Luckily, everyone else was still around the front of the building and Marc had a clear run as he ducked through the washing towards the field. His hand and his thigh hurt badly and he stung in a dozen other places where he’d been caned, but adrenaline is a great painkiller and Marc’s was flowing in buckets.
As he pushed himself through a low hedge into the field, he looked back at the orphanage and felt sick. Despite all the bad food, the noise, the heat, the beatings and the bullying, there was still part of him that wanted to be able to climb back on his bunk and fall asleep.
The hugeness of what Marc had committed himself to was all-consuming. He was at the most important turning point of his twelve years and, as he bent down to grab the bike, a great burst of acid erupted from his throat.
He wondered if he’d just made the biggest mistake of his life.
CHAPTER TEN
The orphans were allowed to use a tatty bicycle when they were sent to the village on an errand, but it was years since Marc had ridden it and the director’s brand new Peugeot was a different beast: adult-sized, with decent brakes, three gears and the saddle set high. It took a few kilometres to get the feel of it but even then it wasn’t a comfortable ride.
There was no traffic heading north and the bombed trucks prevented anything with four wheels coming along the road behind him, but he passed huddles of refugees every few hundred metres. The lucky ones had horses and carts. Those without used prams, or handcarts nailed together from scrap. Some were piled impossibly high with mattresses and pots and pans, while others served as platforms for sleeping children.
By the time Marc reached the village his eyes had adjusted to the darkness. His confidence in the saddle had grown and he’d worked out the value of having gears. The bakery at the edge of the village appeared to have caught a bomb blast and rubble had spilled into the road, but his face was known around here so he didn’t slow down to look.
The cobbles in the village square made the bike shudder and Marc felt a rush of excitement as he followed a direction sign pointing at Beauvais 5km. The first part of this was a steep hill and, when he reached the brow, he decided that there was enough space between himself and the orphanage to risk making a stop.
Marc pulled into a shallow ditch at the roadside, mopping the sweat from his brow on to his bare arm as he stepped off the bike. He was short of breath and he regretted not bringing any water.
He sat on a hump in the dry grass and swapped his shorts for a white shirt, corduroy trousers, socks and finally the boots. He’d never worn proper boots before and his first steps were an exploration of their heaviness and the unyielding soles. They didn’t seem a bad fit.
Although Marc was more comfortable barefoot, the boots were a thrill. They made him feel grown up and for a few moments he sensed freedom and excitement. But it wasn’t long before he considered that someone might be after him and he quickly swung the pigskin over his back and straddled the bike for the journey downhill.
Marc had wanted to see Beauvais for as long as he could remember. It was a town of less than 50,000 people, but to a boy from nowhere the cathedral, the cinemas and the shops with handmade chocolates and cream cakes piled in the windows were the stuff of legend.
But the city was on the main invasion route heading towards Paris and the German air force’s attempts to soften it up had turned Marc’s dream into a nightmare. The final stretch of road into town was like hell, with the smell of burning fuel in the air and curls of smoke drifting across the face of the moon. The road was partially blocked by a crater with the remains of a car tilted into it. Charred trees at the roadside had been cut to make a clear path for traffic, but this ground was uneven and Marc was forced to dismount.
Marc wheeled his bike close to the road’s edge and noticed a line of bodies covered with blankets or jackets. As if this wasn’t spooky enough a huge rat scuttled across his path and cut into the trees. A glance into the crater exposed him to the shadowy outlines of rats and crows bickering over blood and intestines that had spilled when a body had been dragged away.
Completely revolted, Marc was hit by the reality of being alone. He’d just passed two elderly refugees wheeling pet birds and a ginger cat and he considered running back and begging them for help.
But realistically they were in no position to help anyone. Marc looked towards the black outline of Beauvais and contemplated turning back towards the orphanage. If a man important enough to own a smart car could end up with his guts spilled across the road, what chance did a twelve-year-old orphan have?
Trouble was, he had burned his bridges. He could just imagine Lanier and the others laughing their arses off when they heard that he’d run away, only to arrive back within the hour. And as for the reactions of Sebastien and Director Tomas …
Almost unconsciously, Marc picked up his heavy boots and pushed the bike towards Beauvais. Once he was past the crater he remounted and was soon cycling cautiously through dark streets with buildings close on either side. Most had their shutters closed for the night. All the lights were blacked out to prevent the city being picked out by German pilots, but several fires lingered from an earlier raid and explosions had shattered windows everywhere. Most of the glass had been swept into gutters, but it was still across the road in places and Marc feared a puncture.
Things became livelier as he freewheeled the bottom of a hill and turned on to one of the town’s main boulevards. Like everywhere else in northern France, the population of Beauvais had split between those who’d fled south and those who’d abandoned themselves to whatever fate the Germans had in store.
The stay-behinds seemed determined to enjoy their last breath of freedom. The air was warm and the cafés whose owners had stayed in town were crammed with people. Although the street lanterns had been switched off and each café had black curtains or shutters drawn across the windows to keep out the light, Marc saw pinpricks of candlelight on the outdoor tables and the orange glow of cigarettes dancing expressively in the hands of people who’d had too much to drink.
The mass of chatter was nothing out of the ordinary for a street of bars and cafés, but Marc had never seen so many adults in one place before and their apparent ease in near black surroundings made him feel even more out of place.
He pulled up when he came to a horse trough with a drinking fountain mounted on the brick plinth behind it. After dropping the bike he leaned into the spout and gasped with relief as he gulped cool water.
‘Change?’ a man asked noisily, making Marc jump.
Water dribbled down Marc’s chin as he backed away from the fountain and eyed the old man. He wore only shorts and boots, but was so filthy that it took Marc a few seconds to realise that he wasn’t in some kind of fancy-dress gorilla suit.
‘Anything you can spare,’ the man smiled, as he held out his hand. ‘Just a few coins.’
As he said this, Marc caught a noseful of booze, sweat and puke. He scrambled backwards, stumbling over his bike before standing it up and riding on in a panic.
At the next junction Marc found a signpost pointing towards the train station. He knew it was approximately sixty kilometres to Paris and according to the railway map pinned up at his school there were trains to everywhere in France once you got there.
Marc suffered an emotional explosion as he rode around the corner and got his first glimpse of the place where his mother had abandoned him. The feeling was neither good nor bad, but it was powerful for the few moments until it turned into disappointment.
In Marc’s imagination Beauvais station had always been a fantastic place, with engines venting steam under a wrought-iron roof, boys selling newspapers and the bustle of expensively-dressed people with places to go. But Beauvais was on a rural branch line and its station was merely two open platforms, with a ticket office, a waiting room and a café that looked as if it had been boarded up for some years.
The people were the same desperate souls that Marc had seen on the road. The more he saw of them, the more
he realised that they were dregs. The lucky few who owned cars, those with decent carts and even those who were simply healthy enough to maintain a good walking pace had passed through days earlier.
Only the truly desperate washed up at Beauvais station hoping for a train. Many were elderly and those that weren’t tended to be women with young children – sometimes as many as four or five spread around exhausted mothers like litters of pigs. Their men were either dead, fighting at the front, or imprisoned by the Germans.
Some people waited hopefully on the station platform, staring down the tracks as though the very act of looking might make the train come sooner. The ticket office was tiny so most sat in the street outside. Everyone was dirty and everywhere Marc looked he saw feet covered in vile scabs and blisters.
There was no queue at the ticket office, but the teenaged ticket officer had the weariness of someone who knew exactly what he was going to be asked.
‘There are three trains up the line to the north,’ the youth explained, as he whirled his cap around on his index finger. ‘I can sell you a ticket, but I can’t say if a train will come tonight, tomorrow or any other time. And when it does come I can’t say if it will stop, or if there will be space to board. The last train was three hours back. It was packed with injured troops and the driver didn’t stop.’
Marc nodded solemnly. ‘When will you know if a train is coming?’
‘All our telephones to the north are down. The stationmaster gets an automatic warning when a train reaches the water tower just up the line, but you’ll most likely have heard it coming by then anyway.’
Marc had led a sheltered life. He’d always imagined trains as huge invulnerable beasts. It hadn’t occurred to him that one bomb-damaged rail was all it took to bring a hundred kilometres of track to a standstill. He was visibly upset and the teenager took pity.
‘Are you alone?’ the lad asked.
Marc nodded. He thought about justifying himself by making up a background story about how his mother had been killed, but with regular bombings and streams of refugees on the road a twelve year old travelling alone was nothing out of the ordinary.
‘Is your bike any good?’
‘Fine,’ Marc said.
The young ticket officer smiled. ‘Why don’t you ride? Paris is less than sixty kilometres. If you set off now and keep a steady pace you’ll reach the outskirts by morning.’
Marc looked uncertain. ‘I have money. Is there a place in town I could rest? Then I could set off once it gets light.’
‘Your choice.’ The ticket collector shrugged. ‘But the German air force is targeting the main roads. They’re less active at night and you can take cover more easily if they do come at you.’
It was ten o’clock and Marc would normally be in bed by now, but after the craziest day of his life he reckoned he’d be unlikely to sleep even if he tried.
‘Is it easy?’ Marc asked. ‘I mean, I won’t get lost or anything?’
‘It’s Paris, for the lord’s sake,’ the ticket officer said, smirking. ‘The road leads straight there. You just ride back down towards the river and turn right. Within a few minutes you’ll come to the edge of town and a three-way fork. You take the middle road. There’s no mistaking it because it’s wider than the others. Then it’s basically a straight ride all the way to Paris.’
‘Great.’ Marc smiled. ‘Thanks so much for your help.’
Marc wheeled the bike away from the ticket counter and headed back to the street. He was daunted by the prospect of such a long ride, but as he looked at the pitiful humans around the station he realised that with money, a bike and decent health on his side he was much better off than any of them.
He was touched by pity as he pedalled away, but he also drew satisfaction from the sense that he wasn’t on the bottom of the pile. It took a painful twinge from his thigh to prick this bubble. His leg had been OK on the journey from the orphanage, but he wondered anxiously if it would stand an all-night ride.
After clearing the station, Marc decided to buy something to drink. No shops were open this late, so he took a left and headed back towards the cafés.
There seemed to be little difference between one café and another, so Marc stopped at the first and wheeled his bike towards the entrance. The circular tables outside were packed tight and while a couple of ladies pulled in their chairs to let him between the first set, a man sitting with his boots on the next table tutted and shooed him away with his hand.
Marc was perturbed, but he was spotted by a waitress holding a tray of beers and she came over to ask what he wanted.
‘Just some water for a journey,’ he explained, as he pulled out a ten-franc note. ‘I’m cycling to Paris.’
The waitress told him to wait and after dropping off the beers she came back holding a large mineral water bottle with a screw-on cap.
‘How much?’ Marc asked, as he realised that another of his weaknesses was that he had little idea of what things cost.
‘It’s on the house for a sweet boy like you,’ the waitress said warmly.
As Marc took the cool bottle and smiled gratefully a great roar of laughter went up from the table beside him.
‘He’s a bit young for one of your toy boys, Sabine,’ a drunken man jeered.
‘Would you fancy a roll in the sack with her, kid?’ his companion teased, as he reached out and grabbed the attractive waitress’s bum.
‘Thank you, miss,’ Marc said, trying to ignore the remarks.
‘Leave him be,’ Sabine said, as she cuffed one of the drunks around the head. ‘You’re embarrassing the poor kid.’
The laughter dried up as an orange flash erupted in the distance, followed by three thumps that set ripples through the glasses of beer on the table.
‘Bloody hell,’ the waitress said, as she looked over her shoulder towards the light. ‘Sounded more like artillery that time.’ Then she looked at Marc again. ‘You ride safe, OK? And say hello to Paris for me.’
‘Thank you,’ Marc said for what felt like at least the sixth time, as he pulled open the draw-string of his bag and placed the bottle inside, nestled between a cloth and his dirty shorts so that it didn’t break.
After backing the bike out, he gave a quick wave as he pedalled off. When he turned to face the road he noticed a soldier just a few metres ahead.
‘Coming through,’ Marc shouted, swerving to avoid the scruffy figure. His chest was bare beneath a muddy army jacket and Marc guessed he was drunk.
But as Marc pedalled by the soldier kicked out. The bike clattered over and Marc’s knee banged hard on the stone as the soldier pounced on top and slapped him across the mouth.
‘Stay down,’ the soldier ordered, shaking his fist in Marc’s face as he ripped the bike away.
Marc was less than twenty metres from the café and the waitress and the two men who’d teased him came running. But by the time they arrived the soldier was pedalling off into the night.
‘Are you all right, son?’ one of the men asked, as he gave Marc a hand up.
He’d taken a nasty blow in the mouth and gasped with pain when he put weight on his knee.
‘Damn nice bike that, too,’ the other drunk noted, as he picked Marc’s bag off the ground.
Marc tried not to cry as they helped him hobble towards the café, but he already had a tear streaking down his cheek.
‘Looks like a nasty cut,’ the waitress said. ‘Better bring him inside and I’ll clean it up.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The first stretch out of Paris was a crawl, but the hard work really started when the Citroën joined up with the main road heading south. Mr Clarke had hoped to travel 120 kilometres to Orléans and then stop overnight with an old friend who was a buyer at the town’s department store.
Clarke had the advantage of a car, and the thousands of kilometres he’d driven as a salesman for Imperial Wireless had left him with excellent knowledge of France’s back roads. But the refugees formed an impenetrable mass of slow-
moving carts and bodies. Driving through them was agonising – constantly stopping and starting, rarely managing to break out of first gear and, in spots where the road narrowed, the car was actually a disadvantage. A blast of the horn achieved nothing and he had to use the car to physically push people aside. This was easily overdone and arguments regularly flared between drivers and foot-sloggers.
The Citroën suffered small attacks – from people pounding it with fists and boots or scratching the paint with keys. In one instance a man whose daughter suffered a painful knock from the front bumper ripped off a door mirror. Fearing that he would smash a window next, Clarke placed a hand on the gun he’d seized from the German, but luckily the man hurled the mirror into a hedge and backed off in a volley of foul language.
Paul knew he was in the midst of something extraordinary. He grabbed a pad from his satchel and made quick sketches of refugees, overloaded carts and bombed cottages. Alarmingly, he kept seeing cars similar to their own that had succumbed to slow driving and warm weather and blown their radiators.
While Paul withdrew into himself Rosie did the opposite, and constantly expressed pity as she gave a running commentary on some of the more pathetic refugees. There were people on crutches, people so old that they could barely walk; while the dead and unconscious littered the sides of the road. A few casualties were the result of air raids, but most had simply collapsed after walking hundreds of kilometres, laden with possessions.
‘Enough,’ Mr Clarke said finally, after his daughter noticed a British serviceman with his arm in a sling amidst the crowd. ‘I can see! I have eyes! I can’t think straight with your constant babbling.’
Rosie sulked, crossing her arms and staring directly ahead. After a few minutes of defiance she opened the door and got into the back beside Paul. When it started getting dark they pulled the curtains in the spacious rear compartment and arranged the luggage so that they could put their feet up. It wasn’t as comfortable as a proper bed, but they both got to sleep well enough.
The Escape Page 6
