who were by no means inclined to lend support to what they rightly knew to be a pack of lies. Each time the story was retold Nicole and Howard rode on a knife edge of suspense, their attention split between the listener and the necessity of preventing the children from breaking into the conversation. Presently the children lost interest, and became absorbed in running up and down the corridor, playing 'My great-aunt lives in Tours,' with all its animal repetitions, and looking out of the window. In any event, the peasants and small shopkeepers who travelled with them were too anxious to start talking and to tell the story of their own troubles to have room for much suspicion in their minds.

At long last, when the fierce heat of the day was dying down, they pulled into Rennes. There the train stopped and everyone got out; the German soldiers fell in in two ranks in orderly array on the platform and were marched away, leaving a fatigue party to load their kits on to a lorry. There was a German officer by the ticket-collector. Howard put on his most senile air, and Nicole went straight up to the collector to consult him about trains to Landerneau.

Through half-closed eyes Howard watched her, the children clustered round him, dirty and fretful from their journey. He waited in an agony of apprehension; at any moment the officer might ask for papers. Then it would all be over. But finally he gave her a little pasteboard slip, shrugged his shoulders and dismissed her.

She came back to Howard. 'Mother of God!' she said crossly and rather loudly. 'Where is now the pram? Do I have to do everything?'

The pram was still in the baggage-car. The old man shambled towards it, but she pushed him aside and got into the car and pulled it down on to the ground herself. Then, in a little confused huddle, she shepherded them to the barrier.

'It is not five children that I have,' she said bitterly to the ticket-collector. 'It is six.' The man laughed, and the German officer smiled faintly. So they passed out into the town of Rennes.

She said quietly to him as they walked along: 'You are not angry, Monsieur Howard? It is better that I should pretend that I am cross. It is more natural so.'

He said: 'My dear, you have done wonderfully well.'

She said: 'Well, we have got half-way without suspicion. Tomorrow, at eight in the morning, a train leaves for Brest. We can go on that as far as Landerneau.'

She told him that the German officer had given them permission to go there. She produced the ticket he had given to her. 'We must sleep tonight in the refugee hostel,' she said. 'This ticket admits us. It will be better to go there, m'sieur, like all the others.'

He agreed. 'Where is it?' he enquired.

'In the Cinema du Monde,' she said. 'I have never slept in a cinema before.'

He said: 'Mademoiselle, I am deeply sorry that my difficulties should make you do so now.'

She smiled: 'Ne vous en faites pas,' she said. 'Perhaps as it is under German management it will be clean. We French are not so good at things like that.'

They gave up their cards at the entrance, pushed their pram inside and looked around. The seats had all been removed, and around the walls were palliasses stacked, filled with old straw. There were not many people in the place; with the growing restrictions on movements as the German took over control, the tide of refugees was less than it had been. An old Frenchwoman issued them with a palliasse and a blanket each and showed them a corner where they could make a little camp apart from the others. 'The little ones will sleep quiet there,' she said.

There was an issue of free soup at a table at the end of the hall, dispensed by a German cook, who showed a fixed, beaming smile of professional good humour.

An hour later the children were laid down to rest. Howard did not dare to leave them, and sat with his back against the wall, tired to death, but not yet ready for sleep. Nicole went out and came back presently with a packet of caporal cigarettes. 'I bought these for you,' she said. 'I did not dare to get your Players; it would not be safe, that.'

He was not a great smoker, but touched by her kindness he took one gratefully. She poured him out a little brandy in a mug and fetched a little water from the drinking fountain for him; the drink refreshed him and the cigarette was a comfort. She came and sat beside him, leaning up against the wall.

For a time they talked in low tones of their journey, about her plans for the next day. Then, fearing to be overheard, he changed the subject and asked about her father.

She had little more to tell him than he already knew. Her father had been commandant of a fon in the Maginot Line not very far from Metz; they had heard nothing of him since May.

The old man said: 'I am very, very sorry, mademoiselle.' He paused, and then he said, 'I know what that sort of anxiety means... very well. It blackens everything for a long time afterwards.'

She said quietly: 'Yes. Day after day you wait, and wait. And then the letter comes, or it may be the telegram, and you are afraid to open it to see what it says.' She was silent for a minute. 'And then at last you do open it.'

He nodded. He felt very close to her; they had shared the same experience. He had waited and waited just like that when John had been missing. For three days he had waited; then the telegram had come. It became clear to him that she had been through the same trouble; indeed, her mother had told him that she had. He was immensely sorry for her.

Quite suddenly, he felt that he would like to talk to her about John. He had not been able to talk about his son to anybody, not since it happened. He had feared sympathy, and had shunned intrusion. But this girl Nicole had known John. They had been skiing companions - friends, she had said.

He blew out a long cloud of smoke. 'I lost my son, you know,' he said with difficulty, staring straight ahead of him. 'He was killed flying - he was a squadron leader, in our Royal Air Force. He was shot down by three Messerschmitts on his way back from a bombing raid. Over Heligoland.'

There was a pause.

She turned towards him. 'I know that,' she said gently. 'They wrote to me from the squadron.'

Chapter 8

The cinema was half-full of people, moving about and laying down their palliasses for the night. The air was full of the fumes of the cooking-stove at the far end, and the smoke of French cigarettes; in the dim light it seemed thick and heavy.

Howard glanced towards the girl. 'You knew my son as well as that, mademoiselle?' he said. 'I did not know.'

In turn, she felt the urge to talk. 'We used to write,' she said. She went on quickly, 'Ever since Cidoton we used to write, almost each week. And we met once, in Paris - just before the war. In June, that was.' She paused, and then said quietly, 'Almost a year ago today.'

The old man said: 'My dear, I never knew anything about this at all.'

'No,' she said. 'Nor did I tell my parents.' There was a silence while he tried to collect his thoughts' and readjust his outlook. 'You said they wrote to you,' he said at last. 'But how did they know your address?'

She shrugged her shoulders. 'He would have made arrangements,' she said. 'He was very kind, monsieur; very, very kind. And we were great friends...'

He said quietly: 'You must have thought me very different, mademoiselle. Very rude. But I assure you, I knew nothing about this. Nothing at all.'

There was a little pause.

'May I ask one question?' he said presently.

'But yes, Monsieur Howard.'

He stared ahead of him awkwardly. 'Your mother told me that you had had trouble,' he said. 'That there had been a young man - who was dead. No doubt, that was somebody else?'

'There was nobody else,' she said quietly. 'Nobody but John.'

She shook herself and sat up. 'See,' she said, 'one must put down a palliasse, or there will be no room left by the wall.' She got to her feet and stirred him, and began to pull down one of the sacks of straw from the pile. He joined her, reluctant and confused, and for a quarter of an hour they worked, making their beds.

'There,' she said at last, standing back to survey their work. 'It is the best that can be done.' She eyed him diffidently. 'Will it be possible for you to sleep so, Monsieur Howard?'

He said: 'My dear, of course it will.'

She laughed shortly. 'Then, let us try.'

Over the palliasses he stood looking at her, blanket in hand. 'May I ask one more question?'

She faced him: 'Yes, monsieur.'

'You have been very good to me,' he said quietly. 'I think I understand now. That was because of John?'

There was a long silence. She stood looking out across the room, motionless. 'No,' she said at last. 'That was because of the children.'

He said nothing, not quite understanding what she meant.

'One loses faith,' she said quietly. 'One thinks that everything is false and bad.'

He glanced at her, puzzled.

'I did not think there could be anyone so kind and brave as John,' she said. 'But I was wrong, monsieur. There was another one. There was his father.'

She turned away. 'So,' she said, 'we must sleep.' She spoke practically, almost coldly; it seemed to the old man that she had set up a barrier between them. He did not resent that; he understood the reason for her curtness. She did not want to be questioned any more. She did not want to talk.

He lay down on the palliasse, shifted the rough, straw-filled pillow and pulled the blanket round him. The girl settled down on her own bed on the other side of the children.

Howard lay awake, his mind in a tumult. He felt that he had known that there had been something between this girl and John, yet that knowledge had not reached the surface of his mind. But looking back, there had been little hints all the time that he had been with them in the flat. Indeed, she had used John's very words about a cocktail when she had said in English that: 'A little bit of what you fancy does you good.' Thinking back, he remembered the little twinges of pain that he had suffered when she had said that and yet he had not realised.

How close had their friendship been, then? They had written freely to each other; on top of that it seemed that they had met in Paris just before the war. No breath of that had reached him previously. But thinking back, he could remember now that there had been a space of two week-ends in June when he had seen nothing of the boy; he had assumed that duties with the squadron had prevented him from coming over to see him, or even from ringing up. Was that the time? It must have been.

His mind turned to Nicole. He had thought her a very odd young woman previously; he did not think of her in quite the same way now. Dimly he began to realise a little of her difficulties with regard to John, and to himself. It seemed that she had told her mother little about John; she had nursed her grief in silence, dumb and inarticulate. Then he had turned up, quite suddenly, at the door one day. To her secret grief he added an acute embarrassment.

He turned over again. He must let her alone, let her talk if she wanted to, be silent if she chose. If he did that, perhaps she would open out as time went on. It had been of her own volition she had told him about John.

He lay awake for several hours, turning these matters over in his mind. Presently, after a long time, he slept.

He woke in the middle of the night, to the sound of wailing. He opened his eyes; the wailing came from one of the children. He sat up, but Nicole was before him; by the time he was fully awake she was out of her bed, crouching down by a red-faced, mournful little boy sitting up and crying bitterly.

It was Willem, crying as if his heart was going to break. The girl put her arm round him and spoke to him in soft, baby French. The old man rolled out of his blanket, got up stiffly and moved over to them.

'What is it?' he enquired. 'What is the matter?'

The girl said: 'I think he has had a nightmare - that is all. Presently he will sleep again.' She turned again to comfort him.

Howard felt singularly helpless. His way with the children had been to talk to them, to treat them as equals. That simply did not work at all, unless you knew the language, and he knew no word of any language that this little Dutch boy spoke. Left to himself he might have taken him on his knee and talked to him as man to man; he could never have soothed him as this girl was soothing him.

He knelt down clumsily beside them. 'Do you think he is unwell?' he asked. 'He has perhaps eaten something that upset him?'

She shook her head; already the sobs were dying down. 'I do not think so,' she said softly. 'Last night he did this, twice. It is bad dreams, I think. Only bad dreams.'

The old man's mind drifted back to the unpleasant town of Pithiviers; it would be natural, he thought, for bad dreams to haunt the child.

He wrinkled his forehead. 'You say that he did this twice last night, mademoiselle?' he said. 'I did not know.'

She said: 'You were tired and sleeping very well. Besides your door was shut. I went to him, but each time he very soon went to sleep again.' She bent over him. 'He is almost asleep again now,' she said softly.

There was a long, long silence. The old man stared around; the long, sloping floor was lit by one dim blue light over the door. Dark forms lay huddled on palliasses here and there; two or three snorers disturbed the room; the air was thick and hot. From sleeping in his clothes he felt sticky and dirty. The pleasant, easy life that he had known in England seemed infinitely far away. This was his real life. He was a refugee, sleeping on straw in a disused cinema with a German sentry at the door, his companion a French girl, a pack of foreign children in his care. And he was tired, tired, dead tired.

The girl raised her head. She said very softly: 'He is practically asleep, this one. In a minute I will lay him down.' She paused, and then she said, 'Go back to bed, Monsieur Howard. I shall not be long.'

He shook his head and stayed there watching her. Presently, the little boy was sound asleep; she laid him gently down on his pillow and pulled the blanket round him. Then she got up. 'Now,' she said quietly, 'one can sleep again, until next time.'

He said: 'Good night, Nicole.'

She said: 'Good night. Do not get up if he should wake up. He is no trouble.'

He did not wake again in the two or three hours that were left of the night. By six o'clock the place was all astir; there was no chance of any further sleep. Howard got up and straightened out his clothes as well as he could; he felt dirty and unshaven.

The girl got the children up and, with Howard, helped them to dress. She, too, was feeling dirty and unkempt; her curly hair was draggled, and she had a headache. She would have given a great deal for a bath. But there was no bath in the place, nor even anywhere to wash.

Ronnie said: 'I don't like this place. May we sleep in a farm tomorrow?'

Rose said: 'He means tonight, m'sieur. He talks a great deal of nonsense, that one.'

Howard said: 'I'm not quite sure where we shall sleep tonight. We'll see when the time comes.'

Sheila, wriggling her shoulders in her Liberty bodice, said: 'I do itch.'

There was nothing to be done about that. To distract her mind Howard led her off with the other children to the end of the hall, where the German cook was dispensing mugs of coffee. With each mug went a large, unattractive hunk of bread. Howard left the children at a trestle table and went to draw their bread and coffee.

Nicole joined them as he brought it to the table and they all had breakfast together. The bread was hard and tasteless and the coffee bitter, acid stuff with little milk. The children did not like it, and were querulous; it needed all the tact of the old man and the girl to prevent their grumbles calling the attention of the German cook. There was some chocolate left of the provisions he had bought on the road from Joigny; he shared this out among them and this made a little relish to the meal.

Presently, they left the Cinema du Monde and, pushing the pram before them, made their way towards the railway station. The town was full of Germans parading down the streets, Germans driving lorries, Germans lounging at the doors of billets, Germans in the shops. They tried to get chocolate for the children at several shops, but the soldiers had swept the town clean of sweets of every kind. They bought a couple of long rolls of bread and a brown sausage of doubtful origin as provision for their journey. Fruit was unobtainable, but they bought a few lettuces.

At the railway station they passed the barrier without difficulty, surrendering their billeting pass to the German officer. They put the pram into the baggage-wagon on the train for Brest, and climbed up into a third-class carriage.

It was only when the train was well on the way that Howard discovered that la petite Rose was nursing a very dirty black and white kitten.

Nicole was at first inclined to be sharp with her. 'We do not want a little cat,' she said to Rose. 'No, truly we do not want that cat or any other cat. You must put him out at the next station.'

The corners of the little girl's mouth drooped, and she clutched the kitten tighter. Howard said: 'I wouldn't do that. He might get lost.'

Ronnie said: 'She might get lost, Mr Howard. Rose says it's a lady cat. How do you know it's a lady cat, Rose?'

Nicole expostulated: 'But Monsieur Howard, the little cat belongs to somebody else. It is not our cat, that one.'

He said placidly: 'It's our cat now.'

She opened her mouth to say something impetuous, thought better of it, and said nothing. Howard said: 'It is a very little thing, mademoiselle. It won't add to our difficulties, but it will give them a good deal of pleasure.'

Indeed, what he said was perfectly correct. The children were clustered round intent on the kitten, which was washing its face on Rose's lap. Willem turned to Nicole, beaming, and said something unintelligible to her. Then he turned back, watching the kitten again, entranced.

Nicole said, in a resigned tone: 'As you wish. In England, does one pick up cats and take them away like that?'

He smiled, 'No, mademoiselle,' he said. 'In England only the kind of person who sleeps on straw mattresses in cinemas does that sort of thing. The very lowest type of all.'

She laughed. 'Thieves and vagabonds,' she said. 'Yes, that is true.'

She turned to Rose. 'What is her name?' she asked.

The little girl said: 'Jo-Jo.'

The children clustered round, calling the kitten by its new name, trying to make it answer. The kitten sat unmoved, washing its face with a tiny paw. Nicole looked at it for a few moments.

Then she said: 'It is like the lions, in the Zoo de Vincennes. They also do like that.'

Howard had never been to the Paris zoo. He said: 'Have they many lions and tigers there?'

She shrugged her shoulders. 'They have some. I do not know how many -1 have only been there once.' And then, to his surprise, she looked up at him with laughter in her eyes. 'I went there with John,' she said. 'Naturally, one would not remember how many lions and tigers there were in the zoo.'

He was startled; then he smiled a little to himself. 'Naturally,' he said drily. 'But did you never go there as a child?'

She shook her head. 'One does not go to see these places he shared this out among them and this made a little relish to the meal.

Presently, they left the Cinema du Monde and, pushing the pram before them, made their way towards the railway station. The town was full of Germans parading down the streets, Germans driving lorries, Germans lounging at the doors of billets, Germans in the shops. They tried to get chocolate for the children at several shops, but the soldiers had swept the town clean of sweets of every kind. They bought a couple of long rolls of bread and a brown sausage of doubtful origin as provision for their journey. Fruit was unobtainable, but they bought a few lettuces.

At the railway station they passed the barrier without difficulty, surrendering their billeting pass to the German officer. They put the pram into the baggage-wagon on the train for Brest, and climbed up into a third-class carriage.

It was only when the train was well on the way that Howard discovered that la petite Rose was nursing a very dirty black and white kitten.

Nicole was at first inclined to be sharp with her. 'We do not want a little cat,' she said to Rose. 'No, truly we do not want that cat or any other cat. You must put him out at the next station.'

The corners of the little girl's mouth drooped, and she clutched the kitten tighter. Howard said: 'I wouldn't do that. He might get lost.'

Ronnie said: 'She might get lost, Mr Howard. Rose says it's a lady cat. How do you know it's a lady cat, Rose?'

Nicole expostulated: 'But Monsieur Howard, the little cat belongs to somebody else. It is not our cat, that one.'

He said placidly: 'It's our cat now.'

She opened her mouth to say something impetuous, thought better of it, and said nothing. Howard said: 'It is a very little thing, mademoiselle. It won't add to our difficulties, but it will give them a good deal of pleasure.'

Indeed, what he said was perfectly correct. The children were clustered round intent on the kitten, which was washing its face on Rose's lap. Willem turned to Nicole, beaming, and said something unintelligible to her. Then he turned back, watching the kitten again, entranced.

Nicole said, in a resigned tone: 'As you wish. In England, does one pick up cats and take them away like that?'

He smiled, 'No, mademoiselle,' he said. 'In England only the kind of person who sleeps on straw mattresses in cinemas does that sort of thing. The very lowest type of all.'

She laughed. 'Thieves and vagabonds,' she said. 'Yes, that is true.'

She turned to Rose. 'What is her name?' she asked.

The little girl said: 'Jo-Jo.'

The children clustered round, calling the kitten by its new name, trying to make it answer. The kitten sat unmoved, washing its face with a tiny paw. Nicole looked at it for a few moments.

Then she said: 'It is like the lions, in the Zoo de Vincennes. They also do like that.'

Howard had never been to the Paris zoo. He said: 'Have they many lions and tigers there?'

She shrugged her shoulders. They have some. I do not know how many - I have only been there once.' And then, to his surprise, she looked up at him with laughter in her eyes. 'I went there with John,' she said. 'Naturally, one would not remember how many lions and tigers there were in the zoo.'

He was startled; then he smiled a little to himself. 'Naturally,' he said drily. 'But did you never go there as a child?'