by Nevil Shute
‘But, mademoiselle,’ he said, ‘I have a sick child to look after.’ He explained.
The girl said: ‘It is difficult for you, m’sieur. But what can I do?’
He smiled slowly. ‘You can go and fetch Madame, and perhaps it will be possible for us to arrange something.’
Twenty minutes later he was in possession of a room with one large double bed, and apologising to an indignant French subaltern whose capitaine had ordered him to double up with another officer.
The bonne, a stout, untidy woman bulging out of her clothes, bustled about and made the room tidy. ‘The poor little one,’ she said. ‘She is ill—yes? Be tranquil, monsieur. Without doubt, she has a little chill, or she has eaten something bad. All will be well, two days, three days, perhaps. Then she will be quite well again.’ She smoothed the bed and crossed to Howard, sitting on a chair still holding Sheila in his arms. ‘There, monsieur. All is now ready.’
The old man looked up at her. ‘I thank you,’ he said courteously. ‘One thing more. If I put her to bed now, would you come back and stay with her while I go to get a doctor?’
The woman said: ‘But certainly, monsieur. The poor little one.’ She watched him as he began to undress Sheila on his lap; at the disturbance she began to cry again. The Frenchwoman smiled broadly, and began a stream of motherly French chatter to the child, who gradually stopped crying. In a minute or so Howard had surrendered Sheila to her, and was watching. The bonne looked up at him. ‘Go and look for your doctor, monsieur, if you wish. I will stay with them for a little.’
He left them, and went down to the desk in the hall, and asked where he could find a doctor. In the thronging crowd the girl paused for a moment. ‘I do not know, m’sieur … yes. One of the officers dining in the restaurant—he is a médecin major.’
The old man pressed into the crowded restaurant. Practically every table was taken by officers, for the most part glum and silent. They seemed to the Englishman to be a fat, untidy-looking lot; about half of them were unshaven. After some enquiry he found the médecin major just finishing his meal, and explained the position to him. The man took up his red velvet cap and followed him upstairs.
Ten minutes later he said: ‘Be easy, monsieur. She must stay warm in bed to-morrow, and perhaps longer. But to-morrow I think that there will be no fever any more.’
Howard asked: ‘What has she got?’
The man shrugged his shoulders indifferently. ‘She is not infectious. Perhaps she has been hot, and playing in a current of air. Children, you understand, get fever easily. The temperature goes up quite high and very quickly. Then in a few hours, down again …’
He turned away. ‘Keep her in bed, monsieur. And light food only; I will tell Madame below. No wine.’
‘No,’ said Howard. He took out his note-case. ‘Without doubt,’ he said, ‘there is a fee.’
A note passed. The Frenchman folded it and put it in the breast pocket of his tunic. He paused for a moment. ‘You go to England?’ he enquired.
Howard nodded. ‘I shall take them to Paris as soon as she can travel, and then to England by St. Malo.’
There was a momentary silence. The fat, unshaven officer stood for a moment staring at the child in the bed. At last he said: ‘It may be necessary that you should go to Brest. Always, there will be boats for England at Brest.’
The old man stared at him. ‘But there is a service from St. Malo.’
The doctor shrugged his shoulders. ‘It is very near the Front. Perhaps there will be only military traffic there.’ He hesitated, and then said: ‘It seems that the sales Boches have crossed the Seine, near Rheims. Only a few, you understand. They will be easily thrown back.’ He spoke without assurance.
Howard said quietly: ‘That is bad news.’
The man said bitterly: ‘Everything to do with this war is bad news. It was a bad day for France when she allowed herself to be dragged into it.’
He turned and went downstairs. Howard followed him, and got from the restaurant a jug of cold milk and a few little plain cakes for the children and, as an afterthought, a couple of feet of bread for his own supper. He carried these things through the crowded hall and up the stairs to his own room, afraid to leave the children very long.
Ronnie was standing at the window, staring out into the street. ‘There’s lots and lots of camions and motors at the station,’ he said excitedly. ‘And guns, too. Real guns, with motors pulling them! May we go down and see?’
‘Not now,’ said the old man. ‘It’s time you were in bed.’
He gave the children their supper of cakes, and milk out of a tooth-glass; Sheila seemed cooler, and drank her milk with very little coaxing. Then it was time to put Ronnie to bed in the big bed beside his sister. The little boy asked: ‘Where are my pyjamas?’
Howard said: ‘At the station. We’ll put you into bed in your shirt for a start, just for fun. Then I’ll go and get your pyjamas.’
He made a game of it with them, and tucked them up carefully one at each side of the big bed, with a bolster down the middle. ‘Now you be good,’ he said. ‘I’m just going to get the luggage. I’ll leave the light on. You won’t be afraid?’
Sheila did not answer; she was already nearly asleep, curled up, flushed and tousled on the pillow. Ronnie said sleepily: ‘May we see the guns and the camions to-morrow?’
‘If you’re good.’
He left them, and went down to the hall. The restaurant and the café were more crowded than ever; in the throng there was no hope at all of getting anyone to help him with the luggage. He pushed his way to the door and went out into the street, bewildered at the atmosphere of the town, and more than a little worried.
He found the station yard thronged with lorries and guns, with a few light tanks. Most of the guns were horse-drawn; the teams stood in their harness by the limbers as if ready to move on at any moment. Around them lorries rumbled in the darkness, with much melodious shouting in the broad tones of the southern French.
The station, again, was thronged with troops. They covered all the platforms, smoking and spitting wearily, squatting upon the dirty asphalt in the half-light, resting their backs against anything that offered. Howard crossed to the arrival platform and searched painstakingly for his luggage among the recumbent forms. He found the tin case with his rods and he found the small attaché case; the suitcase had vanished, nor could he discover any trace of the registered luggage.
He had not expected any more, but the loss of the suitcase was a serious matter. He knew that when he got to Paris he would find the registered luggage waiting for him in the consigne, were it six months later. But the suitcase had apparently been stolen; either that, or it had been placed in safe keeping by some zealous railway official. In the circumstances that did not seem probable. He would look for it in the morning; in the meantime they must all get on without pyjamas for the night. He made his way back to the hotel, and up to the bedroom again.
Both children were sleeping; Sheila was hot and restless and had thrown off most of her coverings. He spread them over her more lightly, and went down to the restaurant to see if he could get a meal for himself. A tired waiter refused point-blank to serve him, there was no food left in the hotel. Howard bought a small bottle of brandy in the café, and went up to the bedroom again, to dine off brandy and water, and his length of bread.
Presently he stretched himself to sleep uneasily in the arm-chair, desperately worried over what the next day would bring. One fact consoled him; he had his rods, quite safe.
Dawn came at five and found him still dozing uneasily in the chair, half-covered by the dust-cover from the bed. The children woke soon after that and began chattering and playing in the bed; the old man stirred and sat up stiffly in his chair. He rubbed a hand over his face; he was feeling very ill. Then the children claimed his attention and he got up to put them right.
There was no chance of any further sleep; already there was much tramping to and fro in the hotel. In the station yar
d outside his window, lorries, tanks, and guns were on the move; the grinding of the caterpillar tracks, the roar of exhausts, the chink of harness and the stamping of the teams made up a melody of war. He turned back to the children; Sheila was better, but still obviously unwell. He brought the basin to the bed and washed her face and arms; then he combed her hair with the small pocket comb that he had found in the attaché case, one of the few small toilet articles he had. He took her temperature, under the arm for fear that she might chew on the thermometer.
It came out a degree above normal; he tried vainly to recall how much he should add on for the arm. In any case, it didn’t matter much; she’d have to stay in bed. He got Ronnie up, washed him, and set him to dress himself; then he sponged over his own face and rang the bell for the femme de chambre. He was unshaven, but that could wait.
She came presently, and exclaimed when she saw the chair and coverlet: ‘Monsieur has slept so?’ she said. ‘But there was room in bed for all of you!’
He felt a little foolish. ‘The little one is ill,’ he said. ‘When a child is ill, she should have room. I was quite comfortable.’
Her eyes softened, and she clucked her tongue again. ‘To-night I will find another mattress,’ she said. ‘Be assured, monsieur, I will arrange something.’
He ordered coffee and rolls and jam; she went away and came back presently with a loaded tray. As she set it down upon the dressing-table, he ventured: ‘I must go out this morning to look for my luggage, and to buy a few things. I will take the little boy with me; I shall not be very long. Would you listen for the little girl, in case she cries?’
The woman beamed at him. ‘Assuredly. But it will not be necessary for monsieur to hurry. I will bring la petite Rose, and she can play with the little sick one.’
Howard said: ‘Rose?’
He stood for ten minutes, listening to a torrent of family history. Little Rose was ten years old, the daughter of the woman’s brother, who was in England. No doubt monsieur had met her brother? Tenois was the name, Henri Tenois. He was in London, the wine waiter at the Hotel Dickens, in Russell Square. He was a widower, so the femme de chambre made a home for la petite Rose. And so on, minute after minute.
Howard had to exercise a good deal of tact to get rid of her before his coffee cooled.
An hour later, spruce and shaved and leading Ronnie by the hand, he went out into the street. The little boy, dressed in beret, overcoat, and socks, looked typically French; by contrast Howard in his old tweed suit looked very English. For ten minutes he fulfilled his promise in the market square, letting the child drink in his fill of camions, guns, and tanks. They stopped by one caterpillar vehicle, smaller than the rest.
‘Celui-ci,’ said Ronnie clearly, ‘c’est un char de combat.’
The driver smiled broadly. ‘That’s right,’ he said in French.
Howard said in French: ‘I should have called it a tank, myself.’
‘No, no, no,’ the little boy said earnestly. ‘A tank is much bigger, monsieur. Truly.’
The driver laughed. ‘I’ve got one myself just like that, back in Nancy. He’ll be driving one of these before he’s much older, le petit chou.’
They passed on, and into the station. For half an hour they searched the platforms, still thronged with the tired troops, but found no sign of the lost suitcase. Nor could the overworked and worried officials give any help. At the end of that time Howard gave it up; it would be better to buy a few little things for the children that he could carry in the attaché case when they moved on. The loss of a suitcase was not an unmixed disaster for a man with a weak heart in time of war.
They left the station and walked up towards the centre of the town to buy pyjamas for the children. They bought some purple sweets called cassis to take back with them for Sheila, and they bought a large green picture-book called Babar the Elephant. Then they turned back to the hotel.
Ronnie said presently: ‘There’s a motor-car from England, monsieur. What sort is it?’
The old man said: ‘I don’t suppose I can tell you that.’ But he looked across the road to the filling-station. It was a big open touring car, roughly sprayed dull green all over, much splashed and stained with mud. It was evidently weeks since it had had a wash. Around it, two or three men were bustling to get it filled with petrol, oil, and water. One of them was manipulating the air hose at the wheels.
One of the men seemed vaguely familiar to the old man. He stopped and stared across the road, trying to place where they had met. Then he remembered; it was in his club six months before. The man was Roger Dickinson; something to do with a newspaper. The Morning Record—that was it. He was quite a well-known man in his own line.
Howard crossed the road to him, leading Ronnie by the hand. ‘Morning,’ he said. ‘Mr. Roger Dickinson, isn’t it?’
The man turned quickly, cloth in hand; he had been cleaning off the windscreen. Recognition dawned in his eyes. ‘I remember,’ he said. ‘In the Wanderers’ Club …’
‘Howard is the name.’
‘I remember.’ The man stared at him. ‘What are you doing now?’
The old man said: ‘I’m on my way to Paris, but I’m hung up here for a few days, I’m afraid.’ He told Dickinson about Sheila.
The newspaperman said: ‘You’d better get out, quick.’
‘Why do you say that?’
The newspaperman stared at him, turning the soiled cloth over in his hands. ‘Well, the Germans are across the Marne.’ The old man stared at him. ‘And now the Italians are coming up from the south.’
He did not quite take in the latter sentence. ‘Across the Marne?’ he said. ‘Oh, that’s very bad. Very bad indeed. But what are the French doing?’
‘Running like rabbits,’ said Dickinson.
There was a momentary silence. ‘What did you say that the Italians were doing?’
‘They’ve declared war on France. Didn’t you know?’
The old man shook his head. ‘Nobody told me that.’
‘It only happened yesterday. The French may not have announced it yet, but it’s true enough.’
By their side a little petrol flooded out from the full tank on to the road; one of the men removed the hose and slammed the snap catch of the filler cap with a metallic clang. ‘That’s the lot,’ he said to Dickinson. ‘I’ll slip across and get a few brioches, and then we’d better get going.’
Dickinson turned to Howard. ‘You must get out of this,’ he said. ‘At once. You’ll be all right if you can get to Paris by to-night—at least, I think you will. There are boats still running from St. Malo.’
The old man stared at him. ‘That’s out of the question, Dickinson. The other child has got a temperature.’
The man shrugged his shoulders. ‘Well, I tell you honestly, the French won’t hold. They’re broken now—already. I’m not being sensationalist. It’s true.’
Howard stood staring up the street. ‘Where are you making for?’
‘I’m going down into Savoy to see what the Italians are doing in that part. And then, we’re getting out. Maybe Marseilles, perhaps across the frontier into Spain.’
The old man smiled. ‘Good luck,’ he said. ‘Don’t get too near the fighting.’
The other said: ‘What are you going to do, yourself?’
‘I don’t quite know. I’ll have to think about it.’
He turned away towards the hotel, leading Ronnie by the hand. A hundred yards down the road the mud-stained, green car came softly up behind, and edged into the kerb beside him.
Dickinson leaned out of the driver’s seat. ‘Look, Howard,’ he said. ‘There’s room for you with us, with the two kids as well. We can take the children on our knees all right. It’s going to be hard going for the next few days; we’ll be driving all night, in spells. But if you can be ready in ten minutes with the other kid, I’ll wait.’
The old man stared thoughtfully into the car. It was a generous offer, made by a generous man. There were four of them alr
eady in the car, and a great mass of luggage; it was difficult to see how another adult could be possibly squeezed in, let alone two children. It was an open body, with an exiguous canvas hood and no side screens. Driving all night in that through the mountains would be a bitter trial for a little girl of five with a temperature.
He said: ‘It’s very, very kind of you. But really, I think we’d better make our own way.’
The other said: ‘All right. You’ve plenty of money, I suppose?’
The old man reassured him on that point, and the big car slid away and vanished down the road. Ronnie watched it, half crying. Presently he sniffed, and Howard noticed him.
‘What’s the matter?’ he said kindly. ‘What is it?’
There was no answer. Tears were very near.
Howard searched his mind for childish trouble. ‘Was it the motor-car?’ he said. ‘Did you think we were going to have a ride in it?’
The little boy nodded dumbly.
The old man stooped and wiped his eyes. ‘Never mind,’ he said. ‘We’ll wait till Sheila gets rid of her cold, and then we’ll all go for a ride together.’ It was in his mind to hire a car, if possible, to take them all the way from Dijon to St. Malo and the boat. It would cost a good bit of money, but the emergency seemed to justify the expense.
‘Soon?’
‘Perhaps the day after to-morrow, if she’s well enough to enjoy it with us.’
‘May we go and see the camions and the chars de combat after déjeuner?’
‘If they’re still there we’ll go and see them, just for a little.’ He must do something to make up for the disappointment. But when they reached the station yard, the lorries and the armoured cars were gone. There were only a few decrepit-looking horses picketed beneath the tawdry advertisements for Byrrh and Pernod.
Up in the bedroom things were very happy. La petite Rose was there, a shy little girl with long black hair and an advanced maternal instinct. Already Sheila was devoted to her. La petite Rose had made a rabbit from two of Howard’s dirty handkerchiefs and three little bits of string, and this rabbit had a burrow in the bedclothes on Ronnie’s side of the bed; when you said ‘Boo’ he dived back into his burrow, manipulated ingeniously by la petite Rose. Sheila, bright-eyed, struggled to tell old Howard all about it in mixed French and English. In the middle of their chatter three aeroplanes passed very low over the station and the hotel.
